“Oh, get out! You’re pessimistic this evening. Cheer up; the tide’s coming in! We’ll get all the money we need, and lots more besides. You’ll see.”
“Hope so. Fact is, Greg, I’m a bit down in the mouth over the showing we made Saturday. If we don’t do better Wednesday I sha’n’t blame the fellows if they refuse to pony up for us. A nine that plays ball like a lot of girls doesn’t deserve support.”
“Well, we were pretty rotten Saturday, Joe, and that’s the truth. But we’ll stand by you better next time. We’ll give a good exhibition of union-made, hand-sewn baseball on Wednesday that’ll tickle the college to death. By the way, there’s a long fairy tale from Collegetown here in the Purple about Robinson’s team. To read it you’d think they expected to walk all over us and everybody else. They’re talking about beating Artmouth next week! How’s that for immortal cheek?”
“Oh, they’ve got a good nine, Greg, and they know it. And you and I know it. We might as well face it, too.”
“Well, what if they have? Great Scott, man, haven’t they had good nines lots of times before and been beaten out of their boots? What do we care for their old Voses and Condits and ‘Hard-hitting Hopkinses’? Maybe we’ve got a good battery ourselves, and a man or two who can slug the ball!”
“Maybe we have,” answered Joe dryly, “but you couldn’t just name them, could you?”
“Certainly I can name them! You’re just as good a catcher as that Condit wonder of theirs. And Gilberth can pitch all around Vose, when he wants to. And——”
“Yes, when he wants to,” said Joe significantly.
“Well, he will want to when it comes to Robinson,” said King.