“Nobody. Ben went the distance. They couldn’t touch him much after that rotten third. Got a couple of hits in the fifth and about one each inning after that. They made their last run in the eighth with two down. A fellow cracked a two-bagger down the left foul-line and tried to steal third, and did it because Winslow let the ball drop. Then the next fellow hit an easy one to Ayer and Myatt didn’t cover base in time and the chap on third scrambled in. I guess it was just as well Pete didn’t derrick Ben, after all, because he certainly pitched a corking game after that third inning. Gee, but I’m hungry! Wish I was at training table,” he added wistfully. “They get steaks there!”
They went over to Nick Blake’s room after supper and found Hugh and Bert and Guy Murtha there, and there was much baseball talked and many “might-have-beens” discussed. Dud, as a non-participant, had little to say, and Hugh, who might have talked a good deal since he had rather distinguished himself by his work at the bat and on the bases, was almost as silent. After awhile, on the excuse of showing Dud a new book, Hugh led the other off upstairs and they settled down full-length on the window-seat, beside the open casements, and had a fine, chummy talk. Dud could talk well enough when there was but a single listener, and tonight Hugh found the younger boy far from dull. By the time Bert Winslow came in, yawning, they had discovered numerous bonds of sympathy such as mutual likes and dislikes and an intense desire to make good at baseball. Hugh, entering the game as the veriest tyro and with a deal of doubt and not much enthusiasm, was now a rabid “fan” and almost amusingly eager to make a name for himself.
Bert, I think, wanted to go to bed, but was too polite to start while there was a visitor present, and so toppled into a chair and joined the conversation. Dud realized that Bert didn’t care very much for him and so tried to get away a few minutes after the other’s advent, but Hugh wouldn’t have it.
“Oh, sit down and behave yourself, Baker! It isn’t late. I say, Bert, Baker and I have been discovering that we have lots of things in common, if you know what I mean.”
“Really?” Bert stifled a yawn. “Such as what, ’Ighness?”
“Oh, baseball, for one, you know. Tennis, too. And oysters——”
“Oysters!”
“Yes. You see I happened to think that a dozen nice cold raw oysters would taste corking. They would, wouldn’t they?”
“Out of season, you chump.”