“You bet! And a lot of their crowd, too. Why, say——”
“But I don’t, somehow, care so much about being—being a ‘regular feller’ as I did, Jimmy. I—I’d rather be a good pitcher.”
“Isn’t that human nature?” demanded Jimmy, apparently of the ceiling. “Just as soon as a fellow gets what he wants, he doesn’t want it! You make me tired, Dud! Here I’ve schemed and labored for you——”
“I know, and I’m awfully much obliged,” said Dud soberly. “Only—please don’t do it any more, Jimmy. I’ve had enough of it, I guess.”
“My dear demented friend, you’ve just started! You mustn’t think that just because Hobo Ordway and Nick Blake and Bert Winslow and a few of that close corporation have taken you up that the battle’s won. Far be it from such! The fun’s only started, son. You’ve got two years here yet and you want to make hay while the sun shines. Just you leave it to me——”
“No, you leave it to me now,” said Dud. “I guess it’s like Blake said; every fellow must hoe his own row. And—and I haven’t got time to—to be popular, Jimmy. I just want to get so I can pitch like Ben Myatt.”
“Say, that’s hitching your wagon to a star, all right; Ben being the ‘star’! Maybe you’re right, though. There’s always the danger of having fellows think you’re trying too hard; and they don’t like that. Maybe your scheme is the best, Dud. Foxy, too, I call it.”
“I haven’t any scheme,” denied the other impatiently. “I just want to quit thinking anything about whether fellows like me or don’t like me. I guess if they do it will be because—because I don’t care!”
“That’s what I’m saying,” said Jimmy, grinning exasperatingly. “Just let them think you don’t care a fig and they’ll flock to you. Yep, that’s a good idea, Dud.”
“Jimmy, if folks didn’t know you better they’d think sometimes that you were a regular—regular——”