Andy Blair stood in the middle of his room, carefully examining a bat he had taken from a closet containing, among other possessions, his sporting things. The bat was a favorite he had used while at Milton, and he was considering having it sand-papered and oiled. Or, rather, he was considering doing the work himself, for he would not trust his choicest stick to the hands of another.
“Yes, she’ll look a little better for a bit of attention, I think,” said Andy, half aloud. “Though I don’t know as I can bat any better with it.”
He gave two or three preliminary swings in the air, when the door suddenly opened, a head was thrust in and Andy gave it a glancing blow.
“Wow! What’s that for?” the newcomer gasped. “A nice way to receive company, Andy! Where’d you learn that?”
“I beg your pardon, Bob, old man!” exclaimed Andy, as he recognized Hunter, Dunk’s friend. “I was just getting out my bat to see how it felt and——”
“I can tell you how it felt,” interrupted Bob, with emphasis. “It felt hard! Better put up a sign outside your door—qlBeware of the bat.’”
“And have the fellows think this is a zoological museum,” laughed Andy. “I will not. But, Bob, I’m very sorry you got in the way of my stick. Does it hurt? Want any witch hazel or anything like that?”
“Oh, no, it isn’t so worse. Good thing I wear my hair long or I might have a headache. But say—where’s Dunk?”
“He was with me a little while ago. We stopped in the postoffice, and I thought he came on here. But he didn’t. Have you seen him?”
“No, but I want to. Gaffington and his crowd are going to have another blow-out to-night, and I wanted to make sure Dunk wouldn’t fall by the wayside.”