“It’s good for more than that—sometimes,” Goggles chuckled.
“What do you mean by that?” Doug demanded.
“Tell you sometime,” Goggles chuckled again. “Belongs to Sheeley, that bottle does. He left it in his room by mistake. I brought it along, and I—I’m glad I did.
“Do you know,” he said after a while, “it pays to know a little about a great many things. If you get sort of—well sort of shut off from the world with someone else, you’ve always got something to talk about. Take liquid air for instance. There’s a grand little topic for conversation.”
“Huh? Yes, I suppose so,” Doug grunted. He was already lost to the world in his contemplation of that day’s game.
He need have had no fear for that ball game. Never had Irons O performed so well as on this day. Not only did he pitch a big league type of game, allowing only seven hits and no runs, but he kept the crowd in an uproar of laughter with his bobbing head, his ludicrous grimaces, and his wild-cat screams at the umpire.
“A perfect day!” was Goggles’ enthusiastic comment when it was over. “And the little dark man kept his word. He was not about.”
He had not, however, seen the last of the little dark man—not quite. As, hopeful of receiving a letter from his mother, he hurried into the post-office, he ran squarely into him. “See here!” he exclaimed, “I thought—”
Ignoring his thoughts, the little dark man waved a telegram in his face. “From the Big Shot!” he exclaimed. “You know, him that’s paid me. He says for me to quit! He says that! Can you beat it?” At that, he darted from the door and was lost to the boy’s sight forever—or at least for a very, very long time.
“Big Bill’s called him off,” Goggles thought. “That’s sure good news. But I wonder why?” He was to wonder this many times in the days that were to come and then, in the end, was to know the answer.