"Well, Bill, it's this way." Brown beamed benignly over the steel frame of his spectacles. "If you have any open dates for next week, and are willing to play us, the thing is as good as done."
"How about it, Finn?" asked the captain of the Engletons.
The eyes of the visiting coach roamed over the forms of the "outlaws."
"Suits me all right, Beebe," he answered.
"We can't thank you too much, Mr. Finn," said "Crackers," mildly. "Here's a chap"—his hand indicated Roycroft—"who is warranted to bat anything hittable over the out-fielders' heads. We have some birds in this bunch. Bush, our pitcher, requires only nine balls to put out a side; he nearly always does it. We've an infield that a ball wouldn't go by if it had a chance. Baseball as we play it can only be seen at the big league games. I shall ask our esteemed friend, Mr. Bill, to remember what I say."
"What's the name of your nine?" asked Mr. "Bill."
"The High School 'Hopes.'"
"We'll promise to dash 'em," grinned the other.
"Commiseration for your feelings after the game prevents me from making a tart reply," said Brown. "What day shall we come over?"
Finn consulted a memorandum book.