“Well, now look here, Showell,” said the acting coach, “do try and remember what you’ve been taught. Give me the bat.” Bissell took the other’s place. “Don’t stand as though you were going to run away. Face the plate; if you’re hit you’ve got your base. Now, watch me. All right, Weatherby.”

Jack sent him a fairly fast ball, and Bissell took it neatly on the end of his stick and sent it sailing in a short flight toward right field.

“You see, Showell? Swing back easily and don’t try to slug the ball. If you swing hard you miss your balance nine times out of ten. Bring the bat around easily on a line with the ball, hold it firmly and you’ve got your hit. Try it again, please.”

Showell did try it again and struck a palpable foul. Once more he tried and missed entirely. By this time he was as mad as a hatter.

“I can’t hit them unless he sends them over the plate,” he growled, eying Jack aggressively.

“You need to learn how to bat,” said a voice behind him. “I guess it would do you good to have a term with the third squad.”

He looked around into the face of Hanson, who unnoticed, had been watching his work for several minutes. He subsided and again faced the pitcher. But Jack had no desire to bring about Showell’s removal to the third squad, and so sent him a slow ball that he could not help hitting. When Showell had yielded his bat to the next man and stepped away Hanson turned to Bissell.

“Who’s that fellow?” he asked.

“Showell, a junior.”

“Junior? No, no; I mean the youngster that’s pitching.”

“Oh, that’s Weatherby, a freshman.”

“Weatherby? Oh, yes.” He watched Jack send in a couple more balls and then turned to Bissell again. “You’d better let him keep on pitching,” he said. “Seems to me he’s rather promising. What do you think?”

“I’ve never seen him pitch until to-day,” answered Bissell. “But he seems to be able to send in good, clean, straight balls. I don’t suppose he knows much about anything else, though.”

“Well, keep your eye on him,” said Hanson. “Can’t have too many pitchers, and that chap looks as though he might learn.”

CHAPTER VIII
THE LAST STRAW

Jack marked the first of April a red-letter day in his memory, for on that day he was taken on to the varsity nine as substitute. The fact was made known to him after practise when, with the others, he was dressing himself in the locker-house. The head coach appeared in their midst with a slip of paper and Jack listened indifferently until he heard his name spoken. Even then the absurd idea came to him that it was an April fool.

“Just a moment, please,” said Hanson; and when the hubbub had suddenly ceased, “the training-table will start in the morning at Pearson’s,” he announced, “and the following men will report there for breakfast: King, Knox, Gilberth, Billings, Stiles, Motter, Bissell, Lowe, Northup, Smith, Griffin, Mears, and Weatherby. Later, about the middle of the month, more men will be taken on. At present these are all we can accommodate. Breakfast is at eight prompt, and we want every man to be there on time. That’s all.”

After he had gone out those of the fellows remaining began an interested discussion of the announcement. Jack, pulling on his shoes, listened silently.

“Where were you, Jimmie?” asked King.

“I’m one of the ‘also-rans,’ I guess,” answered Riseman, a substitute fielder, sadly.

“Beaten by a freshie,” called a fellow across the room. “Fie, fie, for shame!”

“Who’s the freshie?” called some one else.

“Weatherby,” answered two or three voices. “Weatherby, the brave!” added another. An admonitory “S – s – s – sh!” arose from Jack’s vicinity, and King whispered around the corner of the next alley: “Shut up, you fellows; he’s over here.” And then another voice, one which Jack instantly recognized as Gilberth’s, drowned King’s warning.

“Do you suppose Hanson expects us to sit at the same table with that bounder?” he asked loudly.

Jack’s face paled, and he bent his head quickly over the shoe he was lacing. “He knows I’m here,” he told himself grimly, “and pretends he doesn’t. If he says ‘Coward,’ I’ll – I’ll – ” A lace broke in his hand. King suddenly began talking very loudly to Riseman about the baseball news from Robinson, but above that Jack heard Gilberth’s voice again:

“I’d be afraid he’d put poison in my coffee. A fellow that’ll stand by and see a person drown before his eyes without making a move at helping him might do anything. For my part – What? Who is?” There was an instant’s pause. Then, “Well,” continued the speaker in slightly lowered tones, “there’s an old proverb about listeners – ” The rest trailed off into silence.

King was still talking volubly and seemingly at random. In spite of his almost overmastering anger, Jack recognized King’s good-hearted attempt to spare him pain, and was grateful. His hands trembled so that he could scarcely tie his broken string, and the tears were very near the surface; he had to gulp hard once or twice to keep them back. The temptation to kick off the unlaced shoe, dash recklessly around the corner, and knock Gilberth down, to fight him until he could no longer stand, was strong. He kept his head bent and his blazing eyes on the floor and fought down the impulse. He had promised Anthony to keep silence; to lose command of himself now would be to waste all those weeks of self-repression which, he believed, and was right in believing, had made a favorable impression upon his fellows. He tried to think of other things, of his luck in being taken on to the varsity, of how pleased Anthony would be at hearing about it. Presently he finished lacing his shoes, stood up and calmly donned his coat. Then, in spite of himself, he hesitated.

The thought of passing through the locker-room under the staring, antagonistic eyes of a score or so of men, of running the gantlet of whispers and low laughter, for the moment appalled him. Then, as he slowly buttoned the last button, he heard a voice at his side.

“Ready, Weatherby? If you don’t mind, I’ll walk back with you.”

He looked around into the pleasant face of King and, after a moment of surprise, muttered assent. The central aisle was filled with fellows in various stages of attire and the two had to worm their way through. Jack went first, doing his level best to look unconcerned and at ease, and King followed close behind him, talking over his shoulder all the way. At the door King stepped ahead and threw open the portal, guiding Jack through with a friendly push on the back. When they had disappeared, one or two witnesses of the affair exchanged surprised or amused glances. But only Gilberth commented aloud.

“Very touching!” he laughed. “King to the rescue of Insulted Innocence!”

“Oh, forget it!” growled some one from the depths of a twilit alley.

Outside, on the porch, Jack turned to King with reddened cheeks. “Thank you,” he said.

“All right,” answered the other carelessly. “Fair play, you know.”

Jack hesitated, waiting for the other to take his departure. King looked at him quizzically.

“Look here, Weatherby, don’t be so beastly snobbish,” he expostulated with a touch of impatience. “If you object to my company back to the Yard, just say so, but don’t look as though I was too low down to associate with.”

Jack colored and looked distressed.

“I didn’t mean to, honestly!” he protested. “Of course, I don’t object to your company. I – I only thought – ”

“Well, come on, then.” They went down the steps together, just as the door opened to emit a handful of players. “Don’t get it into your head, Weatherby, that we’re all cads,” King continued, “just because Gilberth occasionally acts like one. The fact is, there are plenty of fellows back there who are quite ready to be decent if you’ll give them half a chance. The trouble is, though, you look as though you didn’t care a continental for anybody. Perhaps you don’t; but it isn’t flattering, you see. I dare say it sounds pretty cheeky for me to talk like this to you, especially as we’ve never been properly introduced and haven’t spoken before, but I’ve been here a year longer than you have, and I know how easy it is to make mistakes. And it seems to me you’re making one.”

“I don’t think you’re cheeky,” answered Jack quite humbly. “I don’t mean to have folks think I’m – think I’m indifferent, either.”

“That’s all right, then,” replied King heartily. “They say you’re coming out as a pitcher,” he went on, changing the subject, to Jack’s relief. “Bissell was telling me to-day.”

“I’ve been pitching some on the second nine,” answered Jack.

“Where did you play before you came to college?” asked the other. Jack told him about the high-school nine at Auburn, and the rest of the way back the talk remained on baseball matters. He parted from his new acquaintance at the corner of the Yard, and went on alone through a soft, spring-like twilight to his room. He had gained one more of the enemy to his side, he reflected, and that alone was a good day’s work. But besides that he had been taken on to the varsity squad, and altogether the day was a memorable one. He climbed the stairs happily, the sting of the incident in the locker-house no longer felt.

Anthony was quite as pleased with his news as Jack had expected him to be, and the two sat together until late that evening discussing the unexpected stroke of fortune.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if they let you play in Saturday’s game,” said Anthony. Jack laughed ruefully.

“I should,” he answered. “But it’s something to sit on the varsity bench.”

The next morning Jack dressed himself under mild excitement at the thought of making his appearance at the training-table. He had notified Mrs. Dorlon the evening before of his departure from her hospitable board and that lady had sniffed disappointedly at the notion of losing her only boarder. But Jack had no regrets for the separation. Pearson’s was only about a block from Mrs. Dorlon’s, but, nevertheless, Jack reached there several minutes late. The baseball players had been given the big dining-room on the front of the house in which last fall’s successful football team, winner of the remarkable 2 – 0 game with Robinson, had eaten their way to glory.

When Jack entered, the table at first glance appeared to be filled. The next moment he saw that there were three empty seats, two at the farther end of the table and one near at hand, between Gilberth and Northup. He reflected that it might look cheeky to parade the length of the room, and so, returning the nods of several of the fellows, he slipped into the chair beside Gilberth, fervently hoping that the latter would take no notice of him. Gilberth was busily recounting an adventure which had befallen him the day before while out in his automobile – he was the proud possessor of the only motor vehicle in the town of Centerport – and it is probable that he did not observe Jack’s entrance.

“It was just at that narrow stretch before you get to the blacksmith’s shop,” he was saying. “The fellow had a load of bricks. Well, he stopped, and I stopped, and we looked at each other. Finally, he called out, ‘Say, you’ll have to back to the corner, I guess. We can’t pass here.’ ‘Back nothing,’ I said. ‘These things aren’t taught to back.’ ‘They ain’t?’ said he. ‘But you don’t expect that I’m going to back with this load on, do you?’ ‘It’s a good deal to expect,’ I answered, looking sorry, ‘but if you don’t, we’re likely to stay here until Christmas.’ You’d ought to have heard him swear! It was as good as a circus! Well – ”

“How are you, Weatherby?” asked Joe Perkins at that moment.

As Jack replied, Gilberth turned and saw him. Stopping short in his narrative, he silently gathered up his plate, cup, and saucer, and pushing back his chair, arose and walked around the table to one of the other empty seats. The talk died out abruptly, and the fellows watched the proceedings in dead silence. Gilberth’s action had taken Jack completely by surprise, and for a moment he could only stare amazedly. Then, as the full force of the insult struck him, the color flooded his cheeks until they burned like fire. His eyes, avoiding the faces across the board, fell upon the sympathetic countenance of the captain, and it was the look of concern he found there that upset him. The tears rushed into his eyes and the hand on the table trembled. He put it in his lap, where it clenched its fellow desperately, and stared miserably at the white cloth. Suddenly upon the uncomfortable silence a voice broke calmly. Gilberth, having settled himself in his new seat, was going on with his story, just as though there had been no interruption.

“After he’d called me everything he could think of,” he continued, “he got down and started to back. It took him ten minutes to get to the blacksmith shop, and maybe he wasn’t mad! After I got by him, I gave him a little exhibition, free of charge. I backed the machine all over the place, and pretty nearly stood it on end. You ought to have seen his eyes; they almost popped out of his head. And just when he was beginning to recover his voice, I waved good-by to him, and lit out. Funniest thing you ever saw!”

One or two of his audience laughed half-heartedly, but the most looked gravely disgusted.

“You have a wonderfully keen sense of humor,” observed Joe Perkins dryly. Then the conversation began again, and the waitress brought Jack’s breakfast. He ate it silently, or as much of it as he could; the coffee scalded his throat, and the steak very nearly choked him. King, sitting near-by, spoke to him once, and he answered. But his voice wasn’t quite steady, and so the other wisely refrained from further attempts at conversation. One by one the fellows left the room, and as soon as he dared, Jack followed. He kept his head very high all the way back to his room; but in each cheek there was a bright disk of crimson and his eyes stared straight ahead. A tramp slouching along, with hands in pockets, moved aside to let him pass, but Jack never saw him.

When he had entered the front door, he moved very quietly, mounting the stairs as though contemplating burglary. Anthony’s door was ajar, and Jack tiptoed toward it and looked into the bare and shabby room. It was empty, and the fact seemed to relieve him. Crossing to his own room, he turned the key in the lock and began feverishly to pack his valise. The task did not take him long, and when it was completed, and the bag stood beside the door secured and strapped, he went to the desk and, seizing a sheet of paper, wrote hurriedly. When the composition was finished, he read it through.

“Dear Friend [it ran]: There’s no use trying any more. I thought I could stand it, but I just can’t. After what happened this morning, there’s only one thing for me to do, and I’m going to do it. I’m very sorry to go away from you, because you have been awfully kind to me, and you are the first one I ever knew who seemed like a chum. But I’m going home, and not coming back any more, because I can’t stand every one thinking I’m a coward, and Gilberth treating me like mud. I’m sorry I can’t keep my promise to you, if it was really a promise, and please don’t think I haven’t tried, because I have tried very hard. Please don’t remember it against me. I’m very, very sorry. Maybe I will meet you again some time.

“Your sincere friend,
“John Weatherby.

“P. S. Please keep this charm to remember me by, if you don’t mind. You wear it on your watch-chain. Good-by. J. W.”

He placed the note and the watch-charm in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and crossed with it to Anthony’s room. When he returned a moment later, he held something concealed in his hand. He unstrapped his valise, and as he did so a noise in the hall outside caused him to glance nervously at the door. Quickly opening the bag he dropped the object he held into it, and again secured it. Going into the hall, he listened. All was still. Returning, he took up bag and overcoat and cautiously crept down the stairs and out of the house. Fearful of being seen, he turned to the left and made his way to the station by Murdoch Street and the railroad.

CHAPTER IX
ANTHONY STUDIES A TIME-TABLE

Anthony returned to his room after the first recitation. He had discovered while in his class that he had forgotten his watch, and remembered that he had left it lying on his study table. The first thing that caught his eyes when he entered his room was an envelope bearing the inscription in a round, boyish hand, “Anthony Tidball. Present.” Wondering, he tore it open. Something fell from it and rolled to the floor. When found it proved to be a brown Florida bean with a little gold-plated swivel at one end. Anthony stared from the bean to the envelope; then the thought that the latter probably held a note came to him and he went back to it.

He read the note very slowly, a frown deepening the while on his face. He read it the second time and then carefully restored it to the envelope, thrust his big hands into his trousers pockets and lurched to the dormer-window. For a minute or two he stood there looking out across the Common into a tender green mist of quickening branches. Finally he sighed, shook his head, and turned back to the room.

“Poor kid,” he muttered.

But perhaps, he reflected, it was not too late to intercept him. When did the trains leave? He pulled out a table drawer and found a time-card. There was one at 9.22; that had gone. There was another, an express, at 10.16. If Jack had missed the first it was possible, thought Anthony, to reach the station in time to bring him back. It was now —

He felt for his watch, and for the first time since finding the note recollected the reason of his return. He glanced quickly over the table. The watch was not in sight. He distinctly remembered placing it on the blotting-pad while he changed the rather heavy vest he had been wearing all winter for a lighter one. He pushed aside books and papers and searched the table from end to end. Then he went through his drawers and finally, while realizing the uselessness of it, unlocked and searched his trunk. After he had felt in the pockets of what few clothes he possessed he accepted the fact that the watch was gone. But where? Who could have taken it? Who had been in the room – besides Jack? Jack – !

He sat down in the rocker and stared blankly, frowningly, at the window. It was the stupidest thing in the world to suspect Jack. And yet – ! With a mutter of disgust at himself for the entertainment of such a wild suspicion, he jumped up and surveyed the room. But the bed was still unmade and the momentary hope that Mrs. Dorlon might have come across the watch and put it away for him had to be relinquished. He hurried down-stairs and found his hostess in the kitchen. No, she told him, she hadn’t been up-stairs yet and hadn’t seen the watch. Had any one been up there? Well, she didn’t know of any one. Still, the door had been open all the morning and – Why, yes, come to think of it, she had thought once that she heard footsteps up-stairs and presumed that they were Mr. Weatherby’s, though to be sure she hadn’t seen him come in or go out. Could she help Mr. Tidball look for it?

Anthony politely declined her proffered assistance and returned to his room. He searched again about the table, striving to convince himself that he had not left the watch there; that he had worn it to recitation, that the chain had become detached from his buttonhole and that the watch had fallen from his pocket. But it wouldn’t do. He remembered clearly just how the timepiece had looked lying in its chamois case upon the blotter, with the heavy gold chain curling away toward the ink-bottle. Perhaps Jack had come in to find out the time and had unconsciously taken the watch back to his room with him? Of course, that must be it!

He strode across the hall and into the other chamber. There were evidences of hurried flight; the little steamer trunk stood in the middle of the floor and a few odds and ends of rubbish lay about the bed and table. But the watch was not in sight. The latest explanation of its disappearance had seemed so plausible that Anthony experienced keen disappointment. Turning, he retraced his steps toward the door. Half-way there he stopped and stared as though fascinated at something lying at his feet. Stooping, he picked it up and looked at it carefully in the forlorn hope that it would prove to be other than what it was, a little chamois watch-pouch.

Finally he dropped it into his pocket and went back to his room, stepping very quietly, as though leaving a chamber of sickness. He stared aimlessly about for a moment, and then, with a start, took up his note-books and descended the stairs. Mrs. Dorlon, blacking the kitchen stove, heard the door open and looked up to see the lean, spectacled face of her new lodger peering through. He looked rather pale and sickly that morning, she thought.

“Just wanted to tell you that it’s all right,” he said. “I found my watch. It was in the – the washstand.”

After he had gone she suddenly paused and sniffed perplexedly. “Now that’s funny,” she thought. “How could he have found it in the washstand when the washstand hasn’t any drawer nor nothin’?”

At the luncheon-table Jack was conspicuous by his absence. The story of Gilberth’s action at breakfast had filtered through college in a dozen varied forms until by noon it was pretty widely known. The general opinion was that Gilberth had acted brutally; there were even some few who flatly called his behavior contemptible; there were others, fewer still, who thought that he had “given Weatherby just what he deserved.” There was considerable relief felt by the more charitably disposed members of the training-table when Jack failed to appear, for his suffering at the breakfast-table had not been a pleasant thing to watch. Gilberth, however, was in high feather. He believed Jack’s absence was a result of his treatment in the morning, and was quite proud of his abilities as a public prosecutor. But the rest of the table somehow did not appear to be quite so pleased with him. This fact was shown by a disposition to avoid entering into conversation with him. His remarks were received in silence, and after a while he gave up the attempt to entertain the company and finished his meal in ruffled dignity.

When luncheon was over “Baldy” Simson, the trainer, who occupied the seat at the foot of the board, called Joe Perkins’s attention to the fact of Jack’s absence.

“I know,” Joe answered, looking rather worried. “I’m going to look him up; you needn’t bother. By the way, Tracy, just wait a minute, will you? I want to see you.” Gilberth, in the act of leaving the room, returned and tilting a chair toward him slid into it over the back with a fine appearance of unconcern.

“Fire away, Joe,” he said. “But I’ve got a two-o’clock, and it’s getting late.”

Simson went out and left the two together and alone, save for the waitress who had begun clearing off the table. Joe pushed his plate away and looked gravely across at his friend.

“Look here, Tracy, this thing has simply got to stop, you know.”

“What thing?” asked the other, raising his eyebrows.

“Why, you know what I mean. I won’t have Weatherby persecuted the way you’re doing. I can’t turn out a decent team unless you fellows get together and work in harmony. You know that as well as I do. Whatever your sentiments toward Weatherby may be, you’ve got to treat him politely in his position as a member of the varsity nine. I won’t have any more scenes like the one you brought about this morning. You’re worrying Weatherby half sick. He may be what you think he is; I’m not in position to know; but it’s all nonsense for you to take on yourself the duties of judge, jury, and hangman. You attend to yourself and let Weatherby attend to himself. That’s what I want you to do.”

Joe’s voice had been getting sharper and sharper as he proceeded and when he had finished his eyes were sparkling dangerously. As always, when Joe’s temper threatened to get the better of him, Tracy’s usual aggressiveness disappeared and gave place to a sullen stubbornness. Now he traced figures on the stained cloth with a fork and was silent a minute before he made reply. Then:

“There’s no use in your lecturing me like that,” he muttered. “You can stick up for Weatherby if you want to, but you needn’t think you can make me coddle him too. The fellow’s a coward and a cad, and you’ve no business asking decent fellows to sit at table with him.”

“You’ll sit at table with him or you’ll get out,” cried Joe hotly.

“Then I’ll get out!”

There was silence for a moment, during which Tracy continued to mark up the cloth and Joe struggled more or less successfully to get command of his temper. Finally he asked, almost calmly:

“Do you mean that you’ll leave the team, that you’ll throw me over and threaten the college with defeat for a mere whim?”

“It isn’t a whim,” growled Tracy. “It – it’s a principle.”

Joe smiled in spite of himself and the last of his ill-humor vanished.

“Oh, don’t talk poppycock, Tracy,” he said. “Look here, you must see how difficult you’re making it for Hanson and me. We can’t do what we want to do if there are dissensions among you chaps. Like a good fellow, promise me to leave Weatherby alone. He isn’t going to interfere with you; you know that. The other fellows aren’t kicking up a row about having him at table, so why should you? Besides, Tracy, consider what a thundering hard row the chap has to hoe. Maybe he acted the coward; I didn’t see it and don’t know; but even if he did it’s more than likely that he’s a lot worse ashamed of it than you are, and probably wants to make up for it. Give him a show, can’t you? Be generous, Tracy!”

“Well, let him keep away from me, then,” Tracy growled.

“How can he when you’re both on the team?” asked Joe impatiently. “We want him because he’s got the making of a good player; he’s sure, quick, and – honest.”

“Huh!”

“Yes, honest! We’ve watched him just as we’ve watched all you fellows – perhaps a bit more, because he’s under suspicion, as it were – and he’s played us fair every time. He’s done as he’s been told and done it just as hard as he knew how. And it’s all wrong to call a man dishonest until he’s done something dishonest.”

“How about that affair at the river?” asked the other sneeringly.

“A man may be a coward at a – a crisis and a brave man all the rest of his life. Physical cowardice isn’t dishonesty. For that matter, I can imagine a chap running from bullets and yet standing up like a little man in front of bayonets. I’m not sure I wouldn’t run away from bullets myself, and if I were you I wouldn’t be too sure, either.”

“I’m not a coward,” cried Tracy.

“I don’t say you are; I don’t think you are. And yet you’re not brave enough to let public opinion go hang and give that poor duffer, Weatherby, a fighting chance!”

Gilberth received this in silence, staring moodily at the table. The bell in the tower of College Hall began its imperative summons and Joe pushed back his chair and arose. Tracy followed his example.

“I didn’t mean to keep you so long,” said the former. He overtook the other at the door and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t mind my ill-temper, old man. There’s no use in having a friend if you can’t bully him a little now and then. And – er – think over what I said, will you?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” answered Tracy grudgingly. “No harm done. See you later.”

Joe stood on the porch and watched him cross the road and disappear up the broad gravel-path toward the laboratories. Then Joe passed down the steps and through the gate with a little smile of satisfaction on his face.

“Yes, it is all right,” he told himself. “He’ll do as I want him to. But I wish – I do wish I hadn’t lost my pesky temper!”

He turned to the left toward Washington Street and as he neared the corner he caught sight of a tall fellow crossing the Common with long awkward strides. The ill-fitting clothes and the little stoop of the shoulders were sufficient to reveal the man’s identity at first glance, and Joe hailed him:

“O Tid-ball! O Tid-ba-a-all!”

Anthony paused, looked, waved a note-book responsively, and stumbling over a “Keep off the grass” sign, crossed the turf and clambered over the fence.

“How are you, Tidball?” asked Joe, shaking hands. For some reason fellows usually did shake hands with Anthony when they met him, just as they thumped other acquaintances on the back or punched them in the ribs or pulled their caps over their eyes. “You’re just the man I wanted to see,” Joe went on. “As usual, we’re just about stone broke; the Baseball Association, I mean. We’ve got to have a lot of money for the nine and we’ve got to raise it by subscription. The schedule has the team down for five games away from home, and that means a heap of expense. The Athletic Association has given us all they could afford to, about one hundred and fifty dollars, but that won’t last us any time. So we’re going to get up a mass meeting in about a week or so and try and raise the dust. And we want you to speak for us; whoop things up a bit, you know. Can you do it?”

“S’pose so,” answered Anthony doubtfully. “But I don’t know a blamed thing about baseball.”

“You won’t have to. We’ve got plenty of chaps who can talk baseball; what we want is some one who can open their pockets. We’re depending on you, Tidball, so say yes, like a good chap. Hanson is going to speak, and so is Professor Nast, and so am I. And we’re trying to get the dean to hem and haw a bit for us. But we need you like anything. What do you say?”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Anthony. “You let me know when it’s to be and tell me what you want me to say. Don’t believe, though, Perkins, the fellows will pay much attention to what I’ve got to say about baseball. ’Tisn’t as though I knew a ball from a – a – ”

“From another ball, eh? Don’t let that bother you. I’m awfully much obliged; it’s very nice of you. And I’ll let you know all about it in a day or two. By the way, though, where are you living now? Some one said you’d left the old joint.”