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“Jack, you’re an awful chump tonight,” laughed his chum. “What does your friend Frank do when he gets some dust on his hands fielding a ball or soils his trousers sliding to base? Does he stop the game and telephone for a manicure and a whisk-broom?”

“No. He bears it wonderfully. Oh, I suppose I’ve made him out worse than he is. I just don’t like him. Still, I’m not the only one, by a long shot. You’d have trouble finding many fellows who do like him. But he can play baseball and he’s a peach of a baseman. He’s not much at hitting, though. Are you, Joe?”

“Fairly rotten, thanks.”

“Well, that won’t do. You dig hard when practice begins. Find your batting-eye, Joey. Then, if you can hold down first base decently well, you might oust Mr. Foley. I’d consider it a personal favour if you did.”

“Seems to me it’s a good thing you don’t actually hate Foley. If you did you’d insist on having him thrown into the river or browned in oil! When you take a dislike to me, please let me know, Jack, so I can beat it while the beating’s good.”