“Aw, you make me sick,” said Pringle, getting up in disgust. “I don’t care whether you believe it or not, you old piece of cheese!” Tom smiled at the other’s retreating form and then looked across the diamond to where Wattles, the very picture of dignity, sat beside Loring with a hand laid precisely on each knee and his back as straight as a ramrod. “Oh, Wattles, how could you!” murmured Tom delightedly. “If I’d only been there to cheer you on!” Of course Tom confided the news to Clif as soon as the game was over, and after supper they hurried to Loring’s room to share the glad tidings. Fortunately Wattles had gone off with Loring’s supper tray, and, watching the door apprehensively, Tom related the yarn told by Pringle. Loring’s eyes grew round and a wide smile spread over his face as he listened. And finally: “It’s absolutely right!” he declared ecstatically. “You mean you knew about it?” demanded Tom disappointedly. “No, but when Wattles came back Saturday afternoon, about an hour after I did, he looked mighty funny. He looked――well, I don’t know just how he looked, Tom, but sort of like the cat after he’d eaten the canary. He had a lot of red in his cheeks and a kind of――of unholy gleam in his eyes, and he was flustered. Got in his own way and fell over things and was all fussed up about something. And every now and then I’d see him doing this to one of his fingers; sort of working it around and pulling at it, you know. I didn’t think much about it, but I did ask him if he’d hurt his hand, and he acted sort of confused and said: ‘No, sir’ first and then ‘Yes, sir,’ and finally said that he’d struck it against something and kind of numbed it. But he didn’t supply any particulars. Of course what did happen is that he hurt that finger trying to catch a ball! What do you know about Wattles falling for the national pastime, fellows?” “Shows he’s human,” said Clif. “I’d like to have seen him, though.” “I’d give a lot to see him,” sighed Tom. “I guess what started him was catching that foul the other day. That and reading those ‘How to Play Baseball’ books you’ve had around here.” “That was just it,” mused Loring, his eyes dancing. “Listen, Tom, do you know what I think? Well, I think that Wattles has made up his mind to be a Big League player! Honest I do. The other evening while he was giving me my rub he said, ‘Mr. Loring, is it a fact that professional baseball players receive immense salaries?’ I told him it was and asked what he had on his mind, and it seemed that he’d been reading one of those books over there and had come across something about one player getting twenty thousand dollars a year, or some such figure. After that he asked if baseball was something one had to learn in one’s youth, and I told him it certainly was. He was very subdued after that. I suspect I discouraged him. But maybe he’s got over it now and is starting on his career!”