Jack was jubilant as they walked back to town after that game. “You’ve been and gone and done it, Joey!” he said. “You’ve shown Bat at last that you’re the man for the job! I saw him and Sam put their heads together when you cracked out that two-bagger, and I’ll bet you anything they mean to find a place for you. Why shouldn’t they, anyway? Don’t they need all the batting strength they can get? And don’t you hit a lot better than Foley, or three or four others, for that matter? What Bat’s trying to do now, I guess, is to figure out some way of getting you in the line-up. Well, he will either have to put you at first or second. Hale has made good at third, all right. If I were he I’d switch Buster and Gordon Smith around. Gordon’s a good shortstop, of course, but I dare say he could play second just as well. That would give Buster a chance to redeem himself, you see. Still, that wouldn’t make a place for you, Joey.” Jack frowned intently a moment and then continued: “No, sir, the only thing to do is to shelve Frank!” “Don’t be an idiot! Why should he shelve Foley? Foley can play first better than I can.” “That’s all right. With a week’s practice you could do just as well as he’s doing. And when it comes to batting you’re away ahead of him. And I want to tell you, Joey, that what this team is going to need when we run up against Petersburg is fellows who can roll the pill! Well, anyway, you wait and see. Something will happen to Handsome Frank before long, mark my words. I’m a prophet, Joey!” “You’re a chump, you mean. Walk up and let’s get somewhere. Speaking of profits, I’d like to find out what ours have been today.” “All you think of is filthy money,” mourned Jack. “And all you think of,” Joe retorted, “is that old bat-case!” CHAPTER XV BUSTER DROPS OUT The following day the team went to Crawford Mills and played a nine made up of the youths of that small but busy town. About half of the members were high school boys and the rest were from the offices of the steel mills, many of the latter youths of twenty or even twenty-two years. In the field the Crawford Mills aggregation presented a peculiar spectacle, for their shortstop was a chubby youth of no more than fifteen, while their catcher was at least twenty-one, and their pitcher, a sort of human bean-pole, wore a mustache! Lack of practice, however, was against the “Millers” and, although Amesville had difficulty with that pitcher, she nevertheless won out in the seventh inning with a mixture of hits, daring base running, and errors, the latter by the opponent.