Boarding schools -- Juvenile fiction; Boys -- Juvenile fiction; Football -- Juvenile fiction; Football stories
Babe glimpsed something grayish arching toward him and instinctively
shot out his mitt. Such attention on the part of Cecil was
unprecedented, and Babe gazed in mild astonishment. It was, however,
not Cecil but Ginger who met that gaze, Ginger gravely earnest, anxious
to anticipate the big catcher’s next desire.
“Huh,” said Babe. “Where’s Cecil?”
“He ain’t coming,” replied Ginger. “He’s resigned.”
“Resigned, eh? Which hospital is he in, son?”
Ginger disregarded the question. “Who’s the feller that hires the bat
boys?” he asked.
“Son, are you laboring under the mistaken impression that this job
brings in real money?” asked Babe.
“No, sir, I ain’t looking for any money, but it seems like if the boss
would say it was all right for me to be――”
“I get you. Come along. Oh, Bert! Meet my particular friend, Ginger
Burke, Bert. Ginger’s the new bat boy. The former incumbent has been
forced to resign. Ill health, I believe.”
“Why, I didn’t know that,” said Bert Naylor, puzzled. “Well, it’s all
right, I suppose. You say you know this kid, Babe? Well――” The manager
observed Ginger sternly through his glasses. “We don’t pay anything,
you know. If you want to――to――if you want the place, all right, but
we――er――we don’t pay anything.”
“Now you’re all right,” said Babe as Naylor hurried off. “You’re
official bat boy, son, with the inestimable privilege of writing ‘B.
B.’ after your name. I would like to know, though, how you induced
Cecil to resign. Did you crown him with a brick, or just――ah――” Babe
delivered an imaginary upper-cut against an imaginary adversary. But
Ginger only shook his head.
“There wasn’t no trouble,” he said evasively. “I――I just talked to him.”
Babe viewed him doubtfully. “Well, all right, son, if you prefer not
to recall the sanguinary details. On your job now. Watch the balls,
see that the water bucket’s filled, get your bats out――” Babe stopped
for the reason that a swift survey showed the bats neatly arranged on
the grass and the water bucket brimming. “All right,” he ended flatly.
“Keep your eyes peeled.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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