“Tom was telling me you were hard-up for pitchers. Can’t you find a good one in all that crowd? Why, you must have three or four hundred boys in school, haven’t you?” “Over four hundred, sir, but we haven’t found anyone who can pitch much. That is, except one fellow, and we can’t get him.” “How is that?” asked Mr. Cummings. “He has to work.” Sidney grinned at Tom, and Tom coloured. “If we got him to pitch for us, we’d be all right, I guess.” “Has to work, eh? That’s too bad. Something like Tom here, eh?” “Very much like him,” laughed Sidney. Mr. Cummings looked around questioningly. “It’s Tom I’m talking about, Mr. Cummings.” “Tom! Why, I didn’t know he could pitch ball.” Mr. Cummings faced Tom accusingly. “You never told me that. So you’re a young Walter Johnson, are you, son?” “Sid’s just talking,” murmured Tom. “I pitch a little, sir.” “He’s a dandy at it,” declared Sidney warmly, “and everyone wishes he could join the team. But of course he can’t.” “I suppose not,” agreed Mr. Cummings. “Too bad, too.” “Yes, sir.” Sidney was in perfect agreement. Mr. Cummings was silent a minute. Then, “I’d like to see you pitch, Tom,” he said. “It would be quite a treat,” said Tom flippantly. He was a bit embarrassed and the flippancy was meant to disguise the fact. Sidney, who had started to say something, closed his mouth and got up. “That’s three out. I’ll have to go. If you stay till we’re through, Tom, I’ll go back with you.” Tom looked doubtfully at Mr. Cummings. “What inning is it?” he asked. “Third. We’ll only play six, probably. It won’t take long. Better see it through.” “Of course we will,” replied Mr. Cummings with cheerful decision, stretching his legs comfortably over the back of the bench in front. “This is a holiday with us, Morris. Nothing to do till to-morrow!” Sidney laughed and hurried away into right field and Mr. Cummings turned to Tom. “How long you been pitching?” he asked. “Just since last year,” responded Tom. “Sid showed me a little about it and then I got a book and studied it. Now there’s a man at my boarding-house who used to play professional ball; pitched on some of the minor league teams for eight years; he’s teaching me a lot.” His employer observed him admiringly. “Tom,” he said, “you’re a smart kid, aren’t you? How old are you?” “Sixteen--and a half.” “Hm! You look more than that. I suppose now you’d like to play with these chaps, eh?” “Yes, sir, I’d like to very much.”