Part 10 (2/2)

”That's all right, Dutch, me lad,” exclaimed Bricktop, relapsing into a broader brogue as his feelings came uppermost. ”This isn't a stable, though, and we can dispense with the horse play until after the game if you can accommodate yourself to the exigencies of the occasion,” and he spoke much after the manner of Dr. Churchill, for Bricktop, in spite of the fact that he was a senior, ”grave and reverend,” liked fun and his joke. ”If you will kindly resume the upright stature befitting a human being,” he went on, ”you may try to stop whatever b.a.l.l.s come in the direction of shortstop, for there's where ye'll play.”

”All right,” answered Dutch good naturedly. ”I'm agreeable, my fair captain. But would you mind keeping your hat on? When the sun strikes your red-gold locks it dazzles my eyes.”

”Go on wit' your blarney!” exclaimed Molloy, making a punch at Housenlager, who skilfully ducked it.

The diamond was in fine shape, for it had been cut and rolled and the base lines marked off in readiness for the opening of the season. The gra.s.s was like velvet and the clean, fresh green, contrasted with the brown earth of the diamond proper, the long white lines, the new bases and the level field made a picture that rejoiced the heart of every lad.

”Wow! isn't it great?” cried Tom. ”And the smell! Do you smell the green gra.s.s, Sid, and the earth, and--and the baseball smell? Isn't it great?”

”Cheese it!” cried Phil Clinton with a laugh. ”You'll be spouting poetry next.”

”I wish I could,” returned Tom a little more soberly. ”I never get out on a ball field but I want to orate something like Thermopylae or Horatius at the Bridge. The fever of the game gets in my blood.”

”There is something in that,” admitted Phil. ”Oh, it's a great game.

There's none greater except football, and when I see the gridiron marked off and hear the 'ping' of somebody's boot against the pigskin my heart begins to thump and I catch my breath and want to take the ball to batter down a stone fence and make a touchdown.”

”Bravo!” cried Sid. ”You're as bad as Tom.”

”Quit talking and get to practice!” exclaimed a voice at the rear of the lads, and they turned to see Langridge.

”Say, who told you to give orders?” asked Sid quickly. ”Bricktop is our captain.”

”Well, we're going to have a little warm-up practice first,” remarked Langridge. Then he turned to Tom and said: ”So you're going to pitch against me?”

”It seems so.”

”Humph!” was all Langridge said as he walked away.

Two or three good batters on each side began knocking flies for the others to catch and Tom and his chums soon found themselves warming up in earnest. The country lad discovered that he could judge the b.a.l.l.s quite accurately and he made some good throws from a long distance.

”Play ball!” suddenly called Bricktop Molloy. ”Come on, fellows! Out in the field. Parsons, let's see what sort of a twirler you are.”

Tom went to the box. He was a trifle nervous, but he controlled himself as well as he could. The first man up was Langridge, and there was an unpleasant look on the face of the rich youth as he faced his rival.

Tom sent in an out curve and he was pretty sure it was going over the plate. But he heard the umpire cry: ”One ball!” and he was much surprised. There was a mocking smile on the face of Langridge. Tom held the next ball rather longer. He threw in a peculiar little drop.

Langridge saw it coming and struck savagely at it, but a resounding ”thump” told Tom that the horsehide had landed safe in Molloy's mitt.

”One strike!” yelled the umpire, and Tom's heart was glad.

”That's the way to do it!” cried Phil Clinton, from center field.

”Strike him out!”

Langridge hit the next ball, though it was only a weak liner, which Tom stopped and threw over to first, but there was no need, for Langridge had seen the uselessness of running.

”One out. Go on with the game,” sang out Bricktop.

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