Part 8 (1/2)
”Then don't look at them,” advised Chot.
”I believe I feel a poem coming on.”
”Well, put on the safety valve. h.e.l.lo! Who's that? As I live, it's Bert Creighton!”
Sure enough, there was Bert, standing at the end of a little wharf that jutted out into the lake. He was yelling and waving his hat at them.
Stretching behind him was a pretty meadow, and farther on a hill on which sat a farmhouse-Bert's home, the Comrades felt.
It was with thankful hearts that they turned their canoes in toward the wharf and grasped the hand of their old chum again.
”Gee! but I'm glad to see you fellows up here,” said Bert. ”Been looking for you since yesterday,” and he led the way up a broad path toward the house.
CHAPTER VI-GETTING READY FOR THE GAME
The welcome extended the Comrades and Pod by Bert's parents was cordial in every sense of the word. The big farm was placed at their disposal, and Mrs. Creighton exerted herself to the utmost to provide delicacies that would tempt them, and in this she succeeded beyond her fondest expectations.
It pleased her to see these healthy young fellows eat, and Fleet, especially, was an unending source of delight to her, for when he was not praising her cooking, he was smacking his lips in the keenest enjoyment. By that, it is not meant that Fleet's table manners were bad; on the contrary, no boy ever paid more attention to the conventions of eating than he, except when camping in the woods, or on some other informal occasion, with only his chums to see him.
The boys slept soundly the first night and arose in the morning to plunge with Bert into the waters of Lake George. Then, after a rub-down that set the blood tingling all through their bodies, they sat down to wheat cakes, maple syrup and coffee, with generous dishes of strawberries and cream on the side.
”You fellows may as well limber up your arms,” said Bert when breakfast was over, and the boys had spent half an hour talking over old times.
”That's so; Bert promised us a game of baseball,” said Chot. ”How about it, Bert?”
”It's all arranged. Cleverdale has a mighty good team for a country village, and they have agreed to come down to-morrow for a game in our big pasture.”
”Well, isn't that clever of Cleverdale?” said Pod.
”Here! Don't spring any more of those,” warned Bert. ”I don't believe I could stand the pressure.”
”Oh, Pod's been misbehaving all the way up,” said Tom.
”Well, I had plenty of company,” responded the little fellow. ”Fleet Kenby fairly disgraced us all, and I failed to observe where any of the other members of our party earned any special bouquets for deportment.”
”Listen at the language!” cried Fleet, as he put his hands on Pod's head and began an examination, much after the fas.h.i.+on of a phrenologist.
”Yes; here's where it came from. This, gentlemen, is the b.u.mp of knowledge, considerably enlarged though colliding with its neighbor, the b.u.mp of conceit. The latter b.u.mp, which, you will observe, lies right above the ear, is bounded on the north by a wisp of hair, on the south by--”
But Pod had stood all he intended to stand, and diving suddenly between Fleet's legs, he toppled the fleshy one over on the gra.s.s, he, himself, escaping a fall by an agile spring.
Fleet sat where he had fallen, grinning. He enjoyed his innocent battles with Pod and was not at all angry when, occasionally, his little chum got the better of him.
Bert brought forth a ball and bat, as well as several gloves and mitts.
”I have a collection,” said he, by way of explanation.
”We don't need the gloves; we brought our own, and nothing feels so comfortable on your hand as your own glove,” said Chot. Then the boys proceeded to get their gloves out of the canoes. Fleet fished out his big first baseman's mitt, and began to limber himself by striking with his bare fist in the hollow spot, which was deep from the constant pounding of the b.a.l.l.s.
”But, I say, Bert,” Fleet asked, ”you say we are to play Cleverdale to-morrow?”