“Owen nothing!” retorted Duncan. “He’s worked one of his bluffs on the ticket-taker. One of these days his nerve’ll carry him inside a jail.” Duncan did not fancy Brantwein, even as an amusement.
But the players were appearing, and Brantwein and his arts were forgotten.
“That’s Owen, the solid fellow with the white sweater, and the mask on his arm,” cried Duncan; “and the tall fellow behind him is O’Brien, the Hillbury man. The one just going out to left field is Latter. He played on our nine last year.”
He paused to watch the men taking their positions for practice.
“There come the Yale fellows!” exclaimed Sam, whose gaze was wandering over the field. “Now, which is McPherson?”
Duncan hesitated for some time; the unfamiliar uniforms confused him. “I think that’s McPherson over by third base,” he said. The man at third took a short bound and shot it underhand to a companion. “Yes, that’s Mac. I should know that twist of the shoulder in California. Isn’t it a shame!”
“What?”
“Why, that he should be playing under Coy against Bob Owen. In the Hillbury game last year Coy came near assaulting Mac for tagging him too hard at second. Now they’re pals.”
“I don’t see anything strange in that,” rejoined Sam. “He’s playing for his college as Owen’s playing for ours.”
So they chattered on, till the Harvard men took the field for the game and a businesslike pair of blue-stockinged legs appeared beneath a bat at the plate. Then they watched with straining eyes, their talk running to brief exclamations, sighs for the discouraging gains of the visitors, vain cries of exultation when the Harvard men made promising plays.