Over in one corner was a flat, rambling structure. It had once been somebody's home, had fallen into decay and vacancy. The club had rented it for a nominal sum, fixed it up a bit, and this was headquarters.
Over the door hung the purple pennant of the club, bearing in its center a broad, large "C." In the doorway sat Ned Talcott, an ambitious back-stop, who spent most of his time about the place, never tired of the baseball atmosphere.
He looked curiously at Ralph's flustered appearance, but the latter nodded silently, passed inside, and then called out:
"Come in here, Ned--I want to see you."
Ned was by his side in a jiffy. An enthusiast, he fairly worshiped his expert whole-souled captain, and counted it an honor to do anything for him.
"None of the crowd here, I see," remarked Ralph. "Got your uniform yet, Ned?"
"Why, no," answered Ned. "I've got the cloth picked out, and it's all right. Father's away, though, and as we won't need the suits for show till the new series begin next week, I didn't hurry."
"We're about of a size," went on Ralph, looking his companion over.
"And resemblance stops right there, eh?" chuckled Ned.
"I was thinking," pursued Ralph with business-like terseness, as he unfastened the door of his locker. "Maybe we could strike a trade? I want to sell."