“Yes, I happen to,” Dick said good-naturedly, as he shook the fellow’s hand, and turned to meet the other men.
“You fellows go ahead and start practice,” Gardiner said, when the introductions were complete. “I’ll slip into my clothes and be with you in half a jiffy.”
He disappeared into the clubhouse, and the others left the veranda and walked out to the diamond. Merriwell was chatting with the catcher, George Burgess, a short, stout heavily built fellow with a good-humored face and small, twinkling eyes.
“Gardiner tells me you’re up against a hard proposition to-morrow,” the Yale man remarked.
“Yes, the mine boys are a tough crowd to beat,” Burgess returned. “But I guess we can do it.”
He slipped his mask on and began to buckle his chest protector.
“Let’s see how your wing is to-day, Edgar,” he called. “One of you fellows stand up here and be struck out. You’re all ready, Art. Come ahead.”
Arthur Dean, a well-built, muscular fellow who played third, picked up a bat and walked over to the plate.
Morrison went into the pitcher’s box, a sullen look on his face.
“I like that fellow Merriwell’s nerve, butting in this way,” he muttered. “I suppose that fresh Gardiner thinks I need coaching. Well, he won’t show me very much.”