The Fardale team came jogging out in their well-worn suits. They went at the preliminary practise in the usual manner.
Brad Buckhart squinted at the New Era players, a peculiar expression on his face.
“Whatever sort of suits have they got on?” he said, turning to Jolliby.
“Ask me sus-sus-sus-something I cuc-cuc-can answer,” stuttered the tall boy.
“This rain makes ’em shine like grease,” said Brad. “They’re a queer-looking bunch.”
The cadets had given their team a cheer on its appearance. The band was not out. But the boys were prepared to sing and root in earnest.
Dick Merriwell had looked the enemy over. One of the fellows attracted his attention. When he drew aside with the referee and the captain of the visiting team, he said:
“Captain Huckley, there is a man on your team whom I know to be a slugger, as well as a professional. His name is Porter. I have played baseball against him, and know what he is.”
“Porter?” said Huckley, not at all pleased. “I think you must be mistaken about his character. He’s all right.”
“Then he has changed greatly for the better,” said Dick. “He has no great liking for me. I had some trouble with him once.”