Lefty shrugged. “We’ll try him out. Goodness knows we can’t pass up any promising players, when we only have today and tomorrow to get ready for the Shawnee game. I hear Shawnee has got back Hook Bollard and Widelle this year, and that catcher of theirs—what’s his name?—that made three runs last time we played them. If Lenape wants to take the best end of the score on Wednesday, we’ve got to show some steam!”
When the announcements were made at lunch, Lefty Reardon rose and read a list of names of the campers who had been chosen to form the team that would defend Lenape’s honor on the baseball diamond on the following Wednesday. On that day, the whole of Lenape would trek northward to the shores of Iron Lake for a visit to their rival, Camp Shawnee. The crowning event of the day would be a ball game between the two camp teams, thus renewing a yearly custom of friendly sportsmanship. Lenape had been badly beaten the season before, and among the campers there was much talk of the coming encounter, and predictions that this time they would pay back the old score with a rousing victory.
Dirk Van Horn noted with disappointment that his name was not among those called; but no sooner had Lefty seated himself than he turned to Dirk and said: “Say, Van, I hear you’re supposed to be a fielder. If you want to come down to the diamond with the rest of the team, we’ll try you out and see if we can find a place for you.”
“Sure, try out!” urged Sax McNulty. “You were on your prep school team, weren’t you, Van?”
Dirk nodded. “I’ll come down, sir.” He had spent the morning lolling in his bunk with a book of stories, and had disregarded Wally Rawn’s offer to teach him to swim. Neither had he made any move to join in the many other activities of the camp routine. But baseball was different, he felt; he knew and liked that sport best of all, and had little doubt that with his school training, he could hold a position on a scratch team such as he thought the Lenape squad to be.
When the bugle sounded recall, Dirk, resplendent in a brand-new baseball suit and bearing a well-oiled glove under his arm, sauntered down to the field and reported to Captain Reardon, who with Kipper Dabney was warming up a few curves. Lefty slammed a sizzling drop into Gil Shelton’s padded mitt, and turned to Dirk with a nod.
“You can get out there with the bunch and get under a few of those fungoes that Mullins is knocking,” he directed, “and show us what you can do. Later on, we’ll have batting practice and you’ll have a chance to prove you can hit.”
Dirk, with a confident smile, trotted out into the tall grass behind third base, and for half an hour, in company with Ollie Steffins, Blackie Thorne, and a youngster named Tompkins, he fielded lofty flies and grounders from Soapy Mullins’ resounding bat. Now and then he glanced at the other members of the squad. The infielders were tossing the ball back and forth with easy skill, and Brick Ryan, hovering over first base, missed few of the shots that came near his post.
When the players were warmed up sufficiently, they lined up one after another to face the delivery of Captain Lefty and his relief pitcher, Dabney. At last it came Dirk’s turn. He selected a bat and approached the plate with a cocky grin. Lefty, noting his short grip, thought to teach this arrogant newcomer a little lesson, and slipped over a neat inshoot that took him up short.
“Strike!” called out Lieutenant Eames, whose service on the West Point team qualified him as volunteer umpire.