“That was Van Horn! Boy, what a catch!”
“Yay, Van! Pretty stuff, old kid!”
Dirk trotted toward the bench, and the cheers of his fellow campers grew. He tried to put on a modest, matter-of-fact look, but he could not hold back a confident grin. The Chief was there; he must have seen that catch, and the least he could do would be to sign his card for inter-camp athletics. Now, he would come to bat this inning, and then he’d show these kids some real prep-school league hitting——
He felt his arm seized roughly, and a voice, low yet angry, rasped in his ear.
“Say, Van Horn, there’s eight other guys on this team!”
Dirk wheeled. It was Lefty Reardon who spoke, and his face was ominous.
“Why, what do you mean by that?” Dirk asked.
“You know what I mean! With the score three to one against us, why do you have to go playing tiddley-winks to the grandstand? Another pass like that, and you’ll be holding down the job of water-boy for this team!”
“What was the matter with that play?” grumbled Van Horn sulkily. “They went out, didn’t they?”
“What was the matter? Everything! These kids here in the cheering section thought you were a regular daredevil, but I know better! Try that stunt again and you’ll get a rain-check instead of a bouquet. Talk about playing to the gallery! That was an easy catch—but you had to make it look like hero stuff. And taking all those chances, falling down and so on, just to look like the bozo that saved the day! Well, Terry Tompkins ain’t got a swelled head, and if you don’t button up quick, you’ll be benching for the rest of the season. And I’m saying it!”