“Foul!” declared Steve Brown.
“What!” demanded Mr. Gifford.
“Foul!”
“Robber!” shrieked the batter, imitating an infuriated player and brandishing his bat over Steve’s head. “You’re a bum umpire!”
“The bench for youse,” growled Steve. “Off the field!”
“How much are they payin’ yer?”
“That’ll be about all,” returned Steve, with much dignity. “You’re fined ten dollars.”
Mr. Gifford, disgustedly hurling his bat to the ground and then kicking it out of the way, stalked off, muttering, to the delight of the fellows. On the way back to the camp Tom was surrounded by a guard of admiring youths who begged him to show them how to pitch that drop or that floater. Sidney was no longer the hero.
The visitors had a good time every minute. They joined the boys in the water at “plunge,” ate ravenously of everything set before them at supper, declaring themselves “strong for those doughnuts,” and entered into everything that came along with genuine enthusiasm. Tom conducted a class in pitching after supper until it was too dark to see the ball. Later, at camp-fire, Mr. Langham called on the guests for entertainment. Tom begged off, but Sidney, who appeared to be in the most boisterous spirits, declared that if someone had a concertina he would chant them a ditty. He finally compromised on a banjo, however, and when he had picked at it a moment, broke out into a monotonous tune to which he supplied words as follows: