“Where’s Fat? Who’s seen Fat?” asked everybody of everybody; for Captain Fat was the sole essential personage lacking. However, even without him, pending his arrival the scene was one of stirring animation.
Thick and fast flew here and there the several balls on the grounds, each nine keeping to itself, and each boy throwing “curves”—or, at least, thus essaying.
You yourself, brave in your splendor of blue star and red stripe, endeavored, by now and then negligently catching with one hand, to make it plain that you were virtually a professional.
BOB LESLIE
The Second-streets were as yet ununiformed, even in sections. But they were a rugged, rough-and-ready set, and two of them had base-ball shoes on, proving that they were experts.
“Here’s Fat! Here comes Fat!” suddenly arose the welcoming cry; and appareled in his regimentals, his cap announcing to all beholders his high rank, panting, hot, perspiring, up hustled the leader of the North Stars.
It was time to begin.
“Who’s got a ball?” demanded Umpire Hopkins, sometimes called Harry, but more generally known as Hop or Hoptoad.
The query disclosed a serious condition. Balls there were, but not suitable for a championship match game. They were ten- and fifteen-centers, as hard as grapeshot or already knocked flabby.