Jerry looked very glum as he said this, for he was an ardent ball fan and he had been much in the forefront in organizing a league for the summer months. Frank Hardy was one of the best pitchers in the school, and Joe could cover short in a manner that was the envy of his companions, but in spite of their natural ability for the game, the Hardy boys had always shown a preference for outings instead of baseball.
"I'd rather go out for a whole day on a motorcycle or in a motorboat than play a dozen ball games," said Frank.
This was rank heresy to Jerry, who could not bear any reflections on his beloved game.
"Gosh, I don't know what's to become of you two! Can't I count on you for any games at all?"
"Sure you can," promised Frank. "We're not going to live in the motorboat."
"If you go fooling around Barmet Reefs on a stormy day in the old tub you'll die in it, though," snickered Chet.
"That'll be about enough from you," warned Frank, giving him a friendly dig in the ribs. Then, turning to Jerry, he went on: "We'll play on your team, but we won't spend all our time outside of meal-hours in practising."
"Well, I suppose I should be satisfied. We can't have everything. But I'd imagine you'd like to practise."
"They don't need to," declared Chet. "That's why you have to spend all your spare time learning how to catch. Even now you're not much good at it." He winked at Tony Prito, who was standing behind Jerry. "Why, I'll bet you can't catch a measly little fly—like this—look—"
He took a baseball out of his pocket and threw it lightly into the air. It did not go very high and it was a ridiculously easy catch for any one. As for Jerry Gilroy, who was really a star outfielder, it was scarcely worth the effort. He had but to step back a pace and the ball was his.