"Don't you suppose any of those fellows Stanley Downs was nursing along on the scrub nines will develop, Rex?" Red Phillips asked anxiously.
His place was fixed in the infield, but Red was thoroughly loyal to old Walcott. Indeed, it had been his scouting for athletic material that had brought Rex Kingdon to the school.
"About as much chance of the coach developing a comer out of that bunch as you have of developing a love for mathematics, Sunset," responded Rex.
"There isn't a natural born pitcher among 'em, and if there's no natural talent, what can we expect of the coach? It isn't his fault."
"I'm going right to work with John and Applejack, here. If there's a level spot on this whole island——"
"I've found it," interposed Cloudman.
"Eh?"
"Found just the place. Right on the top of this hill. Big enough for a three-ring circus."
"Fine!" Kingdon exclaimed. "Let's have dinner and a nap, and then go up and look it over. If we could get those chaps over there into it, we could have a half decent ball game—all positions filled and somebody to rap out a few."
"Oh, prunes!" grunted Red. "They don't look as though they could play beanbag."