"Come on—retrieve it," ordered the pitcher, strolling toward the platter.
"Chase your own ball," returned Pudge. "I didn't come 'way up here to play Fido. Why'd Kirby let it go by him?"
The backstop was wiping his brow with a torn shirtsleeve. "Catch me trying to stop one of Horrors' fast ones without my mitt. Not much!"
"Say, you fellers!" exclaimed Pudge, remembering his errand. "Ben says come on down to the camp—and in a hurry. There's a motor launch in sight."
"Didn't you fellers ever see a motor launch before?" demanded Kirby.
"But it's aiming right for our landing."
"What if?" drawled the tall fellow whom his mates called "Horrors."
"Who's in the launch?" asked Kirby.
"It's that constable Horrors had the fuss with at Blackport. Remember?"
"Shall I ever forget him?" murmured the tall lad. "The chap with the big tin star and the lovely yellow freckles."