"It's our place," said Ben, weakly.
"I don't suppose you mean to camp here all day?" Pence said lazily. Then to Ben: "There's time enough. Let 'em go ahead with their practice," he added, patronizingly. "Let's see what they can do."
Phillips, who had got up from his seat in the shade, sat down again, with a grunt. Pence threw himself beside the red-haired youth. Midkiff scowled, but took the signal from Kingdon.
"Sure," the latter flung at Pence with a laugh. "There's nothing secret about this warming up. Now, old man, put something on it."
Midkiff whipped in a fast one, but it was wide.
"Very bad," said Horace Pence, pleasantly.
"Rather," agreed Kirby.
"They didn't like that one, Jawn," Rex Kingdon said sadly. "Didn't think so much of it myself. Try again."
In a regular game John Midkiff could stand the chaffing of the enemy pretty well, but the remarks of these strangers, looking on at practice, seemed to fret him. He tried to curve his ball, and made a mess of it. Kirby laughed. Pence drawled:
"Strike one—not!"