"Well, North Grammar is attended by a lot of sons of pretty well-to-do men," Dave put in. "Our boys don't come from as wealthy families, so we have to be content with less of the showy things in life."
"What are your uniforms going to be like?" inquired Len Spencer.
"We haven't any," Dick replied promptly.
"No uniforms at all?" demanded the "Blade" reporter.
"None at all," Dick continued. "Neither have the South Grammar boys. In the glories of uniform the North Grammar nine will be all in a class by itself."
"It's too bad," muttered Len.
"No, it isn't," Prescott retorted. "We fellows from Central are going to show that uniforms don't necessarily make players. We don't mind—-that is, not very much—-the absence of uniforms."
"We'll try to show that we have something uniform about our team play, and let it go at that," said Dave cheerily. "Come along, Dick, or we'll be late at school."
Away the pair raced. Lessons went about as usual that afternoon with Old Dut's class, which was surprising, as nearly every boy in the room had his mind much on baseball.
Captain Dick Prescott, of the Central Grammar nine, had called practice for that afternoon, from half past four to six o'clock.