He was a self-appointed lemonade maker and was famous for the concoction. The makings for the drink had been brought along. The rest of the supper was coming out by the caterer’s delivery auto later on. Bossy, Joan, and Chub cut lemons while Cookie pressed them with a wooden squeezer into a large galvanized tub, kept from year to year for this special purpose. A big cake of ice, shed of its coat of burlap, and rinsed off in the near-by spring, was slipped into the sweetened juice. Then buckets of spring water, more stirring, until Cookie pronounced it “Just as good as last year’s.” Dozens of shiny tin cups were let loose and tumbled upon the soft grass, and every one was invited to “Step right up and help yourself!”
The head pressman’s three little boys took this literally. Finally Cookie had to hint, “It’ll be here all afternoon, folks. But we must save some for the Star team.”
All during the lemonade making every one had been glancing back toward the rustic gate, watching for the coming of the Star team. Just as Joan was starting on her third cup of lemonade, a delivery truck with a red star on each side, drove up and the Star team, in their baseball suits of gray with blue letters, with a few of the staff as rooters, hopped out. The staff of the Star, since it was a morning newspaper, did not need to take much time away from the office for the game. They always worked at night to get their paper out, anyway. Joan had often gone to the Star office with Chub when he delivered advertising cuts, which the two newspapers sometimes shared, and she knew most of the staff by sight. Tebbets, the city editor, was a big bully of a man. Joan did not like him at all. His voice was so loud that the echo of it rumbled back from the cliffs. He was so different from Mr. Nixon. Of course, Editor Nixon often got provoked and then he’d roar like a mad bull, but most of the time he was good-natured and treated the Journal family fair and square. Joan might think him hard and stern, but he was as meek as a lamb, compared to Mr. Tebbets.
“Well, Journalites,” Tebbets was bellowing now, “are you ready to get trimmed by the best little team in the Ohio Valley?”
Of course, some one else might have said those very words and they would not have been mean. But not the way Mr. Tebbets said them.
His eyes lighted upon Mack. “So you’re on the team?” he asked.
Joan guessed he was trying to be funny, for any one could tell Mack was on the team when he had on the baseball suit.
“Well—I’m the Journal sport editor,” Mack said, as if in answer to Tebbets.
The Star editor snickered as though that were very funny. Little Ruthie toddled toward him, waving her plump hands. She had a gold ring on one of her fat fingers, tied to her wrist with a ribbon. But Mr. Tebbets did not even glance at her standing there. She looked so cute, too. She had her bonnet off now, and her dark hair was mussed. She was frowning because the sun was in her eyes. She looked like a miniature of the editor.
Altogether it was not a promising beginning. The Star team looked so much stronger than the Journal men. Mack was of slight build and though Tim was tall, he seemed awfully young next to all those strapping Star players. Joan was silent as they all trooped along the footpath and up a little slope to the sunny field where the game was to be held. Rude bleachers had been erected by placing boards across wooden boxes. The Journal folks, except some of the women who declared it was too hot up there, and the children too young to be interested in baseball, lined up on one side. The Star rooters took the other. Chub and Bossy sat on the bench for substitutes. Joan hung about.