“Tuckerton is bringing along two extra pitchers I hear,” said the captain to Coach Windam. “They must be looking for a hard game!”
“I hope we give it to ’em! As for box men, we’ll put Mersfeld in, of course, and if worst comes to worst and he doesn’t last we’ll have to rely on Newton.”
“I suppose so. Oh, if only Bill Smith—! But what’s the use, we’ll do the best we can.”
It was the afternoon of the great game. Already the grandstands on the Westfield grounds were beginning to fill up with the cohorts of the two schools, and other spectators who came to look on, and cheer. There were pretty girls galore, and a glance over the seats showed a riot of colors from the hats and dresses of the maidens, to the gay banners and ribbons on horns and canes.
The Tuckerton nine had arrived in a big coach, and their entrance on the diamond was a signal for a burst of cheers and many songs.
Then out trotted the home team, and there was a wild burst of barbaric voices in greeting, while rival singing bands, more or less in harmony, chanted the praises of their respective teams.
The Smith boys were with their mates, and, even though he knew he was not going to play, Bill had put on a uniform.
“I’ll feel better sitting on the bench than up in the stand,” he said to his chums. He tried to smile, but it was a woeful imitation.
There was a sharp practice by both teams. Cap took Mersfeld to a secluded spot, and gave him some final advice about signals, before they started to warm-up. Bill, who wanted to see how his rival was handling the horsehide strolled over to watch him and Cap.
“Pretty good,” he said to Mersfeld, who had pitched in some hot ones.