“Are you boys going?”
“Are we going?” fairly shouted George. “You couldn’t keep us away with a team of elephants. I rather guess we are going, and we shall stay till the last ball is batted over the net and the prizes awarded.”
“Then you are going to play?”
He shook his head.
“Wish we might, but there are no classes for boys. Herrington promises to have a class for us next season. You will see the Tramp Club on hand with the racquets then and you’ll all come to see us cover the name of the Tramp Club with glory.”
“You have done that already,” said Harriet.
“Thank you.” The boys took off their hats and bowed gravely.
“But,” continued George, “I feel that I have scored a greater triumph this year than I ever shall by playing.”
“How so?” asked the guardian politely.
“Because I’ve entered a winning team, entered a team that all the amateurs along the coast couldn’t beat. Why? Because the team, my team, I call them, wouldn’t know it if they were beaten. They’d keep right on playing till the Atlantic itself froze over, if somebody didn’t cut in and stop them. That’s why. You watch our entry and see if they don’t set the State of New Hampshire howling like a parcel of mad Indians. Ever see a mad Indian?”