Up Elm Street the car turned, and down Freemont, pulling to a stop in the middle of the block.
"Look!" cried Molly.
Artistically centered in a big lot, the building stood, with a scrub ball game already in progress on the new diamond. The gray rock side walls, that seemed to be more window than anything else; the graceful lines that rose in exquisite proportion; the main door, with its roofed, stone-pillared veranda on each side,—all made a structure that savored more of a home than a school. It was the sort of place you would enjoy going to, if the teachers only lived halfway up to the building. And the crowd of pupils already gathering for the first day proved how deeply Lakeville's first and only high school had stirred the little village and the country roundabout.
As Molly looked over the young people grouped at the door or watching the game of "work-up," she recognized not only every Lakeville boy and girl of high school age, but as many more from farms and villages within ten miles. By automobiles, by train, a-wheel and on pony-back, they had gathered for the opening session. Peter Barrett, his patched suit neatly brushed and pressed, stood by his father's farm wagon; ten yards away, Royal Sheffield, son of the wealthy, real estate man of Charlesboro, was just climbing from a new eight-cylinder car. "Buck" Claxton, who for the past two years had worked at the local flour mill, was playing a noisy game at first base, while on the side-lines, Clarence Prissler, his nose out of a book for once, was explaining the fine points of the sport to Marion Genevieve Chester, who tilted her nose, smoothed her hair, and looked very bored.
But the Boy Scouts of the Black Eagle Patrol were neither watching from the side-lines nor bored. Heart and soul, they were playing the game, from Specs McGrew, taking a lead off third, to Bunny Payton, thumping the palm of his catching glove with his other hand and signaling to Bi Jones, out in the pitcher's box. Handling the bat itself, Roundy Magoon waved the stick back and forth, while Bi, with maddening slowness, made ready to pitch.
"Hurry it up!" shouted Bunny. "This fellow is as good as gone, and I want a crack at the ball before the bell rings."
Herbert Zane, whose nickname of "Spick and Span" had been shortened to "S. S.", was creeping as far off first as he dared, with an occasional glance at his clothes, as if wondering whether or not it would pay to risk the gorgeousness of a brand new suit by sliding into second.
"Let the next one go!" he called to Roundy, apparently having made up his mind that it would be better to wallow in the dust, and thus perch on second, than be forced out or made the victim of a double play.
Roundy nodded. Very likely, too, he intended to do just that thing. But the ball floated over so slowly, so tantalizing "right", that at the very last instant he swung hard enough to drive it over all the roofs of Lakeville. But Bi had put his muscle into the heave, and Roundy had started his swing a fraction of a second too late. Though all his stout body went into the blow, only the handle of the bat made connection, and the ball hit in front of the plate and dribbed toward first.
Like a flash, Bunny leaped forward, scooped it up, tagged Roundy before that slow-moving youth had stirred into full action, and, with a bluff toward Specs, pegged to second.