"Oh, Bunny!" shouted Molly.
A moment later, the new boy and the leader of the Black Eagles had formally shaken hands.
"And he can pass the tenderfoot tests, and he's awfully good at athletics, and—"
"But I'm not any good at athletics," protested Rodman, laughing. "I'm no good at all in that sort of thing."
"He's just too modest to say so. You ought to have seen how he saved the kitten."
"Have you ever played baseball?" demanded Bunny suddenly.
"Sure—a little. But I'm no good. I can't bat decently, or catch or field."
Bunny held out his bat. "Come on over and take my place," he invited. "I doubt if I can hit Buck, and poor old Specs has been perched on third for hours. Everybody who comes to bat knocks a baby grounder or a pop-up or something, and Specs stays right there."
"All right, Bunny!" Nap broke in, crossing back to the school yard with the ball.
Molly dropped her hand on Rodman's arm. "Go and try," she urged. "I know you can do it."