“Here’s a good place to see it from—almost as good as the grandstand,” said Tom, as they moved to a spot along the first base line. “Though you can go up and sit down if you like. I’m going to put on my things. I may get a chance at first.”
“No, I’ll stay here,” said Joe. “Then I can see you make some good stops.”
“I can if Sam doesn’t put ’em away over my head,” was the reply.
“Oh, yes, that’s so. You started to say that you thought our side—you see I’m already a Silver Star rooter—that our side would win, if something didn’t happen.”
“Oh, yes, and then that ball came over the fence. Well, we’ll win, I think, if Sam doesn’t go to pieces.”
“Who’s Sam?”
“Sam Morton, our pitcher. He’s pretty good too, when he doesn’t get rattled.”
“Then we’ll hope that he doesn’t to-day,” said Joe with a smile. “But go ahead and dress.”
“All right,” assented Tom, and he started off on a run to the dressing rooms. It was only just in time, too, for at that moment Darrell came hastening up to him.