“Go on wit’ your blarney!” exclaimed Molloy, making a punch at Housenlager, who skilfully ducked it.
The diamond was in fine shape, for it had been cut and rolled and the base lines marked off in readiness for the opening of the season. The grass was like velvet and the clean, fresh green, contrasted with the brown earth of the diamond proper, the long white lines, the new bases and the level field made a picture that rejoiced the heart of every lad.
“Wow! isn’t it great?” cried Tom. “And the smell! Do you smell the green grass, Sid, and the earth, and—and the baseball smell? Isn’t it great?”
“Cheese it!” cried Phil Clinton with a laugh. “You’ll be spouting poetry next.”
“I wish I could,” returned Tom a little more soberly. “I never get out on a ball field but I want to orate something like Thermopylæ or Horatius at the Bridge. The fever of the game gets in my blood.”
“There is something in that,” admitted Phil. “Oh, it’s a great game. There’s none greater except football, and when I see the gridiron marked off and hear the ‘ping’ of somebody’s boot against the pigskin my heart begins to thump and I catch my breath and want to take the ball to batter down a stone fence and make a touchdown.”
“Bravo!” cried Sid. “You’re as bad as Tom.”
“Quit talking and get to practice!” exclaimed a voice at the rear of the lads, and they turned to see Langridge.
“Say, who told you to give orders?” asked Sid quickly. “Bricktop is our captain.”
“Well, we’re going to have a little warm-up practice first,” remarked Langridge. Then he turned to Tom and said: “So you’re going to pitch against me?”