"What's that you're saying about me?" inquired David, looking up from an essay that he was composing for next day's English literature lesson.
"I was saying," said the Codfish glibly, "that we had a scoop for you—a red hot story that will make the readers on the Mirror sit up and shout hallelujah! They always do that when they see an interesting article in the Mirror, eh, David?" continued the Codfish. "Now, as Mark Anthony said: 'Lend me thine ears.' It's like this. Can't you cook up, dish up, or write, if you prefer ordinary grammatical terms to culinary ones, an article which will go into the next issue of the Mirror, suggesting an inter-class baseball series which shall begin now and last as long as the weather holds good, then sleep like the ground-hog through the winter, and continue in the spring? What says our aspiring literary genius?"
"Good idea," said David.
"Wonderful!" said Jimmy. "I'll resign from the football eleven."
"Where am I to play?" inquired Lewis, "short-stop or second base?"
"You'll be the boy who carries the bats and brushes off the homeplate," said the Codfish, "and maybe if you're very good we may let you bring the water."
"Thank you for nothing," retorted Lewis.
"And as the Mirror, thanks to our progressive friend and erstwhile rope-climber, David, has changed its shirt and appears nice and clean once a week instead of twice a month, it ought to make its appearance about Thursday of this week. There's no time to lose. Bring on your pens and paper and let's get that article ready."
The boys entered into the spirit of the thing, and before they turned in for the night had produced in brief form a plan for inter-class baseball. Each class, including the Freshmen, was to organize a nine, and there was to be a series of games between these nines, the two having the highest percentage to meet for a final match.
"It's up to you, Codfish, to figure out the schedule and the percentages," said Frank. "We'll call you the unofficial scorer."