"Hello, there, Rinky Dink: turn up here sharp at four o'clock."
"What for—sir," said Stover, surprised.
"We've got a game on with the Cleve. Play baseball?"
"I—I'm a little out of practice," said Stover, who loathed the game.
"Can't help it; you're it. You play in the field. Four o'clock sharp."
"You're the ninth man in the house," Butsey explained as they started for the school. "Every one has to play. Are you any good?"
Stover was tempted to let his imagination run, but the thought of the afternoon curbed it.
"Oh, I used to be pretty fair," he said half-heartedly, plunging into the distant past.
But Stover had no desire to talk; he felt the thrill of strange sensations. Scarcely did he heed the chatter of his guide that rattled on.
The road lay straight and cool under the mingled foliage of the trees. Ahead, groups of boys crossed and recrossed in lazy saunterings.