“Indian pudding,” replied Willard laconically, as they passed into the house. “It’s Saturday.”
At half-past two the boys started out for the high school athletic field, which lay between Meadow Street and the railroad, west of town. Their way led them along Main Street for a half mile and then across a sun-smitten field abloom with daisies and buttercups, and so to Meadow Street and the entrance to the ball grounds. They had long since ceased to be alone, and by the time they were getting out their quarters to pay for admissions they were with a group of a half-dozen merry youths in holiday mood. Jerry Lippit was of the number. Jerry was in baseball togs, being a substitute infielder, carried a bat and had a fielder’s glove dangling from his belt. He got into a game about twice in a season, but he believed in being prepared!
The Providence team was having practice when Tom and Willard and three or four others made their way to the “bleachers.” (There was a first-rate grand stand, with backs to the benches and a roof overhead, but seats thereon cost fifteen cents extra, and neither Tom nor Willard was in the habit of occupying them.) It was pretty hot on the bleachers, with the sun slanting down on your head, and Tom and Willard followed the example of the boys already there and took off their jackets. Jerry, who had stopped to remind Captain Chester Madden of his existence and willingness to help the team in an emergency, joined the group presently and sandwiched himself in between Tom and “Spider” Wells.
“Is he going to let you play?” inquired Spider, who was a tall, thin youth with mild blue eyes and a shock of corn-colored hair.
“When all the others are killed off,” replied Jerry cheerfully. “Say, those chaps look pretty husky, don’t they?”
It was agreed that they did, and Teddy Thurston, who was seated behind Willard, digging his sharp knees into that youth’s back, had an admiring word for the natty gray uniforms and purple stockings of the Providence team.
“They look like plums,” commented Jerry. “The Providence Plums! How’s that for a name?”
“I hope we find them soft,” observed Tom.
“So do I. If we beat ’em I shall call them the Providence Prunes. There goes Chester to warm up. Who’s he pitching to, Tom?”
“Poor, isn’t it? What’s the matter with letting Billy pitch?”