The weather began to warm up toward the last of the week, and Saturday was like a day in the middle of May. There are no “hours” on Saturday at Maple Ridge except for the Seniors, who have recitations from nine to half-past ten. At eleven Dolph Jones got his Boarders team together for an hour in order that the reconstructed nine might get accustomed to its new formation. The loss of Gus Turnbull, Jim Curtis and Tyler Wicks, all Towners, weakened the team not a little. The Towners would not show up until just before the time set for the game, two o’clock, and were doubtless holding practice this morning at the Fair Grounds. Although the Boarders had done their best to discover what particular brand of torture the enemy had invented for the occasion they had learned nothing. Midget Green, the amateur sleuth, had utterly failed in his mission and was much cast down thereby.
“We’ll just have to keep our eyes open,” said Ted Warner as he and Dolph and some of the others talked it over before practice. “And we’ll make sure, too, that they don’t monkey with the bases!”
Mr. Shay, the coach, not being on hand, Sam and Harry Smythe, the shortstop, batted balls for the fielding practice, Hal Morris, a substitute pitcher, taking Smythe’s place in the infield. Afterwards there was batting practice, Sam pitching until just before twelve, when a message called him away.
“It’s up to you, Hal,” said Dolph to Morris. “You’d better let yourself out a bit. You may have to go in for awhile this afternoon.”
Shortly after twelve the fellows went back to the campus to get ready for dinner. Sam wasn’t in the room when Jack got there, nor did he return before dinner time. In the dining hall Sam’s seat was empty when Jack went in and remained so when the latter had finished his meal. Jack, however, thought little of it; doubtless Sam’s message accounted for his tardiness. In the confusion succeeding dinner Jack forgot all about his room-mate. With others of the players he watched from the steps of School Building the formation of the line of march to the field. Leading the procession was Pete Sawyer, a battered cornet in his hands. Then followed the rest of the “band,” with a decrepit snare-drum, several tin horns and some assorted instruments of torture such as watchmen’s rattles, accordions and mouth-organs. A strip of unbleached muslin with the inscription “Champions” lettered upon it in fresh and sticky green paint was secured to two poles and borne aloft. Old clothes were the proper regalia, and many of the fellows had added to the color and picturesqueness of the occasion by turning their coats inside out, while those who possessed any eccentric article of apparel wore it. With a discordant riot of sound from the “band” the procession, cheering and capering, moved off to the field and the players followed laughingly to the gymnasium.
While they were changing into baseball togs a burst of noise summoned them to the windows. The Towners had arrived. The nine marched ahead, Ducky Drake leading the way in the rôle of drum major, with a bat in lieu of baton. Then came the non-combatants and their village friends, a good half-hundred boys all together. They shouted and jeered at the players at the open windows and passed down the terrace path and out of sight.
“There’s quite a bunch of them, isn’t there?” observed Jack.
“Yes,” replied Ted. “They bring their friends, you see. Say, where’s Sammy? Isn’t he here?”
Jack looked around and shook his head.
“I haven’t seen him since he left the field.”