Bob got into the batting work and had no trouble in putting the ball wherever he wanted to. But, of course, the delivery was easy enough to hit, and his performance then was no criterion of what would happen in the game. At twelve they went back to the house and were instructed to rest until dinner time. Many of the players found seats on the porch, where they indulged in a battle of repartee with the local wits lined up along the curbstone. Others sought the billiard room and spent most of that hour of rest walking about the tables. Tom and Dan took a walk through the village, accompanied by Barry. The latter seemed to understand that for the present he owed allegiance to Mannig, and, coming across a yellow dog decorated with a bunch of green and white ribbon, proceeded to inflict summary punishment and establish the superiority of the visitors. By the time Dan had dragged him away from his prey the green and white ribbon wasn’t worth talking about. Barry stood the subsequent cuffing with equanimity, and trotted on again behind his master with a knowing leer in his eye and a section of tattered ribbon hanging rakishly and defiantly from the corner of his mouth.
The main street of the town was becoming quite populous with vehicles, and the holiday atmosphere increased every moment. The game was the one important and all-absorbing topic of conversation. When the two stopped to buy some sweet chocolate at a corner fruit stand, the Italian proprietor asked eagerly who they thought would win, and when, later on, returning to the hotel, they entered a drug store for egg phosphates, the clerk who served them was full of questions and information.
“They tell me,” he said, “that Mannig’s got a fellow to pitch for them who was with the Hoboken team last year, a regular peach. Did you hear anything about it?”
Dan looked wise as he sipped his phosphate.
“Something,” he answered. “I was talking with Burns, the Mannig captain, awhile ago. But I understood that the pitcher is a fellow named Tilford who pitched for Chicora.”
“Where’s that?” asked the clerk.
“New Hampshire.”
“Good team?”
“Fine! Beat everything in sight, they tell me. And this pitcher is a corker. Your men here won’t be able to touch him; he’s got a slow drop that’ll make them look silly!”
“Are you a Mannig fellow?” asked the clerk suspiciously.