“You wouldn’t be after awhile. I guess I’d be, too, at first. But we don’t have to worry about that, because maybe there won’t anything come of it.”
But Phebe refused to be consoled so easily. She assured him that she “just felt that he would go!”
And Toby, although pretending to have no faith in her premonition, secretly hoped it would prove correct.
CHAPTER XIII
TRICK FOR TRICK
Wednesday didn’t promise very well at first for the baseball game, for the morning dawned dark and lowery, with a thick fog rolling in from the bay. But by noon the fog-horns had ceased bellowing, the mist had burned off and the sun was out again. The audience was flatteringly large when the game began at half-past three, the Head being represented by an impressive array of cars and carriages which, after climbing the hill by a stony and devious lane, parked along the edge of the field. Mr. Trainor was again on hand to umpire, and his brother and Mrs. Trainor sat on the grass back of first base under a vividly green sunshade and poked fun at him and “rooted” enthusiastically for the Towners. Toby’s team contained a new player in the person of “Chuck” Morgan, who took Harry Glass’s place at shortstop, Harry being confined at home with the mumps. The Spaniards, too, presented a stranger in their line-up, a large youth named Phillips, who held down third base. Toby and the other Towners viewed Phillips with misgiving and some indignation, for he must have been nineteen years old if he was a day. Toby sought Arnold and registered an objection vigorously.
“We didn’t agree to play with grown-ups, Arn,” he said. “We haven’t a fellow over sixteen on our team.”
Arnold was apologetic. “It’s Frank’s doing, Toby,” he explained. “Sam Cushing’s away and Frank said he knew of a fellow to take his place, and I told him to get him. I didn’t know he was so old. If I had I wouldn’t have let him on. But there isn’t any one else we can get now. Still, if you say you won’t play against him, all right. Maybe we can borrow a fellow from you.”
“He looks like a pretty good player,” murmured Toby, mollified, but still dubious. “Is he?”