“Oh, I’ll do my best,” sighed Laurie, “but I certainly do hold it ag’in Pinky for butting in on my quiet, peaceful life out in the field and talking me into this catching stuff. Gosh, I had no idea the human hand could propel a ball through space, as it were, the way those pitcher guys do! Some time I’ll break a couple of fingers, I suppose, and then I’ll get let out.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” said Ned grimly. “All the big league catchers have two or three broken fingers on each hand. Don’t count on that, old son!”
They had crossed Walnut Street now and were stamping the melted snow from their shoes on the drier concrete sidewalk before the school property. Above the top of a privet hedge the upper stories of the school buildings were in sight, West Hall, School Hall, and East Hall facing Summit Street in order. In the windows of West Hall, a dormitory, gaily hued cushions added color to the monotony of the brick edifice, and here and there an upthrown casement allowed a white sash-curtain to wave lazily in the breeze of a mild March afternoon. As the two boys turned in at the first gate, under the modest sign announcing “Hillman’s School—Entrance Only,” Laurie broke the short silence.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” he asked.
“I don’t know. There isn’t much a fellow can do except read.”
“Or study,” supplemented Laurie virtuously. “Better come along and watch practice a while.”
But Ned shook his head. “Not good enough, old-timer. That baseball cage is too stuffy. Guess I’ll wander over to the field and see if there’s anything going on.”
“There won’t be. They say the ice has gone to mush. Listen. If you see Kewpie, tell him I died suddenly, will you? And how about Polly? Shall I meet you there?”
“Yes, five thirty we told her. So-long!”