Fudge Shaw sat on the bench between Felker and Grover and awaited his turn in the outfield. Fudge had played in center some, but he was not quite Varsity material, so to speak, and his hopes of making even the second team, which would be formed presently, from what coach and captain rejected, were not strong. Still, Fudge “liked to stick around where things were doing,” as he expressed it, and he accepted his impending fate with philosophy. Besides, he had more than half made up his mind to cast his lot with the Track Team this spring. He was discussing the gentle art of putting the twelve-pound shot with Guy Felker when Dick summoned the outfield trio in and sent Fudge and two others to take their places. Fudge trotted out to center and set about his task of pulling down Bert Cable’s flies. Perhaps his mind was too full of shot-putting to allow him to give the needed attention to the work at hand. At all events, he managed to judge his first ball so badly that it went six feet over his head and was fielded in by one of Way’s squad. Way was laughing when Fudge turned toward him after throwing the ball to the batter.
“A fellow needs a pair of smoked glasses out here,” called Fudge extenuatingly. This, in view of the fact that the sun was behind Fudge’s right shoulder, was a lamentably poor excuse. Possibly he realized it, for he added: “My eyes have been awfully weak lately.”
Way, meeting the ball gently with his bat and causing a wild commotion amongst his fielders, nodded soberly. “And for many other reasons,” he called across.
“Eh?” asked Fudge puzzled. But there was no time for more just then as Bert Cable, observing his inattention, meanly shot a long low fly into left field, and Fudge, starting late, had to run half-way to the fence in order to attempt the catch. Of course he missed it and then, when he had chased it down, made matters worse by throwing at least twelve feet to the left of Cable on the return. The ex-captain glared contemptuously and shouted some scathing remark that Fudge didn’t hear. After that, he got along fairly well, sustaining a bruised finger, however, as a memento of the day’s activities. When practice was over he trudged back to the dressing-room and got into his street clothes. Fortunately, most of the new fellows had dressed at home and so it was possible to find room in which to squirm out of things without collisions. While Fudge was lacing his shoes he observed that Way and his particular crony, Will Scott, who played third base, were unusually hilarious in a far corner of the room.
But Fudge was unsuspicious, and presently he found himself walking home with the pair.
“Say, this is certainly peachy weather, isn’t it?” inquired Will as they turned into B Street. “Aren’t you crazy about spring, Way?”
“Am I? Well, rather! O beauteous spring!”
“So am I. You know it makes the birds sing in the trees.”