“It’s warming up,” said Alf, “and I guess we won’t catch cold. I don’t want any of you fellows stiff this afternoon, though. We’d better not sit here too long, I fancy.”
“Oh, this is all right,” muttered Tom, squatting down. “What time do the coaches start for Broadwood, Alf?”
“One thirty. And luncheon’s at twelve forty-five prompt. What time is it now?”
“Eleven twenty-five,” answered Dan. “Say, who’s going to umpire? Didn’t Payson say that Wallace couldn’t come?”
“Yes. I don’t know who they’ll get. It’s up to Broadwood. They’ve got two or three men over there that’ll be all right.”
They talked over the afternoon’s game for awhile, contrary to Payson’s instructions, and then Mills, the Broadwood captain, spied them and joined the group. Mills was a big, broad-shouldered chap of twenty, a splendid guard and a splendid fellow as well, and every man who had ever played against him liked him thoroughly. He and Alf shook hands, and then Tom greeted him and Alf introduced Dan.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Vinton,” said Mills warmly. “I don’t believe, though, that we need an introduction. I guess we remember each other from last year, don’t we? Anyhow, I remember you—to my sorrow.”
Dan smiled.
“I hope you’ll remember us all to your sorrow this afternoon,” he said.