“Well, isn’t that clever of Cleverdale?” said Pod.
“Here! Don’t spring any more of those,” warned Bert. “I don’t believe I could stand the pressure.”
“Oh, Pod’s been misbehaving all the way up,” said Tom.
“Well, I had plenty of company,” responded the little fellow. “Fleet Kenby fairly disgraced us all, and I failed to observe where any of the other members of our party earned any special bouquets for deportment.”
“Listen at the language!” cried Fleet, as he put his hands on Pod’s head and began an examination, much after the fashion of a phrenologist. “Yes; here’s where it came from. This, gentlemen, is the bump of knowledge, considerably enlarged though colliding with its neighbor, the bump of conceit. The latter bump, which, you will observe, lies right above the ear, is bounded on the north by a wisp of hair, on the south by——”
But Pod had stood all he intended to stand, and diving suddenly between Fleet’s legs, he toppled the fleshy one over on the grass, he, himself, escaping a fall by an agile spring.
Fleet sat where he had fallen, grinning. He enjoyed his innocent battles with Pod and was not at all angry when, occasionally, his little chum got the better of him.
Bert brought forth a ball and bat, as well as several gloves and mitts.
“I have a collection,” said he, by way of explanation.
“We don’t need the gloves; we brought our own, and nothing feels so comfortable on your hand as your own glove,” said Chot. Then the boys proceeded to get their gloves out of the canoes. Fleet fished out his big first baseman’s mitt, and began to limber himself by striking with his bare fist in the hollow spot, which was deep from the constant pounding of the balls.