The other boys laughed as Fleet smacked his lips.
“What I am figuring on now,” Fleet continued, “is how to get word to her to have another batch to-morrow morning.”
“I’ll tell her,” said Bert, amused at Fleet’s perpetual desire for food.
“Thought maybe you would if I mentioned it,” said Fleet.
The boys took turns batting flies and grounders, Chot taking most of the burden because he was to pitch, and needed very little practice on the diamond. So he batted to Pod and Bert, who threw the ball to Fleet at first. Fleet, in turn, threw to Tom who stood at the plate, his big catcher’s mitt on his hand. Tom caught the balls and tossed them to Chot, who would then bat them out again.
Every now and then Pod would dash swiftly to second, when Fleet was throwing the ball home, and Tom would seize it and shoot it down to the second cushion with all his old-time speed. Pod would then seize the sphere and put it on an imaginary runner, and throw to Fleet again to catch an imaginary runner at that bag.
“This seems like old times,” said Fleet. “There are many outdoor games, but after all there is only one.”
“There are many, and yet there’s only one. There’s a riddle for you—figure it out!” cried Pod.
After a while, breathing heavily from their exertions, for the morning was warm, Pod, Bert and Fleet decided to stop. Then Chot took the ball and threw for fifteen minutes to Tom, speeding them in as his arm grew more limber, until the ball became but a mere flash in the atmosphere as it passed from one chum to the other.
Then, practice over, the boys stretched themselves out in the shade of a big oak tree for an hour of solid comfort.