“Hello,” he cried, nodding to the others. “That crowd made as much noise with their horns as if they’d won the game already.”
“Pretty good team, are they?” asked David.
“Yes, they’re a good team,” said Sandy; “but mighty stuck on themselves. They come from a lot of different cities, and most of them play on their school nines. They’ve beaten us the last two summers. Gee, but we’d like to get back at ’em to-day!”
“Who’s on your team?” asked Tom.
“Well, we call ourselves the Tidewater Tigers. Most of us live around here. One, Billy Burns, comes from Barmouth. Native sons of New Hampshire against the strangers—that’s what my father says.”
“We know Billy Burns,” said Ben. “He’s a good batter.”
“Yes, he’s good,” agreed Sandy. “But they’ve got a pitcher who’s a corker. Lanky Larry they call him. He’s the goods all right—lots of speed and a curve. I’ll say he is! Fanned me three times last year.” Sandy clutched his bat. “Gee, but I’d like to sting him!”
“Let’s feel it,” said David. He took the bat and swung it several times. “A little light, but not bad,” he pronounced judicially.
“Say, why don’t you all come along? We’ll show you some real excitement. You can leave that basket here.”
The boys looked at each other, and suddenly Tuckerman burst out laughing. “Lead us to it, Sandy. I can see these three have got their tongues hanging out.”