On one particularly fine, bracing June morning after the lad had returned from a solitary cross-country tramp with Achilles and the rest of the pack, his lot seemed to him especially unenviable. There was evidently to be a ball game. College boys with crimson H's on their shirts; men with a blue Y; together with a group of short-sleeved players not yet honored with insignia from their universities were hurrying out to the lawn with bats, balls, and catcher's mitts.
"You must pitch for the Blues, Dabney," called one fellow to another.
"Who's going to catch for the Crimson team?" piped another.
"I choose to play for Yale," came shrilly from another man who was lounging across the grass in immaculate white flannels.
"Come on and help Harvard along, Cheever," put in a strident voice.
"Not on your sweet life!" bawled Cheever, with a vehemence that made everybody laugh. "Goodness knows she needs help; but I'm not going to be the one to offer it."
Again there was a good-humored shout from the bustling throng.
"I'll line up with Yale to beat you though," Cheever added with a chuckle.
"You can line up, you shrimp, but we're going to do the beating," retorted an ardent Harvard supporter.
So the banter went on while the nines were being organized.