The stout boy ambled slowly out on the porch. "You fellows still talking baseball?" he asked. "Why don't you look at that great effect over there? See that hazy light across the mountains?"
"Oh, the dickens with that," grumbled Dick. "The game's coming off to-morrow, and you've got to hold down first base."
"By Jove, that's a hard thing to do, though. Still, I'd like to try it."
"What—painting or first base?"
"Why—weren't we talking about painting, Dick Travers?"
"I'll begin on 'camera' pretty soon, unless you quit, Dave Brandon."
"Oh, well, who do we play against, then?" sighed Dave.
"A lot of village chaps, and if we get beaten they'll have a jolly good laugh on us, too."
"I always did like ham and eggs, boys," observed Dave, reflectively. "Hope Sam Bins is cooking enough. Yesterday I only had three eggs and——"
But, with a despairing gesture, Dick Travers arose and walked inside.