That afternoon the boys spent in practicing. Havens was on hand, and Phil Levins, a village lad, also took an active part. The visitor from Boston proved to be Mr. George Kimball, a small man, with a fringe of sandy hair around a dome-shaped head, watery blue eyes and insignificant yellow moustache.
"I see you chaps can play some," he said, in a high-pitched voice; "but several, I won't say who, take a bit too much time in getting set before throwing the ball. Shoot it right over. Here, Somers, let me show you. Bat out a liner."
Mr. Kimball smiled complacently and trotted out in the field. Then a sharp crack of the bat sounded.
"By Jove, he's a hummer, and no mistake," remarked Sam. "Look how he took that bounder and sent it back."
"Yes! But Dave is what bothers me," whispered Dick. "He reminds me of a freight car, and side-tracked at that."
"Well, boys," said Bob, as, perspiring and happy, they walked toward the house, "we ought to put up a pretty good game."
"And I suppose I'll have to hop around like a sparrow again to-morrow," said Dave, with a quizzical look at the others, and a wide, very wide smile played for a moment on the face of Mr. George Kimball, of Boston.
The day for the game proved ideal. The sky was flecked with a few white clouds and a slight breeze tempered the rays of the sun.
No one would have dreamed that so many people could be found in the small mountain village and its immediate surroundings. They came by twos, threes, and in groups, flocking under the shade of a few big trees, and cheered when the town boys began to practice.
"Little Bill" Dugan was among the players. He glanced coldly toward the Ramblers and their friends, and sniffed scornfully at a white board which Dick Travers had nailed to an apple tree. Painted on it in big letters was the following: