The ball was here, there, everywhere. Ins and outs found themselves mysteriously mixed up. No fellow could tell who it was that started him wrong.
There was really no redeeming feature to the whole matter, except Bar Vernon’s marvelous pitching and batting.
“Hiram Allen!” exclaimed Zeb to his lieutenant, “that fellow is a treasure to the Academy. We can play the Rodney nine now, and beat them all to flinders. How does your poor old nose feel, my boy?”
“Beat ’em? Yes,” replied Hy; “but see where he’s sent the ball. My nose feels like a mashed potato. Zeb, we must get him to teach us how, and then we can whale all Rodney.”
“And all Rodney stands in moral need of chastisement,” responded Zeb. “I must consult the deacons about it, first one I meet. Are you sure which side you are on, Hiram?”
“Not exactly,” growled Hiram, “but Bar Vernon’s on the winning side, whichever it is.”
“That’s it,” said Zeb. “I don’t propose to have any more personal collisions with Mr. Vernon. He is a very excellent young man.”
But the game of ball, with all its manifold perplexities, was played out at last, and Zebedee was expressing his satisfaction at the result to Bar and Val, when his left eye caught a glimpse of George Brayton coming up the street, and he remarked as much.
“Then,” said Bar, “I must go home and have my Greek lesson.”
“Greek?” exclaimed Zeb. “Is not that one of the ancient tongues?”