“So I did, Bridget. And if ever I get back to Boston, I’ll propose your name as champion pitcher in the League team!”
The little Irish girl having retired, Pet, who just then came up, offered to take her place; but her services were gratefully declined. Pet’s soft but erratic tosses were already only too familiar to the boys.
Well, the great day came at last. The wagon was filled, immediately after dinner, and the whole party, with uncle Will at the reins, drove over to Readville. They stationed themselves on the edge of the base-ball grounds, where Randolph said they could obtain a good view, and their team would not be in the way of the players. The air was warm, but a gentle westerly breeze, mountain-cooled, prevented discomfort from the heat.
By two o’clock, groups of young people, in twos and threes, began to stroll toward the Common.
Already a number of players were on hand engaged in vigorous practice, their jaunty uniforms showing prettily against the green, closely-cropped ball-field. The Jamestown nine wore blue stockings and gray suits; the “Readvilles,” white, with red stockings.
The crowd increased. At about a quarter before three, two of the players, one from each nine, separated at a distance from the Common, and came to it from different directions.
One of them was the captain of the “Jamestowns,” a rough, black-eyed fellow, whom nobody liked, but who was a fine player. The other was Bert Farnum.
As the hour for the game drew near, the excitement in the Percival wagon was at fever heat. Tom and his cousins were in the field, practising, and the girls watched eagerly every play the two made. Randolph wore the old mask, and worked steadily with Dick, a little to one side. Quite a crowd of Jamestown people had come over to witness the game and cheer for their nine, who were considerably heavier than their opponents. The knowing ones among the spectators gave their opinion that if the “Readvilles” were to win, they would have to do it by spryness in the field; the “Jamestowns” would bat more effectively, and throw well. Bert Farnum was spoken of as a splendid thrower, on whom much depended.
“They say that Boston fellow, Percival, is a master hand,” said one broad-shouldered young farmer who had sauntered up within hearing of the wagon-party. “Jest look at him now, practisin’! He ketches them swift, twisty balls like clockwork!”
Kitty and Bess pinched each other, and their faces glowed with pride.