The next afternoon, Wednesday, baseball practice started off with a dash that secretly delighted Payson’s heart. Outwardly, however, he was as calm and untroubled as ever. Alf had confided Dan’s theory to Millener, but the captain had let it go no further, and the team still labored under the delusion that they were spiting the coach. At the batting net, fellows who were scarcely known to hit the ball safely, worked in a perfect frenzy of ambition and pounded the leather all around the field. This put Reid, the substitute pitcher, on his mettle, and a regular duel ensued between him and the eager batters.
Gerald and Harry Merrow, on their way to the boathouse, paused a while behind the net and watched proceedings. One by one the players faced Reid until he had made some sort of a hit; Millener, Colton, Loring, Condit, Danforth, Durfee, Richards, and so on down the list of first team men and substitutes. When Alf cracked out a long, low drive that would have been good for[251] three bases in a game, Gerald howled with glee, and again, when Dan managed to send a hard, low one just over Reid’s head, Gerald shouted “Good for you, Dan!” and didn’t at all mind the amusement he created. When the players left the net and trotted over to the diamond, Gerald and Harry continued on their way to the river, discussing the nine and the chances of victory. Harry was pessimistic.
“Broadwood’s got a crackajack of a team this year,” he said. “Look at the way they licked Porter! And that fellow Herring, their best pitcher, is a wonder. I saw him pitch last year.”
“Is he better than Colton?” asked Gerald. Harry frowned and hesitated.
“Well, he’s as good. But he isn’t the all-round player that Colton is. Colton can bat, you know; he’s the best batter we’ve got.”
“Alf Loring’s good, too,” said Gerald jealously.
“You bet he is! He and Colton are both dandies! Oh, it’s going to be a ripping game, all right. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. But, just the same, I look to see Broadwood win, say about five to four, or something like that.”
“I don’t believe she will,” answered Gerald.
“Want to bet?” asked Harry eagerly.
“I don’t bet, but—say, I’ll tell you what I will[252] do, Harry. I’ve got a dandy stamp collection; three big books; some of them cost a lot of money. I’ve got almost all the real rare ones, too. Do you collect?”
“Yes, I used to. But I haven’t had any new ones lately. Why?”
“Well, if Broadwood wins I’ll give you my collection.”
“The—the whole thing?” asked Harry incredulously. Gerald nodded. Harry thought a moment, and then asked suspiciously;
“And if we win, what do I give you?”
“Nothing. If you did it would be just the same as betting, and father won’t let me bet. Is it a go?”
“Sure!” answered Harry. “Only—only it’s pretty one-sided, isn’t it? It doesn’t seem just right to take the stamps, Gerald.”
“That’s all right. Besides, I don’t believe you’ll have a chance. We’re going to win.”
“You wait and see,” said Harry. “How many stamps have you got?”
“I haven’t counted them lately,” replied Gerald carelessly. “Over two thousand, though.” Harry whistled. “I guess it’s only fair, though, to tell you that I—I’m tired of them. If you win I shan’t care much about the stamps, I mean.”
“I shall,” laughed Harry. “I don’t really[253] want Broadwood to win, but—but, gee, I’d like to have those books!”
They lifted their canoe out, set it in the water and climbed into it.
“Where’ll we go?” asked Harry.
“Let’s go up to Flat Island, and then into Marsh Lake on the way back,” answered Gerald. “There’s Dyer and Burgess up there in that blue canoe. See ’em? Ready?”
They dug their paddles and headed upstream. There were a good many canoes out and Gerald and Harry had one or two brisk encounters on the way up. At Flat Island several canoes were pulled up onto the shore and a number of fellows were lolling about in the shade of the willows. They went on by the island for a quarter of a mile to where the river narrows, and then turned and floated back with the tide. Harry had got over his nervousness and no longer insisted on being close to shore.
“This is something like,” he said, settling comfortably down in the stern, where, with just a touch of his paddle now and then he could keep the canoe’s nose pointed right. And Gerald, laying his paddle across his knees, agreed. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the river never looked lovelier. It was pretty warm, but now and then a little breeze crept across the marshland, waving[254] the tall, lush grasses, and brought relief. The river reflected the intense blue of the sky, the willows and alders along the bank were vividly green, and to Gerald came the fanciful thought that Nature was divided in its allegiance, displaying equally the colors of Yardley and Broadwood.
“Just the same,” he muttered half aloud, with a glance at the sky, “the blue’s on top!”
“Eh?” asked Harry sleepily.
To the left, over on the links, seven couples dotted the turf. Golf enthusiasts these, so intent on following the little white spheres that they had no thought for the temperature. Further along was the field, sprinkled with the blue-and-gray-uniformed ball players. Occasionally, when the breeze died away, the sharp crack of ball against bat reached the occupants of the canoe. Presently the mouth of the tiny stream which wound inward to Marsh Lake was reached, and the lads took up their paddles again to battle with the sluggish current. The canoe was headed in between the tall rushes, which in places almost met across the little passage, and all their ingenuity was required to keep their shallow craft from running aground on the bars and flats. It was very hot in here, and swarms of blood-thirsty mosquitoes were lying in wait for the adventurers.
“Who suggested coming in here?” asked[255] Gerald, pausing in his paddling to defend himself from the hungry horde.
“You d............