The voice of Skinny Mosher, the peacemaker, broke in: "Aw, kids, never mind. 'Tain't so bad as it looks. Let's start practicing now, and maybe we can beat 'em anyway." It was excellent advice, and the boys scampered over the tracks for home, to return singly and in pairs with their baseball paraphernalia. John took up his old position at first, and Silvey donned his catcher's mitt to receive and return imaginary balls thrown by the other players. Red Brown and Perry Alford stationed themselves at second and shortstop respectively, while the Harrison boys stood around and waited until duty should call them to the outfield. "Where's Skinny and Sid?" asked John as he glanced around. "There's Mosher, now," exclaimed Silvey, as a tall and diminutive figure made their way down the railroad embankment. "Kid brother with him as usual." "Had to bring him," the unfortunate elder boy exclaimed when he reached the diamond. "Ma wouldn't let me come unless I did." They accepted the affliction resignedly. "He can watch," said Silvey. "Come on, John. Toss up your little ball while we're waiting." Accordingly, the first baseman brought out a lopsided ten-cent ball and threw it toward third. Skinny Mosher dropped the sphere as if it were a hot coal. "Go easy," he cautioned. "Sid hasn't brought my glove yet." The elder Harrison boy who aspired to fill Joe Menard's place, ran over to the pitcher's box, and the tossing was resumed. From third to first, second to pitcher, and then to Silvey, and back again. Muscles became limbered and arms more certain of their mark. Skinny misgauged a swift throw from John and caught the ball on the tip of his fingers. "Jiminy!" he yelled. "What you think you're doing?" "Butter fingers, butter fingers!" came the taunting reply. "Don't care. I'm going to wait for my glove. Here's Sid now." The team turned as one man and stared in astonishment. Their captain had delayed his return to don his new baseball suit, and from the spikes on his shoes to the visor of his red-trimmed cap, he was a perfect miniature of a professional player. Even John was unable to restrain an envious stare at the natty flannel shirt and knickerbockers, and the maroon and white stockings. "Cost eight dollars, it did," Sid announced, as he acknowledged the unconscious homage with a satisfied smile. "Dad gave it to me 'cause I was captain. Here's the gloves and the ball and the bat. Let's start practice." They ran back to their positions. Sid, bat in hand, stood by the plate, tossed the league ball high in the air, and knocked the sphere easily toward third base. Skinny, with the confidence engendered by a well-padded hand, scooped the ball with surprising accuracy and returned it. Again Sid repeated the process. Red pranced impatiently up and down on the sand path. "Give me one this time," he begged. "Don't send 'em all to Skinny."