Reaching the field, they entered a dressing room, and began stripping down to don their playing togs. Still with them, Lefty watched and listened after the manner of one to which all this seemed familiar, yet as an outsider. “There’s an extra suit,” said Kennedy, placing his grip on a shelf, and being sure that Locke saw and heard. “Everything a man needs, down to shoes. Perhaps it won’t be used to-day, but if anyone should happen to want it, it can be found right there.” Kilgore wondered why old Jack’s new pitcher did not get into that suit at once; but, having no small respect for the manager’s cleverness, and thinking he knew the sort of game he was playing, the captain of the Deers made no remark. “There’s no rules here to prevent you from sitting on the bench with us, Stranger,” explained the manager, as the players were ready to leave for the field. “It will give you a chance to watch the game from close range.” The Deers followed their manager and captain to the field. The Buccaneers had not yet appeared, so the visitors had everything to themselves. They began practice by “fungo” batting and the catching of liners and flies, cheered only by the little group of Deering fans who had followed them and were waiting to give them encouragement. Those cheers were not the only sounds to greet them, some of the more rabid local partisans shamelessly hissing or groaning. For out in the bush baseball rivalry is almost always intense, and there is little of the fair-minded impartiality among the spectators which sometimes, in a place like New York, leads the home crowd to applaud famous players of opposing nines. In less than ten minutes the Buccaneers came forth with a dash, Hank Bristol at their head. In appearance they justified their name, for their blue suits were almost black, and the dash of crimson upon their caps, together with their crimson stockings, gave them a somber, awesome appearance, which was heightened by the husky build of almost every man, and the mocking savageness of their faces. If ever a baseball nine was calculated to win from the awe it would inspire in the breasts of opponents, the Bucks were that organization. With an assumption of cordiality, Hank Bristol shook hands with Jack Kennedy. “Sorry for you, old hoss,” he grinned, “but you should have known better than to let ’em coax you into the game again.” “Save your sympathy till I need it, Hank,” returned the manager of the Deers. “You’re old enough and wise enough to know one never can tell what’s going to happen in this game.” “I know what’s going to happen to-day. We’re going to put another nail in your coffin. You’re a dead one, Jack, but you don’t know it. Why, you don’t worry us at all. We’re not even going to start our new pitcher against you, and I don’t believe we’ll need him. Jewett ought to find you easy picking.” “Where’s your new man?” asked Kennedy. “There he goes, walking by your bench now,” answered Bristol, pointing.