There was Thorny Brooks, who pitched, and Walter White, who caught him, and Tommy Hughes, who played centre field, and “Buster” Healey, who held down first, and six other lads of varying ability, size, and age, including Tom himself and a grammar-school youngster named Peddie, who was a distant cousin of White’s and who, volunteering for the position, had been accorded the office of bat-boy and general outfield substitute. He was a nice-looking, fresh-faced kiddie of fourteen, whose pleasure at accompanying the team was very evident. Going over, White and Thorny Brooks arranged the batting-list, after much discussion, and Tom was given the honour of third place. “You’re a pretty good hand with the stick,” explained the captain, “and if Buster or I get on bases you may be able to work us along or bring us in. Did anyone bring a score-book?” George Peddie blushingly produced one from a hip-pocket and the batting-list was copied into it, no easy task with the big car apparently trying its best to jump the rails! They reached Lynton, an overgrown sort of village surrounded by truck farms, at a few minutes past two. A walk of a few blocks brought them to the field, where, as the game was not to begin until three, they put in a good half-hour of practice. It was a warm day, but not excessively hot. Already there was a hint of autumn in the intense blue of the sky and the fresher feeling of the little breeze that crept across the neatly tilled fields. After they had had all the work Walter White thought good for them they were called in and ranged themselves along the scarred benches that stood in the shade of a grandstand. By ones or twos or in little groups the spectators began to arrive, and at a quarter to three the Lynton team came on. Several of them walked over and shook hands with Walter and Thorny and others of the visitors and conversed a few moments. The matter of choosing an umpire was soon arranged, Lynton offering a choice of either of two high school teachers. Then Lynton took the field to warm up and Thorny, pulling on his glove and picking up a ball, called for someone to catch him. “You’ll do, Tom. Come on out here.” So Tom borrowed Walter’s big glove and stood up in front of the stand. At first Thorny’s pitches were easy to handle, but as he began to warm up Tom found the ball more difficult to judge. Several times he was badly fooled by the pitcher’s elusive drops, while his out-shoot was so extreme that Tom more than once moved to the right only to have the ball bring him sidling back again. Thorny was amused. “Fool you, do they, Tom?” he asked. Tom smiled and nodded. “I’m glad I don’t have to bat them,” he said.