“You'll get every pretty penny of it.” He rose and in orderly discretion sought his room, where he changed into his worn, grey playing flannels. VII A HIGH board fence enclosed the grounds of the Ellerton Baseball Association; over one side rose the rude scaffolding of a grandstand, protected from sun and rain by a covering of tarred planks; a circular opening by a narrow entrance framed the ticket seller; while around the base of the fence, located convenient to a small boy's eye, ran a girdle of unnatural knotholes, highly improved cracks, through which an occasional fleeting form might be observed, a segment of torn sod, and the fence opposite. A shallow flood of spectators, drawn from the various quarters of the town, converged in a dense stream at the entrance to the Grounds; troops of girls with brightly-hued ribbands about their vivacious arms, boisterous or superior squads of young males, alternated with their more sober elders--shabby and dejected men, out at elbows and work, in search of the respite of the sun and the play; baseball enthusiasts, rotund individuals with ruddy countenances, saturnine experts with scorecards. Anthony observed the throng indifferently as he drew near the scene of his repeated, past triumphs, the metal plates in his shoes grinding into the pavement. A small procession followed him, led by a colored youth, to whose dilapidated garments clung the unmistakable straws and aroma of the stable, bearing aloft Anthony's glove, and “softing” it vigorously from a natural source; a boy as round and succulent as a boiled pudding, with Anthony's cap beneath his arm, leaving behind him a trail of peanut shells, brought up the rear of this democratic escort. There was little question in Anthony's mind of his ability to triumph that afternoon over his opponents from a near-by town; their “battery,” he told himself, was an open book to him--a slow, dropping ball here, a speedy one across the fingers of that red-haired fielder who habitually flinched... and yet he wished that it had not been so hot. He thought of the game without particular pleasure; he was conscious of a lack of energy; his thoughts, occupied with Elli's patent contempt, stung him waspishly. A throng of players and hangerson filled the contracted dressing quarters beneath the grandstand, and he was instantly surrounded by vociferous familiars. The captain of the Ellerton team drew him aside, and tersely outlined a policy of play, awaiting his opinion. Anthony nodded gravely: suddenly he found the other's earnestness a little absurd--the fate of a nation appeared to color his accents, to hang upon the result of his decision. “Sure,” he said absently, “keep the field in; they won't hit me.” The other regarded him with a slight frown. “Hate yourself to-day, don't you?” he remarked. “Lay that crowd cold on the plate, though,” he added; “there's a man here from the major league to look you over. Hinkle told my old man.”