The afternoon’s game was talked over by all hands that evening at camp-fire. Once or twice the argument grew warm, but it never passed the bounds of good-nature. Mr. Gifford criticised the playing, as did Sam and Steve Brown, pointing out mistakes and making helpful suggestions. Mr. Gifford had played baseball all during his college course and knew the game well. Sam, with less experience, was chary of criticism until urged to it by the others. When he did give his opinion, however, it was worth hearing, for he spoke of several things which had seemingly evaded Mr. Gifford’s eyes.

“I noticed,” said Sam, “that neither of the outfields to-day studied the batsman as they should. They played in the same positions for a right-handed batter as for a left. Of course, it’s up to the captain or the pitcher to see the outfield as well as the infield is where it should be, but every outfielder ought to realise that a right-handed batter is going to hit more to the left than a left-handed batter, and he ought to move over accordingly. The infield the same way, only, of course, the infield needn’t change position so much. On the Mascots, White stood too far back for most batsmen. He was all right for a long hit to centre, but he would have lost two out of three hits into short centre. The—the ideal position for any fielder is where he can run in quickly for short flies and grounders and run out easily for long ones. Of course no outfielder can station himself where he is going to be able to reach every ball. If he gets so far back that he can handle three-baggers and homers he is going to miss short hits. But you want to remember that it is a heap easier to run in for a ball than it is to run out, because when you’re running in you can judge the ball as you go, and when you’re running out you have got to make up your mind about where the ball is coming down and then turn your back and scoot. The only way to judge the ball is to look over your shoulder, and that isn’t easy. So the best thing for an outfielder to do is to play his position about two-thirds back. That is, leave two-thirds of his territory in front of him and one-third behind him. And an outfielder’s territory begins at a point where it’s impossible for an infielder to reach a fly and extends to the farthest limits of a home run. If your infielders are smart at running back and getting flies, your territory is—is shortened just so much, and you can play further out than you can if your basemen and shortstop are weak on hits outside the diamond. I don’t know that I’ve explained this very clearly.”

“I think you have,” said Mr. Langham. “Don’t you, fellows?”

There was a chorus of assent, and Sam continued.

“Another thing was that Peterson played too far to the right in left field. That fly of Thursby’s would have been an out if Peterson had been in position for it. Thursby bats right-handed and Peterson was playing as though for a left-hander. Peterson made a fine try for it, but he had to cover too much ground. So, you see, an outfielder has got to divide his territory in two ways, lengthwise and crosswise. Of course, on the big teams it’s customary for the catcher, or sometimes the pitcher, to signal to the infield what the delivery is to be and the infielders, usually second baseman or shortstop, let the outfielders know. Because a certain kind of a ball, if it is hit, is pretty sure to go to a certain part of the field, as you all know.”

“That’s something I didn’t know,” laughed the Chief. “Suppose you explain for my benefit, Craig.”

“Well, sir, of course I don’t mean that a certain ball always goes to a certain place when hit, but it generally does. For instance, if there’s a right-handed batter up and the pitcher sends him a slow ball, either in the groove or with an out-curve, that ball is usually hit before it quite reaches the plate, because the batter doesn’t judge the speed of it in time to wait for it, and that hit goes into third-base territory or beyond. The same way, if the pitcher sends in a fast ball, straight or with an out-curve, the batter will hit late or after the ball has passed the centre of the plate and it will go toward first base or right field. A ball of ordinary speed, like a straight drop, usually goes toward second base. Of course, some batters can meet a slow ball just right and then these—these probabilities are upset. But by the—the law of averages, a slow ball to a right-hander goes to left field and a fast ball to right. And so, if the fielders know what the pitcher is going to pitch they can either shift their positions or, anyhow, be prepared.”

“Doesn’t shifting position give the thing away?” asked Steve Brown.

“I think it does,” Sam agreed. “But for all that some of the big teams do it. I don’t think, though, that it’s necessary. If you’re playing in the outfield, say, and you get the signal that the hit is coming to your right, that’s enough. You’re ready to move that way the instant the ball goes to the batter.”

“That’s what I suppose you call inside baseball,” commented Mr. Langham. “It is very interesting. You must have played a good deal of baseball, Craig, to know so much about it.”

“I’ve played several years, sir,” replied Sam, a bit embarrassed. “I’ve always caught, though, and you have a better chance to study the game from behind the bat than from anywhere else on the field, I guess. I—I didn’t mean to talk so much, though, when I started out.”

“I don’t think you need apologise. I think we’ve all been very much interested. And I dare say I’m not the only one who has learned something. How about it, fellows!”

Hearty agreement greeted this, and George Meldrum said: “I think it would be fine if Mr. Craig would tell us something like that every evening. I guess all us fellows want to know about baseball; I mean stuff like he’s told us to-night. I know I do.”

“That’s so,” agreed Ned Welch. “How about another lecture to-morrow, Mr. Craig!”

“I’m afraid that’s what it sounded like, a lecture,” said Sam ruefully.

“No, I didn’t mean it that way,” replied Ned earnestly. “We liked it. I always thought that stuff about a certain kind of a ball going to a certain part of the field was just—just made up by men who write about baseball. I didn’t think anyone could really know beforehand, sir.”

“Let’s try it the next time we play,” said Mr. Gifford, “and see how it works out. Anyway, what Mr. Craig has said about shifting positions according to the batter is excellent advice. And we’ll see if we can’t persuade him to tell us some more to-morrow night, fellows. Who plays next Wednesday, by the way?”

“Your team and the Brownies,” answered someone. And a discussion of the probable outcome of that contest followed and almost before anyone knew it nine o’clock had arrived.

Camp-fire was always a pleasant hour. The fire was built each morning on a circular floor of stones some eighty feet up the hill from The Tepee and just at the edge of the forest. About it each night the councillors and boys gathered. At eight the fire was lighted and in its cheery glare the day’s events were discussed, stories were told, songs were sung, and plans for the morrow laid. Several of the boys played instruments. When the entire orchestra was assembled there were three mandolins, two banjos, and a violin to make music. None of the performers save perhaps Horace Chase was very talented, but all made up for lack of skill by their willingness to entertain. Young Chase, who played the violin, was of different calibre, and when he took his instrument out of its case the audience was sure of a real treat.

Sam never forgot those nights when, stretched out on the pine-needles, or, if the evening was damp, on a blanket from his cot, he lay in the mellow firelight and listened to Horace Chase play “Annie Laurie” or “Home, Sweet Home.” He had merrier tunes, but those two seemed to be the choice of the boys. Or perhaps the mandolins and banjos would be strumming together, or fairly near together, some rag-time tune. Or perhaps the fellows would be singing such songs as “Solomon Levi” or “Boola” or some more recent favourite. Often a big white moon swam overhead or played hide-and-seek amongst the branches of the dark trees, and the lake, below them, showed a wonderful silvery path to the farthest shore. They were very pleasant, those camp-fire hours; fragrant with the night odours of trees and grass and pungent pine-needles, musical with the lap of the water against the shore and the whisper of the breeze amidst the trees and the sleepy chirp of unseen birds; blessed, too, with a fine atmosphere of good-comradeship; nights to be long remembered.

Sam did continue his baseball talks, although he didn’t give one every evening, and the boys liked them and always demanded more. Not all of Sam’s knowledge had been gained at first-hand, you may be sure. Much of it he had read or been told, but all of it he had seen put to the test. And, before the summer was over, much of it was put to the test again, for the fellows profited by what they heard and, as far as it was possible in the circumstances, followed Sam’s advice.

Some amusing incidents developed. As, on the Wednesday following Sam’s first talk, when, in the game between the Indians and Brownies, Jimmy Benson signalled for a fast ball and the fielders, getting the signal from Jimmy, moved to the left, and the batter lined a hot one six feet inside of third base, and there was no one there to even knock it down! But the incident didn’t prove Sam’s theory at fault, since Jimmy and Porter both acknowledged afterwards that the ball had not been what the signal called for, but a slow out-shoot. It had been a case of mixed signals between catcher and pitcher. Again, in a later contest between the same teams, the Brownies, who had fixed up a most elaborate system of signals, had a runner on third and one on second. With two gone, a double steal was called for. The boy on second got the signal, but the runner on third was evidently day-dreaming, and a moment later the surprising sight of two runners each claiming third base was in evidence! That bungle probably cost the Brownies the game and for some time a signal code was viewed by them with disfavour.

But baseball was not the only interest at The Wigwam. The first week in August there was an afternoon of water sports that provided lots of fun and not a little excitement. By that time many of the beginners had attained to quite a degree of proficiency, and in the forty-yard swimming race more than twenty younger boys lined up and struggled gallantly for the honours. What a splashing and gurgling and general rumpus there was! Mr. Langham laughingly said that it reminded him of a swarm of minnows trying to get away from a pickerel!

Harry Codman, a sturdy thirteen-year-old youth, won by a scant yard over Billy White, and after that most of the others floundered across the finish in a bunch and none of the judges could have told who was entitled to third place. A twelve-year-old chap named Walters very nearly made a tragedy of the event. Walters tired himself so in the first dash that when, halfway through the race, one of the other swimmers accidentally kicked him in the stomach, Walters lost all interest in the race and tried hard to drown in three feet of water. It was Sam who saw what had happened and dropped from the landing and pulled a much-exhausted and water-logged youth to dry land. The programme was halted while young Walters restored some of the water he had swallowed.

There were many entries for the tilting tournament. The contestants occupied canoes and were armed with ten-foot poles. The poles held a pad at one end and the bows of the canoes were likewise protected. The boys “had at” each other most briskly until some fortunate thrust deposited one or other of the tilters either in the bottom of his canoe or in the water. Joe Groom emerged triumphant from three encounters and finally met George Porter in the final bout. Cheered by the onlookers, the boys approached each other warily. Each canoe was paddled by a partner in the stern, Ned Welch for Joe and Ralph Murdock for George. Naturally, a good deal depended on the cleverness of the paddler in manoeuvring the canoe and each of the operators was well skilled. Joe and George, poles ready, stood in the bows while the craft neared each other cautiously and the audience laughed and jeered. Then Ned Welch dug his paddle and his canoe shot forward.

But George and his mate were ready. Their craft sheered aside, avoiding the bow of the other, and George, thrusting low, almost won the event there and then. Fortunately for Joe, however, the padded pole glanced off his leg and he recovered his balance but not in time to retaliate. The canoes swept past each other, turned and again drew together. This time they met bows on and a fast and furious battle ensued. Once George went reeling backward and his canoe rocked dangerously, but steady work by Murdock avoided an upset. Ned Welch, pressing the advantage, pushed after the retreating craft, and Joe sought to get under the guard of his opponent. George, though, recovered finely and defended himself so well that in a moment he was again forcing the fighting and only a well-executed retreat by Ned saved Joe from defeat. Ned backed away quickly, turning almost in the length of the canoe, and before Murdock could solve his intention, had drawn parallel and slightly to the rear. Murdock paddled furiously and shot his craft ahead, but Ned was on his heels and the spectacle of the two warriors, each maintaining his equilibrium with difficulty, proceeding frantically out into the lake almost side by side brought bursts of laughter from the onlookers.

It was a stern chase for a minute and then Ned’s muscles prevailed and Joe drew up within pole’s length of his enemy. George, facing toward the stern of his rocking canoe, strove to beat down the thrust that Joe made. But Joe’s aim was good and he put all his force into the delivery and the padded end of his pole caught George under one shoulder and fairly lifted him off his feet. Over he went, backward, still grasping his pole, and disappeared from sight, while a shout of applause and laughter arose from the landing and boats, a shout which redoubled an instant later when Joe, having lost his balance in the desperate thrust, staggered, tried to save himself, failed finally, and, dropping his weapon, plunged heels over head in the lake!