Busy days followed. The Wigwam fixed its mind on the following Thursday and laboured enthusiastically. On the morning after Mr. Langham’s announcement Mr. Gifford, Sam, and Steve walked up the slope to what was known as the Pulpit Tree, a big beech, under whose far-spreading branches divine service was held on Sundays when the weather permitted. There, sitting cross-legged on the ground, they held council over the making of the baseball team that was to represent the camp.

“Let’s start with the battery,” said Mr. Gifford. “Of course George Porter will pitch.”

“He may not last the game, though,” said Sam. “The question is who shall we put in after him?”

“One of us, I guess. Can you twirl?”

Sam shook his head. “Neither can I,” said Steve. “How about you, Andy?”

“A little; at least, I’ve done some of it. But I haven’t anything much on the ball. I used to be able to pitch an out-shoot that sometimes got over, and that’s about all, except a fairly fast ball.”

“My idea, then,” said Sam, “would be for you to start the game and hold them as long as you can. Then we’ll put in Porter.”

“Maybe they won’t tumble to you for three or four innings,” said Steve encouragingly. “I dare say Porter will be able to go six. You’ll catch, Sam?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so. Or if you think we’d better give the fellows all the show we can, Benson could start.”

“We need a steady catcher, Sam. Of course, we want to let the fellows get all the fun they can out of it, but there’s no use throwing the game away on that account. Battery, then, to start, Gifford and Craig.” He set it down on the pad he held. “Now then, who for first?”

“Wait a minute,” said Sam. “Where’s Steve going to play?”

“Put me in the outfield,” said Steve. “I can catch a fly fairly well, but that’s about the limit of my abilities.”

“I’ve seen you run bases quite a bit,” said Mr. Gifford drily.

“You wouldn’t want to play second?” asked Sam.

Steve looked alarmed. “Great Scott, no!”

“All right. Only I’d like mighty well to have a chap on second who could handle throws from the plate. Ed Thursby’s a good fielder, but he’s weak at covering the bag on a steal.”

“Why don’t you try it, Steve?” asked Mr. Gifford. “We’ve got a dozen fellows who can play in the outfield.”

“Well, if you like,” replied the other doubtfully. “Maybe I can get the hang of it after a few days.”

“Good. Now, first baseman: Sawyer?”

“I suppose so,” agreed Sam.

“Rot!” said Steve. “Murdock can play all around Sawyer.”

It was Mr. Gifford’s turn to look doubtful. “He’s pretty good, but it seems to me Sawyer is steadier.”

“Look here,” said Sam. “Seems to me we’re going at this thing all wrong. What we ought to do is to pick out three or four fellows for each position and give them all a fair try. There’s no need of selecting the final team until, say, next Tuesday. By that time the fellows will have shown what they can do.”

“That’s so,” agreed Steve. “Why not make up two teams, Andy? A First and a Second, you know. Pick out those we think are the best for the First, and then if any of the Second team fellows show up better we can swap them over.”

“That sounds reasonable. Come on, then. First Team: Porter, pitcher; Craig, catcher; Murdock, first baseman. Second Team: Gifford, pitcher; Benson, catcher; Sawyer, first baseman. How’s that?”

“All right. Now let’s go on with the First. Steve will play second. For shortstop there’s either Fairchild or Charrit. I guess Charrit has the call. That puts Fairchild on the Second. For third?”

“Your man is better than mine there,” said Mr. Gifford. “Don’t you say so, Steve?”

“Yes, Jones ought to have it, unless you put Crossbush there. He plays pretty well at first and might do better at third.”

“We’ll put him down for the Second,” said Mr. Gifford. “For that matter, fellows, there’s Thursby. He’s going to get left out of the game unless we put him in the outfield. We’ve got to consider batting ability as well as fielding, haven’t we?”

“That’s so,” Steve agreed. “Better put Thursby down on the Second and let Crossbush substitute. We’ve got to fix it so we can give them all a fair trial. It’s not going to be so easy.”

“First Team outfield, now. Peterson? Meldrum? And how about Codman? He’s a bit young.”

“We ought to get hitters in the outfield,” suggested Sam. “Codman isn’t much of a batter, is he, Andy?”

“No, he isn’t. How about that centre fielder of yours, Steve? Wonson, isn’t it?”

“Jack Wonson, yes. He’s only fair, though. Joe Groom is a good hand with the stick. Why not put him in the outfield?”

“Might try him. That makes it Peterson, Meldrum, and Groom for the First. For the Second——”

“Codman,” suggested Sam, “and Simpson.”

“And Wonson?” asked Mr. Gifford.

“Give him a try,” agreed Steve.

“That fixes it, then. Better have a substitute infielder, though, for the First.”

“Temple,” said Sam.

“Right-o. Anything else?”

“Don’t think so.” Steve took the list and looked it over. “That looks all right to me. Suppose Sam captains the First and you the Second, Andy.”

“All right. I suppose some of the fellows are going to be disappointed.”

“Bound to be some,” agreed Steve. “Can’t be avoided, though. We can take a good big string of substitutes, I suppose, and that will help some.”

“If the game happened to go our way we might use a lot of subs,” Sam said. “Anyway, we could take them along on the chance.”

“You and Andy work up your batting orders,” said Steve. “Put me about second on the list, Sam. If I can get my base one way or another I dare say I can worry that Placid pitcher.”

“He will be mighty placid if you don’t,” chuckled Mr. Gifford.

“I’ll copy your list off for you, Sam.”

“I wonder who they’ll have to umpire,” said Steve while Mr. Gifford was busy writing. “Sometimes a good deal depends on that.”

“Oh, I guess they’ll find a chap who’ll be fair to both sides,” replied Sam.

“I don’t doubt that. Only thing is, will he know how? I’d rather play with an umpire who knew how to ump and who was ag’in’ me than with one who didn’t know and was as fair as all-get-out. It’s the blundering sort who raise the dickens with a game sometimes.”

“There you are,” said Mr. Gifford. “And let’s start things up as soon after two as possible. We’ve got good material in camp, fellows, and we ought to be able to turn out a corking team. If we had two weeks instead of one we’d do it, too.”

“Well, we’ve been playing steadily all summer,” said Steve, “and it won’t be for lack of practice if we get licked.”

“Let’s not get licked,” said Sam quietly.

“Hm,” said Steve, and, “Oh, all right,” Mr. Gifford laughed. “Just as you say, Sam!”

Five days of hard work, then, for all hands. But enthusiasm was rampant and no one lagged. The journey to Mount Placid, the game, and the hike back had caught the fellows’ fancy, and nothing much else was talked about. As Mr. Gifford had predicted, there were some boys who felt keen disappointment at being left off the teams, but they all tried their best not to show it. “Every fellow for the Camp!” was the slogan. On Monday the First and Second played a full nine-inning game and played it for all they were worth. It was understood that the first selections for the two teams were only tentative and that a player had only to show his right to a position on the First Team to get it. And with this in mind every fellow worked his hardest, either to stay where he was on the First or to secure promotion from the Second. There were a few changes, but not as many as might have been looked for. On the whole, the councillors’ selections for the First Team proved wise ones.

That Monday game was ultimately won by Sam’s team, 13 to 10, and was featured by a lot of hard hitting by both sides and some really fast fielding. Mr. Gifford, in the points for the Second, pitched a fair game and Benson caught him handsomely. But George Porter was on his mettle, too, and had the better of the battle. Sam doubted the wisdom of allowing Porter to pitch the whole of nine innings, but the desire to win that game got the better of his discretion, and, besides, there was no one to take Porter’s place.

On Tuesday there was no real game, but there was a full two hours of the most strenuous batting and fielding and base-running, with every candidate getting a chance. And then, on Tuesday evening, the three councillors got together and picked the team that was to battle for the honour of The Wigwam on Thursday. It was no light task, that, as Mr. Gifford explained later at camp-fire.

“We all wished,” he announced to the attentive audience, “that a baseball team comprised eighteen men instead of nine, because there are at least eighteen of you who deserve places. It’s been hard work making a choice in lots of cases, and we may have made mistakes. But we’ve done our honest best, fellows, and we’ve judged you only on performance. Some of you are going to be disappointed. That’s unavoidable. To those who have striven and failed the camp owes its thanks. One thing I am quite sure of, however, and that is that those of you who aren’t chosen will hold no resentment, but will ‘pull’ just as hard. Well, here’s the list, fellows.”

Mr. Gifford leaned forward so that the firelight fell on the sheet of paper he held.

“Porter and Gifford, pitchers; Craig and Benson, catchers; Murdock, first base; Brown, second; Crossbush, third; Thursby, shortstop; Meldrum, right field; Groom, centre field; Peterson, left field; substitutes, Charrit, Temple, Sawyer, Simpson, and Wonson.”

A hearty cheer arose as Mr. Gifford finished. Disappointed ones grinned hard and shouted loudest. Successful candidates were pummelled and thumped and there was a great to-do until Mr. Langham arose.

“I don’t know much about it, fellows,” he said, “but I guess we can trust Mr. Gifford and Mr. Brown and Mr. Craig. I feel certain that they have chosen fairly and well. A good many of you had to be left out. They left me out, too. And Mr. Haskins. But he and I, and all the rest of us who haven’t been selected, are going to cheer just as hard. I hope we shall win that game, fellows, but if we don’t, let’s show those Mount Placid chaps that we are bully good losers. In any case, we’re going to have a good time. We’re going to stand together and pull together for a victory, and if we don’t get it we’re going to keep on smiling. That’s all, I guess, except that I think we ought to give a good big cheer for the team!”

It was given with a will, not once but twice, and there were cries of “Speech! Speech!” And that reminded someone that they hadn’t been told who was to captain the team and the question was propounded. It was decided that the team members should vote for captain and instantly the names of the three councillors were proposed. But Mr. Gifford replied that he believed the honour should go to one of the boys and in the end the choice fell on Ed Thursby. They cheered Ed then and again demanded a speech, but the newly elected captain firmly refused to oblige. It was Mr. Gifford who finally came to his assistance.

“Since,” he said, “Thursby is overcome with the honour you have done him and is blushing over there so that for a moment I mistook him for the fire, I take it on myself to reply for him. Here’s what Ed would say if he made that speech: ‘Fellows, I appreciate what you’ve done and I thank you for it. Let’s all do our best from now on. For my part, fellows, I don’t see why we shouldn’t everlastingly whale the daylights out of those chaps up there. Anyhow, let’s try to! I thank you one and all!’”

When the laughter subsided Mr. Gifford added: “To-morrow, fellows, there’ll be only a very short practice, for there’s going to be a lot to do in the way of packing and getting ready. Right after siesta every fellow must get his bag ready. Don’t put in more than you’ll need. Remember that when we start the hike we’ve got to get down to essentials. Those of you who were here last year will know what to take. For the benefit of those who were not I’ll just say that the nearer you can come to limiting your pack to a toothbrush and a cake of soap the better off you’ll be! Now then, let’s have a song or two to end up with. What’ll it be, fellows?”