At a few minutes before seven on Thursday morning the last coach rolled away from The Wigwam. Everyone was in fine spirits. The morning was mild and still, and the sun, low above the eastern hills, was burning off the last pearl-grey wraiths of curling mist from the surface of the lake, promising a fine day for the journey and the game to follow. Only Kitty-Bett and Jerry remained behind to keep camp. Up the long hill road went the coaches, swaying and creaking, while, inside and out, filled with the excitement of the adventure, the boys laughed and shouted merrily. At the last, since there had been a delay in starting due to Ned Welch’s inability to remember where he had placed his suit-case, there was a wild gallop into the town, the crazy stages rolling like ships at sea, and an excited scrambling at the station where the through express puffed and hissed impatiently. Then they were off, with the rumble and click of flying wheels in their ears and the green morning world speeding past them on each side.

They had one day-coach almost to themselves, and what few other passengers were there were good-natured and sympathetic. Had they not been they might have resented the noise and the pranks that ensued. After awhile, though, the boys quieted down. Most of them had been awake since dawn and by the middle of the forenoon many had laid their heads back and were frankly sleeping. Later they changed to a branch road. The new train, consisting of two coaches and a combination baggage and smoker, was already fairly well-filled when they descended on it, and so for the rest of the way many of them had to stand in the aisles or perch themselves on uptilted suit-cases. Fortunately, this phase of the journey was soon over and they were piling out on the platform of a small station where carriages and wagons awaited them and where three men in camp costume of grey shirts and khaki trousers smilingly welcomed them. One of the men was Mr. Scovill, and the other two were introduced as Mr. Phillips and Mr. Neetal. Mr. Scovill was a very tall man with a thin face, sunburned, bearded, and kindly. The two councillors were young college men, one stout and jovial and the other slight and shy-looking. After introductions were over and baggage had been rounded up the party poured into the carriages and were whisked away over a pleasant sunlit road that ascended steeply, past pastures and knolls and across a rattling bridge that spanned a stream, toward where a rounded and wooded hill rose against the summer sky.

Mount Placid Camp was not greatly different from The Wigwam. The buildings, five in number, were spread along a narrow plateau at the base of the mountain from where one overlooked the valley below and had an uninterrupted view of many miles of interesting country beyond. The buildings were older than those at The Wigwam, and were weathered to pleasing tones of grey and brown. Some eighty grey-shirted youths had gathered in front of the mess-hall, the central building at the camp, and cheered lustily as the visitors rolled up. The Mount Placid boys averaged perhaps a year older than The Wigwam fellows, and they impressed Sam, for one, as being a particularly fine and healthy-looking lot. Mr. Scovill, for the occasion, had cleared an entire dormitory, and to this the visitors were conducted. Three rows of cots left the long hall rather crowded, but nobody minded and there was a wild rush to claim beds. Dinner was served to the visitors at twelve o’clock, after which the resident fellows had theirs. The Chiefs and councillors of both camps ate together and quite filled one of the long tables. Mr. Scovill and his assistants, seven in all, were hospitable to a degree, and the food was excellent. It was quite a merry party, and before they left the table it had been decided that next year the Mount Placid Nine should journey to The Wigwam and play a return game.

“We may not be able to treat you as well as you’re treating us, Scovill,” said Mr. Langham, “but we’ll do our best.”

After the second table had been fed the fellows made friends quickly and, in groups of from two or three to a dozen, went over the camp and explored the trails that wound up the mountain. Shortly after dinner a powerful roadster automobile shot into sight up the road with a hoarse shriek of its horn and came to a stop in front of the camp. Mr. Scovill, excusing himself, walked across and shook hands with the man who had leaped nimbly out and brought him over to the group of councillors.

He was a solidly built, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested man of about thirty-three or four, with a sunburned face, a boyish eagerness of manner, and a jovial laugh. There was something very winning in that laugh.

“Langham,” said Mr. Scovill, “I want you to know Mr. York. Mr. York is a neighbour of mine and has a small place of a few thousand acres just below here. He has very kindly consented to umpire for us if that is agreeable to you. Mr. York, Langham is Director of The Wigwam Camp, at Indian Lake.”

“Temporarily removed to Mount Placid,” laughed Mr. Langham as he shook hands. “We’ll be pleased to have Mr. York officiate this afternoon. Very kind of him, I’m sure, to accept such a thankless task.”

“Not at all. I’m going to enjoy it,” responded Mr. York, shaking hands with the visiting councillors. “I used to play a bit myself. You have a fine day for your visit, Mr. Langham.”

The group seated themselves on the steps and Mr. York, observing Sam closely, said: “I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I, Mr. Gray?”

“Craig is the name,” corrected Mr. Scovill. Sam, surprised, shook his head doubtfully.

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “I live in Amesville, Ohio.”

“Amesville! Of course! Thought I wasn’t mistaken.” Mr. York smiled in satisfaction. “I’ll tell you where I saw you, Mr. Craig, and how. It was about three months ago. I stopped off at Amesville to see a friend of mine, John Holden. Perhaps you know him?”

Sam shook his head.

“Well, he’s a newcomer in Amesville; practising law; a nice chap. You ought to meet him. When you go home drop into his office some day and tell him John York said you were to be friends. You’ll like him and he will like you.”

Sam murmured rather embarrassed thanks.

“It happened to be a Saturday and Johnny and I, having nothing better to do, jumped on a car and went out to see the high school team play ball with some visiting nine; forget who the other chaps were. Johnny used to play shortstop when I was catching for Warner College, and we’re both fans. So we went out and saw that game. It was a good one, too. You were catching for the Amesville team, Craig.” Mr. York paused for corroboration and Sam nodded.

“You fellows won. You had a pitcher who had grey matter under his cap. Had a lot on the ball, too. What was his name?”

“Pollock, sir.”

“That’s it! I remember it was some sort of a fish. Well”—Mr. York turned to the others enthusiastically—“that chap Pollock turned the trick in the last inning as neatly as you please. As I recall it the score stood something like three to one in favour of Amesville. That right, Craig?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The visitors were at bat and there were two out and the bases were filled. Mind you, the visitors only needed two to tie, and, with two gone, they were desperate. This chap Pollock had pitched a fine, heady game, and he went after the next batter as cool as a cucumber. Had two strikes on him, I think, when the man on third lit out for the plate on the wind-up. I suppose when Pollock got himself together that runner was halfway to the plate. Now”—Mr. York put the question to one of the Mount Placid councillors—“what would you have done, Williams, if you’d been in Pollock’s place?”

Mr. Williams hesitated. “Only one thing to have done,” he said finally. “Plug to the catcher as fast as I knew how!”

Mr. York chuckled. “That’s what I’d have done. I guess that’s what Craig here expected. But this Pollock chap had a head on his shoulders. When the man on third dug for the plate the other runners set out after him, of course. Well, Pollock realised that if he threw to the catcher the ball might go wide or the catcher might—begging Mr. Craig’s pardon—might drop it or it might be too late in any event to make the out. So what does he do but whirl around and slam the ball over to third baseman, who was running back to cover the bag. Third baseman makes a nice catch, blocks off the runner from second and—there you are! Three out and the score three to two!”

“Clever work!” said Mr. Williams. “You’re right, Mr. York; that fellow had brains.”

“You bet he had! Where is he now, Craig?”

“Amesville, sir. He has two more years in High School.”

“Isn’t that the same chap who visited camp a week or so ago?” asked Mr. Gifford.

“Yes, that was Tom,” replied Sam. “He’s a nice fellow and we think he’s a pretty fine pitcher.”

“Looked so to me,” agreed Mr. York. “And I want to say, too, that you caught as pretty a game as I want to see, Craig. As I used to wear a mask myself I always watch the catcher’s work, and you certainly played a nice game. Are you catching to-day?”

“Yes, sir. At least, I’m going to start the game.”

“How’s your pitcher?”

“Fairly good for a youngster,” said Mr. Gifford. “Porter’s only fifteen, I believe.”

“You don’t say?” The speaker turned, with a laugh, to Mr. Williams. “You’ll have to watch out, Williams, and not let the kid outpitch you.”

The councillor looked a bit dismayed. “Perhaps we ought to let one of the boys pitch,” he said doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem quite a fair thing. We thought, Mr. Langham, that probably one of your councillors would pitch for you.”

“Don’t let that worry you,” replied the Chief. “We have Mr. Gifford here to step into the breach if he’s needed. Porter’s a pretty clever pitcher if he is young. By the way, what time do we start, Scovill?”

“Three o’clock. It will be a little cooler by then. Besides, it gives a chance for the Greenwood boys to get over here. There’s another camp on the other side of the mountain, Langham. We had a sort of a date to play with them to-day, but they were quite satisfied to postpone it.”

“Why, I’m sorry! I didn’t know we were interfering with——”

“Not a bit! Not a bit! Greenwood’s just as well pleased to come over and look on to-day. It takes them nearly an hour to hike around here, and that’s one reason I thought we’d wait until three.” He looked at his watch. “They ought to be showing up pretty soon now. I suppose your boys will want to do a little practising before the game. Any time they’d like to go down to the field I’ll send someone along to show them the way.”

Mr. Gifford consulted his watch in turn. “It’s twenty past two,” he said. “Perhaps we’d better go now, Mr. Scovill. I’d like them to put in about twenty minutes or so to limber up.”

“Certainly. Joe, you show Mr. Gifford the way, will you?”

Mr. Phillips assented with alacrity and Mr. Gifford, Sam, and Steve went off to get into their togs and gather the players together. When they had left, Mr. York said: “A born ball-player, that young Craig. I’ll be glad to see him in action again. It’s funny about catchers. Their job is the pivotal one on the team and yet they don’t get half the credit they deserve. I suppose the average fan will tell you what every man on the team did in a game before he will mention the catcher’s work at all. There’s not very much chance for spectacular stunts behind the plate, and I guess that’s why the catcher doesn’t get in the spotlight more. Just the same, if I had to build up a ball team I’d start in by finding a good catcher—if I could. There aren’t so many of them, by jingo! And then I’d build up the team around that catcher. Someone ought to grab Craig about now and take him in hand. A man who knew how could make a fine backstop of that fellow!”

“Why don’t you try it?” asked Mr. Scovill, with a laugh.

“Not a bad idea,” replied Mr. York soberly. “At least, I might put someone onto him. I wouldn’t mind seeing him playing with Warner in a year or two. Happen to know, Mr. Langham, whether he has his college picked out?”

“No, I don’t. But”—and here Mr. Langham’s eye twinkled—“there are three loyal Burton men at my camp, and——”

“Help!” laughed Mr. York. “Nuf ced! Still, if he did manage to escape you chaps I’d like a chance at him. Suppose we walk down and see them practise.”

Mr. Langham remained behind with Mr. Scovill, at the latter’s request, to meet the Greenwood party who were just then coming into sight up the road, while one of the councillors was despatched to the kitchen to see about a supply of lemonade which Mr. Scovill had ordered to be prepared and taken to the ball-ground. When Mr. York and his companions reached the field the visiting players had just started their practice and the audience had already begun to assemble. The field was a fine, level expanse of close turf about an eighth of a mile from the camp, reached by a well-worn path through the woods. The foul-lines and boxes had been freshly marked out in honour of the event and the lime shone dazzlingly in the sunlight. By degrees The Wigwam boys gathered together at the farther side of the diamond, making themselves comfortable on the warm grass. Mr. Gifford and Steve Brown were batting to infielders and outfielders respectively, and Sam was at the plate, feeding the balls to Mr. Gifford. The fellows went at practice with plenty of snap and the ball fairly flew about the bases. At ten minutes to three the visitors yielded the field to the home team and at a few minutes past the hour Mr. York called, “Play ball!”