front of the players' gate. Dick turned off the engine and thoughtfully removed the plug from the dash coil, thus foiling youngsters with experimental desires. His crutches were beside him on the running-board, and, lifting them from the wire clips that held them there, he deftly swung himself from the car and passed through the gate. They were the first ones to arrive, but before they had returned to the dressing-room under the nearer grandstand after a pessimistic examination of the playing field, others had begun to dribble in and a handful of youths were arranging themselves comfortably on the seats behind first base. But if the audience expected anything of a spectacular nature this afternoon they were disappointed, for the practice was of the most elementary character.
There was a half-hour at the net with Tom Nostrand and Tom Haley pitching straight balls to the batters and then another half-hour of fielding, Bert Cable, last year's captain and now a sort of self-appointed assistant coach, hitting fungoes to outfielders, and Curtis Wayland, manager of the team, batting to the infield. The forty or fifty onlookers in the stands soon lost interest when it was evident that Coach Lovering had no intention of staging any sort of a contest, and by ones and twos they took
their departure. Even had they all gone, however,
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