had brought his mitten, and Kewpie had his glove and a ball in his pockets. On the way along Summit Street to the athletic field, which was a quarter of a mile to the south, Kewpie was plainly nervous. He didn't have much to say, but at intervals he took the ball from his pocket, curved his heavy fingers about it, frowned, sighed and put it away again.
Mr. Mulford was awaiting them, and Kewpie, for one, was glad to see that he was alone. After greetings the boys laid aside their coats, and Kewpie rolled his shirt-sleeves up. Mr. Mulford seated himself on a bench near the batting-net, crossed his knees and waited. His attitude and general demeanor told Laurie that he was there to fulfill a promise rather than in the expectation of being thrilled.
"Start easy," counseled Laurie. "Don't try to pitch until you've tossed a few, Kewpie."
Kewpie nodded, plainly very conscious of the silent figure on the bench. He wound up slowly, caught sight of Laurie's mitten held palm outward in protest, and dropped his arms, frowning.
"Yes," said Mr. Mulford, "better start slow, Proudtree."
