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Updated: June 1, 2025
The morning of that day found Outfield West very busy packing a heap of unnecessary golf clubs and wearing apparel into his trunk and bags, and found Joel seated rather despondently on the lounge looking on. West hesitated long over a blue-checked waistcoat and at length sighed and left it out. "Isn't it most time to go over?" asked Joel. "No; don't you be in a hurry. There's a half hour yet.
To a batsman of Teall's skill it was not a difficult one to hit. Ted swung his bat and gave the ball a crack that sent it far out into outfield. "Is that the best you can do?" jeered Ted. "Oh, I've one or two better than that," replied Dick, pretending to feel flustered. Again Prescott sent in a swift one, and once more Teall sent the leather spinning over the field.
Silvey stood behind the home plate, Sid DuPree was in the pitcher's box, Red played first base, and Skinny Mosher stood near the fence to cover the outfield, second, and third as best he could. Sid ground the ball into the heel of his heavily padded mitt, as he had seen professional pitchers do, bent forward, and threw the ball over Silvey's head against the back wall of the house.
"Mine's Outfield West. The fellows call me 'Out' West. My home's in Pleasant City, Iowa. You come from Maine, don't you?" "Yes; Marchdale. It's just a corner store and a blacksmith shop and a few houses. We've lived there our family, I mean for over a hundred years." "Phew!" whistled West. "Dad's the oldest settler in our county, and he's been there only forty years. Great gobble!
The methods of farming were so different from those to which he had been accustomed that he spent the first week of his stay in trying to revolutionize them, much to the amusement of both Outfield and his father. He at length learned that Eastern ways are not Western ways, and so became content to see wheat harvested by machinery and corn cultivated with strange, new implements.
The bunch is practicing on the field now. He wanted to pack me away into right garden, but I never was built to be a nonentity in the outfield." "I thought likely perhaps you'd do part of the pitching this year. Seems to me they must need you." "Oh, they'll need somebody, all right; but Springer's trying to coach up our cattle puncher, Grant, to do part of the twirling. You don't know Grant.
Outfield hit his shoe violently with the driver he held until it hurt him. For although Joel was debarred from playing golf there was nothing to keep him from watching West play, and this afternoon the two had been half over the course together, West explaining the game, and Joel listening intently, and all the while longing to take a club in hand and have a whack at the ball himself.
He turned toward Hampton House, then remembered that it was dinner hour and that Outfield would be at table. He had forgotten his own dinner until that moment. In the dining hall West was still lingering over his dessert. Joel took his seat at the training table, explaining his absence by saying that he had been called to the office, and hurried through a dinner of beef and rice and milk.
West subsided in his seat with a dismal groan. Joel did not hear it. It is doubtful if he heard anything until several minutes later, when the pronouncement of his name awoke him from the lethargy into which he had fallen. "Masters scholarships to Joel March, Marchdale, Maine " "It's better than nothing, Joel," whispered Outfield. "It's fifty dollars, you know." But Joel made no reply.
"The corporal's in the Red Sox outfield." The lieutenant appeared suddenly in the area of light in front of the barracks. He was a pink-faced boy. His trench coat, a little too large, was very new and stuck out stiffly from his legs. "Everything all right, sergeant? Everything all right?" he asked several times, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
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