“Come on, Bob, going to the ball game!”
“It’s going to be a corker! Better hurry if you want a good seat!”
Two young men paused at the front gate of a neat cottage, standing somewhat back from a quiet side street of the village, and looked toward another youth who was seated on the porch. This lad glanced up from a book he was reading as his two chums, Harry Pierce and Ned Fuller, hailed him.
“Come on, Bob!” urged Harry, opening the gate. “What’s the idea? You’re usually the first one in the grand stand when our club plays the Midvale nine.”
“Looks as if you didn’t want to root for the home team,” went on Ned as he followed his companion up the front walk.
“Oh, I’d like to root for them all right, and I’d like to see them win, of course,” answered Bob Dexter, as he closed the book he had been reading. But his chums noticed that he kept one finger in between the pages so he would not lose his place.
“Well, then, you’d better get a move on!” urged Harry. “They won’t keep club members’ seats for them much longer, and there’ll be a big mob there – this is the deciding game of the series.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bob, “but I’m not going!”
“Not going!” cried the other two, and there was much surprise in their voices.
“What’s wrong?” demanded Harry. “You aren’t soured on the club, are you?”