"What are your uniforms going to be like?" inquired Len Spencer.

"We haven't any," Dick replied promptly.

"No uniforms at all?" demanded the "Blade" reporter.

"None at all," Dick continued. "Neither have the South Grammar
boys. In the glories of uniform the North Grammar nine will be
all in a class by itself."

"It's too bad," muttered Len.

"No, it isn't," Prescott retorted. "We fellows from Central are
going to show that uniforms don't necessarily make players. We
don't mind---that is, not very much---the absence of uniforms."

"We'll try to show that we have something uniform about our team
play, and let it go at that," said Dave cheerily. "Come along,
Dick, or we'll be late at school."

Away the pair raced. Lessons went about as usual that afternoon
with Old Dut's class, which was surprising, as nearly every boy
in the room had his mind much on baseball.

Captain Dick Prescott, of the Central Grammar nine, had called
practice for that afternoon, from half past four to six o'clock.

At recess, that afternoon, a pleasant, somewhat rotund-looking
man was seen engaged in conversation with Old Dut in a corner
of the schoolyard. At the close of the afternoon session that