chatter about him, until suddenly a cheer starting in one corner ran like
a flash of gunpowder around the field, and eighteen young men trotted
across the turf. Although he was not a devotee of sport, he noticed that
nine of these, as they took their places on the bench, wore blue,--the
Harwich Champions. Seven only of those scattering over the field wore
white; two young gentlemen, one at second base and the other behind the
batter, wore gray uniforms with crimson stockings, and crimson piping on
the caps, and a crimson H embroidered on the breast--a sight that made
the painter's heart beat a little faster, the honored livery of his own
college.

"What are those two Harvard men doing here?" he asked.

Cynthia, who was leaning forward, started, and turned to him a face which
showed him that his question had been meaningless. He repeated it.

"Oh," said she, "the tall one, burned brick-red like an Indian, is Bob
Worthington."

"He's a good type," the artist remarked.

"You're right, Mister, there hain't a finer young feller anywhere,"
chimed in Mr. Dodd, a portly person with a tuft of yellow beard on his
chin. Mr. Dodd kept the hardware store in Brampton.

"And who," asked the painter, "is the bullet-headed little fellow, with
freckles and short red hair, behind the bat?"

"I don't know," said Cynthia, indifferently.