“Temperament?  What’s that?” grinned Dan Dalzell.  “Is that what you get in June by adding up the column of figures in the thermometer?”

To signify his lack of interest in the talk, Darrin rolled over on his side, turning his gaze away from the other boys.  In another minute Dave’s eyes were closed, his lips open and his breath coming regularly and audibly.

Such was the droning effect of the warm June breezes on this glorious afternoon.

“Give Dave the chorus of ‘He Was the Sleepiest Boy,’” whispered Greg to the others.  “Put a lot of steam into every line!”

At a sign from young Holmes the drowsy chorus rolled out, punctuated by timely yawns.

Darry rolled over, yawning, too, an easy-going smile on his face.

“Greg,” he charged, “I’m certain that you put the crowd up to that outrage.  When I summon up energy enough I’m going to thrash you.”

“All right,” agreed Greg, “I’ll take boxing lessons within a year or two, so as to be prepared for you.”

“I wish this were to-morrow afternoon,” grumbled Harry Hazelton.

“I’m glad it’s to-day,” sighed Dave easily.

“But to-morrow will be Monday, and we can play baseball.”

“And just because to-morrow will be Monday,” retorted Dave, “Old Dut will expect us to bring in those fifteen examples in insurance.”

“We’ll be all past that, by afternoon,” Dan broke in.  “Then, as soon as the bell rings to dismiss school, we’ll all pile outside and have a ripping practice on the diamond.”

“Yes; we’ll have to get a lot of practice,” Dick assented.  “Otherwise, you know, the North Grammar will just wipe up the field with us Wednesday afternoon.”

“The North Grammar!” sniffed Greg scornfully.  “Hi Martin’s crowd?  Huh!”

“Those North Grammar boys have been practising,” Dick insisted.  “Hard work is what tells in athletics.”

“Well, hang it, didn’t you keep us running all through the spring?” demanded Dalzell.  “Didn’t you say that would put us away at the top in Grammar School baseball?”

“It will help us a long way,” assented Dick.  “Yet it won’t do everything.  Each of us has to be as nearly perfect as possible in the position that he has to play.  That’s why we really need a lot more practice than we’ve had on the real field.”

“The worst of it is” suggested Tom, “that we’ve got all of the best players in the school on our regular nine, and the scrub nine isn’t made up of fellows who can really give us any work.”

“Don’t croak, Dick,” begged Dave.  “This day is too perfect to have it spoiled by any calamity howling.”

Presently Darrin rolled over on his side once more.  Greg took a peep, became suspicious, and started to hum: 

“He was the Sleepiest Boy.”

Smack! came a small sod, with which Dave had slyly provided himself in advance.

“Ugh!  Gr-r-r-r!” sputtered young Holmes, leaping to his feet and spitting out the stuff from his mouth.  It was mostly the grass side of the sod that had struck his teeth, but a little of the loam had gone in with it.