Kingsbridge had taken the field for practice, the visitors having warmed up already. The Northern League, a genuine &ldquo;bush&rdquo; organization, had opened two days earlier in Bancroft and Fryeburg, but this was to be the first game of the season in Kingsbridge, a hustling, crude, though ambitious pulp-mill town.<br />As it was Saturday afternoon, when the mills closed down at three o&rsquo;clock, there was certain to be a big crowd in attendance, double assurance of which could be seen in the rapidly filling grand stand and bleachers, and the steady stream of humanity pouring in through the gates.<br />&nbsp;<br />As Riley approached, a lean, sallow man, with a hawk-beak nose, rose from the home bench and nodded, holding out a bony hand, which, cold as a dead fish, was almost smothered in the pudgy paw put forth to meet it.