Gordon found Morris not only able but eager to see him. Louise conducted him upstairs to a big square bedroom in the middle of which, between two bay windows, Morris’ bed looked small and lonesome. There was a table by the bed, and on it was a great vase of pink roses, and some magazines, books, and glasses. A rocking-chair near the table with a magazine spread open in it suggested that someone, probably Louise, had been reading to the invalid.
Morris lay flat on his back, with only the wispiest little pillow under his head. Gordon was shocked to see how pale and drawn he looked as he waved a hand at the visitor’s entrance and called quite cheerfully across the room: “Hello, Gordon! Gee, but I’m glad to see you!”
Gordon took the chair beside the bed and asked Morris how he felt.
“Oh, pretty good, thanks! My leg’s done up in a ton of plaster, I guess, and it hurts a good deal. But the doctor’s tickled to death with it, and so I suppose I’ve got to be satisfied too. How are you? I thought you were never coming to see a fellow.”
“I’ve been wanting to come ever since—it happened,” answered Gordon; “but at first they said I mustn’t see you, and then, yesterday, there was the game at Lesterville——”
“It must have been a peach of a game, even if you fellows did get beaten.” Morris paused abruptly and lowered his eyes. “Say, Gordon, I guess you know I’m—I’m awfully grateful——”
“Now, look here,” interrupted Gordon sternly, “don’t you start that too! I’ve had a lot of it from your mother and Louise and Mr. Brent, and if you begin I’ll beat it out of here!”
“All right,” laughed Morris, “only—well, thanks, Gordon!” A twinge of pain brought a momentary scowl to his face. “I was mighty glad you didn’t get banged up too. It was a wonder you didn’t.”
“Oh, I’m like a cat; I light on my feet. What happened, anyhow?”
“I don’t know—quite. The first thing I knew the wheel spun around almost out of my hands and we were smashing against that fence. I suppose there was something in the road I didn’t see. I made a grab for the emergency brake and tried to set it. Then I got a leg over the side of the car and—and that’s all I remember. How badly is the car smashed, Gordon?”
“The right front wheel has most of the spokes out of it, and the axle is bent on that side. And there are some dents in the running board and radiator and one lamp’s done for. I don’t believe, though, it will cost you much to get it fixed up again almost as good as new. I suppose you’ll have to get rid of it, though, won’t you?”
Morris grinned. “Rather! And I’ll have to pay for it, too!”
“Your father says——”
“I know; but Stacey has my note for the rest of the money, and I don’t propose to be a squealer, Gordon. I’ll get the money somehow. If dad won’t give it to me, maybe my mother will. I’ll get it somewhere. I’m not going to have Stacey telling it around that I don’t keep my word or pay my debts. I wish I’d let the blamed thing alone; but I didn’t, and so there’s no use talking about that now.”
“What—what are you going to do with it?” asked Gordon.
“Get Stacey to sell it for me, I guess. I haven’t talked to dad about it yet. He only got home from New York yesterday. I suppose he will be mad when I tell him I want to pay the rest of the money.”
“I ought to see him, too,” said Gordon uneasily, “and tell him what Mr. Stacey said. Is—is he at home to-day?”
“Yes, but you’d better wait a while. He always takes a nap Sunday afternoons. I guess I’ll let you tell him about Stacey before I tackle him.”
“How much would you sell the car for?” asked Gordon presently.
“Anything I could get, I guess. Of course, it’s never been used but a week; the speedometer shows only two hundred and eighty miles, I think; but I suppose it’s just as much second-hand as if it had been run a whole year. I should think Stacey might get three hundred for it, though.”
Gordon looked disappointed. “Oh!” he murmured. “Well, I suppose it is worth all of that. Only, I was thinking——”
“What?” asked Morris.
“It—it sounds sort of cheeky,” replied Gordon, after a moment’s hesitation, “and you might not think much of the idea, but what I—what we were considering is this, Morris.” He drew the chair closer to the bed, with a glance at the half-open door, and lowered his voice.
An hour or so later Gordon left Brentwood well satisfied. Mr. Brent had only smiled at Mr. Stacey’s ultimatum, thanked Gordon for the trouble he had taken, and approved of the rescue and temporary disposal of the automobile. “We’ll let it stay where it is for the present,” he said, “and I’ll have a talk with Morris about it some day. If Stacey doesn’t want to take it back, I guess we can get the junkman to haul it away.”
“I think Morris has a—a scheme, sir, that would be pretty fine,” returned Gordon. “That is, if—if you were willing.”
“A scheme? What sort of a scheme, Merrick?”
“I’d rather he told you about it, sir.”
“Humph! I don’t think much of Morris’ schemes as a rule,” replied Mr. Brent grimly. “However, I’ll hear what he has to say.”
On Tuesday placards in the shop windows made the following announcement:
BASEBALL!
Clearfield vs. Rutter’s Point,
HIGH SCHOOL FIELD,
Saturday at 3 P. M.
Admission: 25 Cents.
Also on that morning the ClearfieldReporterobligingly called the public’s attention to the game and predicted a close and exciting contest. The notice in the newspaper cost the club nothing, but the printed announcements took just a dollar and sixty-five cents from the exchequer, and caused Fudge, whose portion of the expense amounted to eighteen and one-third cents, a deal of gloom.
“Nobody’s going to pay real money to see a lot of kids play ball,” said Fudge. “So what’s the good of spending all that on notices? Gee, we could have bought a new ball with that money!”
One or two others thought as Fudge did, but most of the team were optimistic, and Tim Turner was created ticket seller and gateman, and was to receive fifty cents for his services. Fudge declared that if Tim sold enough admissions to pay himself his wages he’d be “m-m-m-mighty lucky!” But as events proved Fudge was unnecessarily pessimistic.
Meanwhile, on Monday, Jack Tappen had fulfilled his agreement to find a substitute, and Danny Shores was duly “signed up” for Saturday’s game with the Point. Danny, who proved to be a long and lanky youth of sixteen or seventeen years, showed up for practice on Wednesday and made a good impression in right field and at the bat. Unfortunately, Wednesday was the only day he could get off, and, as Jack assured Dick, it took a lot of wire-pulling to secure that concession from Danny’s boss at the plating works. However, Danny played ball more or less every lunch-hour behind the factory, and so was by no means out of practice. Jack’s demeanor was amusing that week. He tried to look chastened and sad, but it was easy to see that he took it as a personal compliment, that suspension, and was vastly proud of it. Jack appeared to reason that if he hadn’t been an extraordinarily valuable member of the team Dick would not have taken the trouble to discipline him! Jack was as busy as a hive of bees, and was so generous with advice that Dick and Gordon found him something of a nuisance.
“I wish he was playing ball instead of sitting on the bench,” confided Gordon, in comic despair. “Next time, Dick, throw him in the river, but don’t suspend him. He’s as pleased as Punch with himself!”
Of course, the others tried their best to have their fun with Jack, but the attempt was not very successful. Jack seemed to consider that a signal honor had been done him, and, while he professed to be chagrined and ashamed of his position, he was secretly well contented and was enjoying it all greatly. As Dick said, one could have stood that well enough if Jack hadn’t tried to run the team!
But Jack Tappen was not the only cross that Dick had to bear just then. As a tutor Dick was having his troubles, too. Harold Townsend had at last, to use Caspar Billings’ expression, “laid down in the shafts.” Not only that, but he was “kicking over the traces” as well. Dick was pretty nearly at his wits’ end. The pupil’s first slight awe of his teacher had soon worn off, and now he was frankly mutinous. He no longer made pretense of studying the lessons Dick laid out for him, only grinned exasperatingly when taken to task, and, in short, openly defied authority. Dick worried for two reasons: In the first place, he disliked to be beaten. In the second place, he felt that he had no right to take money from Harold’s mother when he was not earning it. And he wanted the money and needed it. Harold apparently realized that any appeal to his mother by Dick would be useless. And Dick was pretty certain of as much himself. Nevertheless, on Thursday of that week he decided that the time had come for an understanding. Loring, Harold’s older brother, had threatened all sorts of dire punishment if that youth didn’t behave, but the threats had not impressed Harold much. Perhaps he knew that Loring wouldn’t carry them out. On Thursday the lesson had been the merest farce, and Harold’s behavior had for once almost caused Dick to lose command of a usually well-governed temper. At last:
“I shall have to talk to your mother, Harold,” he said. “This kind of thing can’t go on. You’re wasting your time and mine——”
“Aw, you get paid, don’t you?” asked Harold, with a scowl.
“I get paid for teaching, not for loafing,” responded Dick sharply. “I shall want to see you when I come back. So don’t go off, please.”
“I shall if I want to. You don’t own me, Lovering. Besides, study time’s up, anyway.”
Dick, disdaining to answer, set off to find Mrs. Townsend. The conference took place on a corner of the hotel veranda. Mrs. Townsend was a sweet-voiced, pretty woman, with a tired air. At first she seemed to resent Dick’s charge against her boy. Then she grew pathetic, and bewailed the fact of her husband’s death.
“If he had lived,” she sighed, “Harold would have been a different boy. I’ve never been able to do anything with him. He needs a stronger hand, I fear. Perhaps—that is, possibly—er—it would have been better to have found someone—someone a little older to take him in hand. Of course, I don’t mean to suggest that you haven’t done excellently, Mr. Lovering, for I’m quite sure you have; but, of course, as you are so little older than Harold, he may feel—er—you see what I mean, don’t you?”
“Yes’m, but I don’t think that’s the trouble. Harold doesn’t want to study, doesn’t seem to see the necessity of learning and won’t. If I had full authority over him——”
“Oh, but you have! I thought that was understood.”
“Oh, for two hours, perhaps, Mrs. Townsend; but what I mean is that if I—well, if you’d just back me up, I’m sure I could accomplish something.”
“Please explain. I don’t think I understand.”
“Why, it’s like this,” replied Dick desperately: “He knows now that if he doesn’t want to learn his lessons he doesn’t have to. So he doesn’t do any work. If—if you’d make him understand that hedoeshave to, Mrs. Townsend, that if he doesn’t he will be—punished——”
“Oh, but I’ve never punished Harold!” she protested. “I don’t believe in punishment; that is, other than verbal. A high-spirited boy such as he is—er——”
“Yes’m, I know, but you want him to go to Rifle Point, and he will never get there if he doesn’t take some interest in his lessons and do some work. See here, please.” Dick had provided himself with a Rifle Point School catalogue, and now he went over for Mrs. Townsend’s benefit the list of studies required for entrance. Mrs. Townsend listened with a puzzled, tired frown on her pretty forehead.
“And you think he isn’t far enough advanced, Mr. Lovering, to enter this Fall?”
“He isn’t advanced at all!” blurted Dick. “What he has learned he has forgotten. He—he’s two years behind those requirements, Mrs. Townsend.”
“Dear me! And I had hoped——” She sighed tremulously. “What do you advise?”
“I advise you to make Harold understand that he’s got to do what I tell him to, and that if he doesn’t he will be punished.”
“But I never could punish him!”
“No’m, I’m sure of that,” agreed Dick. “You let me do it.”
“You?” she faltered. “Could you—that is——”
“I don’t mean whip him, Mrs. Townsend, or anything like that. I’ll find a way that will answer quite as well.”
“Could you really? But how?”
“I don’t know just yet,” Dick owned. “But I’ll find a way. Really, Mrs. Townsend, you’ll have to do something of that sort. Harold’s just wasting his time and mine. And I can’t take your money when I’m not earning it.”
“Oh, but I’m sure you are! Even if—if Harold doesn’t get on very fast, it is a great relief to me to know that for two hours a day at least he is in good care and not—not running around with those horrid bell-boys. I’m sure that’s worth every penny of the money!”
“Not to me, ma’am. I mean I wouldn’t be satisfied to go on with things as they are now. I wish you’d try my way, Mrs. Townsend. All I’d want you to do would be just to tell Harold that he is to do absolutely as I tell him to, and that there is no use in his appealing to you.”
“We—ell, if you’re quite certain it won’t break his spirit or—or anything like that,” agreed Mrs. Townsend doubtfully. “I do want him to get on, Mr. Lovering. If only he had half the studiousness that Loring has!”
“He can study very well when he wants to,” replied Dick dryly. “And I’m pretty sure I can make him want to if you will just stand back of me, Mrs. Townsend.”
“I will, really and truly,” she said. “Thank you so much, Mr. Lovering. I—I’ll speak to Harold this evening, and——”
“Couldn’t you speak to him now just as well, please?”
“Now? Why, I suppose so. If you wish. Perhaps I’d better, and get it over with.” Mrs. Townsend sighed deeply. “Will you send him to me, Mr. Lovering?”
“Yes’m, if I can find him,” answered Dick. “I’m afraid, though, he’s gone off somewhere. I’ll look him up, Mrs. Townsend. Thank you very much for—for helping me.”
Harold was not in his room where Dick had left him, and inquiry around the corridor of the hotel at first failed to elicit any information. Ultimately, however, Dick found a boy who had seen Harold walking down the beach about a half hour before and Dick set off in the indicated direction toward the distant point of rocks that jutted out into the sea.
It was hard going for Dick, for his crutches sank into the sand nearly to the depth of their rubber tips, but he persevered, and after some ten minutes of “crutching” arrived at the end of the beach where the point of rock from which the place received its name advanced from the grassy bluff and waded far into the breakers. Harold was not in sight when Dick reached the bottom of the ledge; but a few moments later when by careful climbing Dick had reached the seaward end of the rock, he came into view. The receding tide had left a long and narrow pool in a cleft of the ledge, a pool whose sides were festooned with delicate seaweed and set with purple mussels and green and brown snails and in whose bottom pink starfish crawled. Harold, perched at the edge of the pool, was looking fascinatingly into the clear green depths and didn’t hear the soft tap of Dick’s crutches until the older boy was almost beside him. Then he turned startledly, narrowly escaping a bath in the pool, and scowled at the intruder.
“Had to hunt for me, anyway, didn’t you?” he asked sneeringly.
Dick paid the question no heed. Instead, he moved to the edge of the pool and peered interestedly into it. He didn’t have to feign interest, he was interested. It seemed a long time to Dick since he had crouched, as Harold was crouched now, and gazed fascinatingly at the wonders of a rock pool. Nor had he done it very frequently, for climbing over the ledges is hard and risky work for a boy without two good legs. Harold continued to frown at a wavering starfish in the depths, but presently, as Dick did not speak, he shot a curious glance at him.
“Gee,” he said to himself, “you’d think he’d never seen starfish and things before!”
Dick took off his hat and wiped his moist forehead. Then he lowered himself cautiously to a seat on the rock. “Regular natural aquarium, isn’t it?” he asked pleasantly. Harold’s reply was an unintelligible growl. “Lots of queer things in there,” went on Dick musingly.
“Sure; I just saw a whale,” replied Harold sarcastically.
“Did you? Your eyes must be pretty good,” returned Dick, with a smile. “I dare say, though, I see something you don’t.”
Harold viewed him suspiciously. Finally: “What?” he asked.
“A sea-anemone.”
“A sea-what?”
“Sea-anemone.” Dick laughed. “I sea-anemone; what do you see?”
“That’s a punk joke!” scoffed Harold.
“I’m not joking. I’ll point him out to you. Lean over this way. See that purplish-brown thing on the side near the bottom? Looks like a flower, sort of. See?”
“Sure! Is that it? It isn’t a flower, though; it moves, don’t it?” Harold was interested in spite of himself.
“Yes, it moves, and it isn’t a flower. It’s a polyp. It’s name is Metridium something or other; I forget the rest of it.”
“What’s a polyp? An animal?”
“Y-yes, of a low order. About as much as a sponge is.”
“Pooh, a sponge is a vegetable!” derided the other.
“Not exactly. Those things that move are little tentacles with which it feeds itself,” said Dick, pointing again at the anemone.
“What’s it eat?” asked Harold curiously.
“All sorts of animal matter that floats around in the water and that is so small we can’t see it.”
Harold observed him suspiciously. “I don’t believe it’s alive at all,” he said presently. “It’s just a sort of seaweed, and it moves because the water moves.”
“Think so?” asked Dick. “Then put your hand down there toward it and see what happens.”
“It won’t—bite, will it?” asked Harold doubtfully.
“No, but it will show you whether it’s alive or not. You needn’t touch it,” he added, noting the other’s hesitancy. “Just put your hand near it or disturb the water.”
Harold pulled his sleeve up and cautiously thrust an arm into the pool. “Gee!” he exclaimed. “It shut its mouth!”
Dick laughed. “Doesn’t look much like it did, does it?”
“No; it’s an ugly little thing now,” responded the other. “Say, that’s funny, isn’t it? Guess it’s alive, all right.”
“Yes; and it knows three things pretty well: It knows how to attach itself to the rocks, how to get food, and how to shut up shop when trouble brews.”
“What would it do if you took it out?”
“Die. Besides, it’s stuck on there so hard you’d have to pull it to pieces to get it off. I tried it once when I was a kid, and had to give it up.”
“I’d like to find a sea-urchin,” said Harold. “I’ve got a lot of starfish and a horse-shoe crab and some razor-clam shells and two shark eggs. I guess I’ll get that big starfish down there, too.”
“What’s the use?” asked Dick. “It’s just like those you’ve got. Let the old chap live and enjoy himself.”
“I’ll get it if I want to,” replied Harold. “Say, what did you follow me out here for, anyway?”
“Because I told your mother I’d find you and send you to her. She’s got something to say to you.”
“Sure! I suppose you went and told her a lot of lies about me.”
“You don’t suppose anything of the sort,” responded Dick quietly.
“Well, anyway, I’m not afraid of her.”
“Of course not, but you want to do what she wishes, don’t you?”
“That’s my business,” replied the other ungraciously. “I do as I please.”
“Well, you’re a lucky chap, then,” said Dick pleasantly. “By the way, are you going to see the ball game Saturday?”
“Yes, I guess so. That is”—with elaborate concern—“unless you don’t want me to.”
“I was going to say that if you’ll ask for me at the gate I’ll pass you in, Harold.”
“Why, are they going to charge?”
“Yes; twenty-five cents.”
“Gee, they’ve got a crust! Who’d pay twenty-five cents to see a lot of wooden-heads play ball?”
“Well, we’re hoping a lot will. Anyway, you won’t have to. Just ask for me at the gate. I guess it will be a pretty good game. Do you like baseball?”
“I suppose so.”
“Do you play?”
“Sure! What do you think I am—a wooden Indian?”
“That’s good. They have a pretty good team at Rifle Point. Maybe you’ll make it some day.”
“There isn’t any maybe about it. I’m going to.”
“I hope so. Well, I must be getting back. You coming along? It must be very nearly lunch time.”
“No, I’m not,” growled Harold. “I’ll come when I’m ready.”
“All right. By the way, we won’t have any lessons to-morrow. Nothing doing until Monday. Meanwhile you see if you can’t get the better of that algebra, like a good fellow. So-long!”
“Long!” muttered Harold.
Dick pulled himself up and fixed his crutches and began the laborious task of climbing back up the rock and across to the beach. Fortunately his rubber tips held well, and he was soon at the top of the ledge. But there misfortune overtook him. Just what happened he couldn’t have told, but the result he was very certain about. For one crutch flew out from under him, he spun half around on the other and fell backward, his head coming into violent contact with the granite ledge. For an instant he was too dazed to move. His head rang and buzzed like a bee-hive. In falling he must have cried out involuntarily, for almost before he had gathered his faculties together and made a move to get up he heard footsteps pattering on the rocks, and then the anxious voice of Harold Townsend:
“Are you hurt, Lovering? What happened?”
Harold ran to him, and bent over him with very genuine concern.
“I—I’m all right, thanks,” replied Dick, a trifle vaguely. “I fell. That rock is some hard, Harold!” He rubbed his head ruefully and grimaced as his hand came in contact with the swelling bruise. “Just give me a hand, will you? And kick that crutch this way, please.”
“Here’s your crutch,” said Harold, “but just you wait where you are a minute.” He sped away down the slope of the rock, and Dick, with his head throbbing, for once could not but feel a qualm of envy. In a moment the younger boy was back. He had dipped his handkerchief in the water, and now he offered it a trifle shyly to Dick. “Put it on your head,” he said gruffly. “It’ll make it feel better.”
“Thanks, Harold.” Dick applied the wet compress to the bump. “It was stupid of me to keel over like that,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ve fallen down before.”
“I should think you’d have lots of falls,” replied Harold. “I think you get around mighty well, Lovering. How does it feel now?”
“Better, thanks. Just sort of give me a boost, will you?”
Harold assisting, Dick got to his feet, or, rather, his crutches, and, with the younger boy watching anxiously, went on down the ledge to the beach.
“You needn’t come unless you’re ready to,” said Dick. “I’ll be all right now, Harold.”
“I guess I’ll go, too,” replied Harold carelessly. “It’s most lunch time.”
They walked along in silence for a way, and then Dick asked: “Do you know who Caspar Billings has got to take Morris Brent’s place on Saturday?”
“Fellow named Jensen. Do you know him?”
“No, I think not. Pretty good, is he?”
“I guess so. Loring says he is. Say, Mason’s going to pitch for us. Did you know that?”
“Mason? Oh, he is the fellow who was to have played in the last game and didn’t get here. Is he a wonder, Harold?”
“Is he!” Harold chuckled. “You just wait and see. You fellows won’t be able to touch him!”
“As good as that, eh? By the way, who scores for your team?”
“I don’t know.” Harold shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody, I guess. Why?”
“I should think you’d like to do it.”
Harold considered. “I guess,” he answered finally, “I don’t know how well enough.”
“I can show you. You bring a book Saturday and sit by me, and I’ll make a professional scorer of you in no time.”
“Too much trouble,” replied the other indifferently.
“It isn’t trouble at all, Harold; it’s fun. Better try it some time. It’s a good thing to know.”
Presently Harold asked: “Why aren’t you coming to-morrow?”
“Because we haven’t been getting on very well, Harold. I thought it might be a good idea for us to stop for a couple of days and think it over; see whether we want to go on with it or not, you know. If we decide that we do, we’ll start all over again Monday and do the thing right.”
“Humph!” muttered Harold. “What did you tell my mother?”
“Oh, just that I wasn’t willing to go on and take her money without accomplishing something,” replied Dick cheerfully. “I told her you could study as well as your brother if you wanted to——”
“She’s always beefing about Loring!” grumbled the boy.
“And that if you didn’t want to there wasn’t much use in my coming. Well, I’ll cut through here for the car. I’ll see you Monday, Harold.”
“What about Saturday?” asked the other. “You said——”
“Of course! Look me up, and bring your score-book.”
“Haven’t any.”
“You can get one at Wadsworth’s, on Common Street. Or I’ll buy one for you, if you like.”
“You needn’t. It’s too much like work. So-long!”
Dick returned to Clearfield more encouraged. If only Mrs. Townsend would do as she had agreed to, he believed that he could manage Harold and earn the money that was being paid him. He had about given up hope of finding more pupils, and so could ill afford to lose Harold. He certainly didn’t want to, he reflected, but he would in an instant rather than make no better progress than he had been making.
At practice that afternoon, Gordon told him that Morris had asked to see him, and Dick agreed to call at the Brents’ for a few minutes before supper. Morris was pathetically glad to see the two boys and very loath to have them go again. Mrs. Brent looked in for a short time and Louise met them on their way out and thanked them for coming. She looked rather tired, and Gordon spoke of it.
“It’s been so hot to-day,” she explained, “and I’ve been indoors a good deal since Morris was hurt. He can’t read to himself yet, and so I have to do it for him. Of course, I’m very glad to, but it is hard work in a way. I wonder if either of you have any books he’d like. I’ve read about everything I can find.”
“I think I have,” responded Dick. “I’ll bring two or three over. I guess what Morris wants is a rattling good adventure story.”
“Yes; he’s crazy to hear stories about ships and pirates and hidden treasure, you know. About the only other thing he cares about is the baseball news. I read that to him every morning, and I’m getting to be quite—quite learned.”
“I suppose,” said Dick, “the doctor won’t let you move him out to the Point yet.”
“He says we can go in about another two weeks. I think it will be much better for Morris. He’s getting fearfully tired of that room up there. And it is hot, you know. Thank you both for coming, and do come again when you can. I guess it isn’t much fun for you, but Morris looks forward to it all day.”
“She’s a nice girl,” commented Dick, as they passed through the gate. “Pretty, too.”
“Sheisnice,” agreed Gordon. “I guess when a fellow’s laid up like that a sister’s a pretty good thing to have around.”
“Yes,” said Dick. And, after a moment, he added: “I’ll find those books and take them around to-morrow morning.”
“I would,” approved the other. “You’re certain to find her in then.”
“Don’t be a chump, Gordie! She’s only a kid!”
“She’s as old as I am, except for a few months. And if you call me a kid I’ll lick you.”
“If you do, I’ll suspend you,” replied Dick sternly.
Gordon laughed. “I hope I’d get as much fun out of it as Jack is getting,” he said. “He confided to me to-day that you were a fine manager. ‘I tell you, Gordon,’ he said, ‘a manager’s got to have plenty of discipline!’ If you could only fire Jack for good and all, he’d love you like a brother, Dick!”
“I sort of wish we were going to have him in the game Saturday,” said Dick. “We’ll miss his batting, I guess.”
“I wonder if this fellow Mason is as good as they seem to think him. Anyone know where he comes from?”
“I didn’t ask. He’s probably better than Porter, though. I have a feeling that we’re due to get the short end of the score day after to-morrow.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. I hope to goodness Harry can play. If he is out of it, we will be in a mess!”
“How is Tom getting on with his shingling or painting or whatever it is he’s doing?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Well, it would be a good thing if he could come out and practice a little more. It’s too bad we can’t find another fellow to help out with the pitching, Gordie. If Tom got sick we’d be in a fix.”
“We surely would! But I don’t believe Tom was ever sick in his life. Anyway, he was pretty fit to-day. I caught him for a few minutes, and he had everything there is.”
Dick smiled. “Tom has just three balls, Gordie: an out, a pretty good drop, and a fast one that’s a peach. That’s all he needs, though. If he mixes them up right he can get by. But we’ve got to find our batting eye Saturday if we’re to win. How about the line-up? Think we’d better change it?”
“Yes, I do. This fellow Shores had better follow Lanny, don’t you think? He seems to think he can bat, but he didn’t connect with much yesterday.”
“Maybe he was embarrassed,” suggested Dick, with a smile.
“Embarrassed!” said Gordon. “Yes, about as much embarrassed as a bull-pup! Maybe he will do better in a game, though. Well, so-long, Dick. I’ll have to hustle or I’ll be late for supper.”
“Coming around to-night?”
“I don’t believe so. I told Lanny I’d go over there. See you to-morrow, though.”
“Come over in the morning, will you? I’m not going out to the Point to-morrow.”
“You’re not? You haven’t quit, have you?”
“No, not yet. I’m giving Harold a day or two to think over his sins. Good-night.”
“I say, Dick, don’t forget your call.”
“What call?” asked Dick, from the end of the hedge.
“Why, on Miss Brent!”
“You’ll sit on the bench if you’re not careful,” laughed Dick.
“Well, what do you know about that!” ejaculated Fudge awedly. He and Lanny were approaching the athletic field at a little after two on Saturday. Ahead of them, as they turned the corner, was a group of some fifty or sixty persons, mostly boys and young men, and they were quite evidently waiting for the gate to open.
“And it isn’t half-past two yet,” said Lanny. “Looks as if we were going to have an audience, after all, Fudge.”
“Bet you they don’t know they have to pay a quarter,” responded the other pessimistically.
“Then they’re blind, because there’s a notice right beside the gate there.”
“Someone ought to find Tim and get him here,” said Fudge anxiously. “They might change their minds and go away again!”
“What time is he supposed to get here?”
“I don’t know. Half-past, I suppose.” They passed through a smaller gate which led to the dressing-room and found Dick and Gordon already on hand. Fudge told his fears to Dick, and Dick reassured him by agreeing to take the gate himself until young Mr. Turner appeared. Five minutes later the first two or three rows of the grandstand were occupied, and spectators were still dribbling through the gate and depositing quarters in Dick’s hand. Tim Turner arrived breathless soon after and relieved Dick. Some thirty Rutter’s Point residents accompanied their team and still further swelled the audience, and by three o’clock Dick estimated that fully a hundred and sixty persons had paid admission. That was much better than anyone had dared hope, and Lanny, making a lightning calculation, confided to Gordon that there’d be thirty dollars coming to the club after Rutter’s Point had received the twenty-five per cent. agreed on.
“If we can do that often enough,” said Lanny delightedly, “we’ll have more than enough for——”
“S-sh!” cautioned Gordon.
“He’s over there talking to Billings. Who is the kid with him?”
“That’s young Townsend, the fellow he’s coaching. It’s about time to start, isn’t it? There come three more, Lanny.”
“Every little quarter helps,” replied Lanny. “I hope Tim Turner doesn’t abscond with the cash! Someone ought to stand over him with a bat! Oh, Fudge!”
“What’s wanted?” asked Fudge, joining them.
“We wanted to tell you that if Tim runs off with the money you will have to make good.”
Fudge grinned. “He’s awfully excited,” he said. “He’s got both pockets full of silver, and sounds like a treasury when he moves. He’s terribly worried because he gave one fellow too much change. He says he knows him, though, and is going to get it back!”
“Come on,” said Gordon. “On the run, fellows. You’re in right field, Shores. Throw out another ball, Jack, will you? Here you are, Harry!”
A minute later Captain Billings faced Tom Haley, and the game began.
The batting list of the visiting team had been changed in two instances, Jensen replacing Morris Brent in left field, and Mason pitching instead of Porter. Melville, or “Mel,” Mason was a big youth of eighteen at least, with a quiet, self-constrained manner that impressed Dick and filled him with forebodings of defeat. Clearfield was minus the services of Jack Tappen, Mr. Daniel Shores making his first appearance in a purple uniform and holding down Jack’s place in right field. The umpire was Mr. Cochran, physical director at the Young Men’s Christian Association, and a great favorite among the boys.
Rutter’s Point failed to do anything in the first inning. Tom Haley allowed only one player to reach first, and he got no farther. When Clearfield came to the bat, with Harry Bryan up, the audience proved its loyalty to the home team by loud and prolonged cheering. It was very soon evidenced that “Mel” Mason was in a different class from Bede Porter as a pitcher. Who he was or where he came from neither Dick nor Gordon had learned; but, to use Fudge’s admiring and slightly resentful expression, he was “some pitchist!” He had plenty of speed when he cared to use it, but his favorite offering was a slow ball that was probably patterned on the “floater” of a famous league pitcher. The Clearfield batters hit under it or over it with discouraging regularity, and Harry, Will, and Gordon went out in order in the last of the first inning, only Will managing to hit into fair territory. Harry and Gordon fanned.
For three innings the contest was a pitchers’ battle. Tom was in excellent shape, and, although he secured fewer strike-outs than his rival, managed to hold his own with the assistance of sharp fielding by his team-mates. If there were those among the spectators who had come to scoff at the kind of ball they were to see they must have been surprised, for both teams played a practically errorless game until the beginning of the fourth. And even after that, if there were frequent miscues, there was enough excitement and suspense to make up for them.
It was Jensen, the chap who had taken Morris’ place, who started things going in the fourth. Loring Townsend had flied out to Pete Robey, making the first out. With two strikes and one ball on him, Jensen reached for an out-shoot, found it on the end of his bat, and deposited it neatly behind Gordon and close to the foul-line. Chase, the Point shortstop, tried twice to bunt, and then hit sharply past Pete, and Jensen went to third. House was over-anxious and went out on strikes, and Chase got to second. Then Leary waited and got his base. With the bags all occupied and two men down, it was up to “Pink” Northrop to come to the rescue with a hit. The Point coachers were jumping and shouting like mad, and Tom might have been excused for some unsteadiness at that juncture. But Tom settled down, followed Lanny’s signals closely, and at last, after working two strikes over on Northrop, caused that youth to hit weakly to third. Will Scott almost overthrew the base in his eagerness, but Gordon pulled the ball down in time and the crisis was over.
Gordon went out, shortstop to first; Way lifted a high one to second baseman, and Pete Robey faced Mason with little expectation of faring any better. But Mason let up for a minute, probably arguing that with two gone he could afford to take things easy, and Pete shot a hot liner at third baseman. Caspar Billings got his hands on it, but it trickled past him, and Pete was safe. That doubtful error—Dick charitably scored it as a hit—seemed the signal for the Point to go up in the air. Mason whipped a quick throw to first which would have caught Pete flat-footed off the bag had Loring Townsend been ready for it. He wasn’t, however, and the ball went past him to the fence, and Pete, finding his feet quickly, shot to second and then on to third, beating out the throw by a fraction of an inch and causing dissatisfaction among the Pointers over Mr. Cochran’s decision. Lanny, impatiently waiting at the plate, swung twice in his eagerness to score the runner, and then waited while Mason teased him with wide ones. With two strikes and two balls against him, Lanny out-guessed the pitcher, and swung against the next one. Shortstop knocked it down but couldn’t find it again in time to throw either to the plate or to first, and Clearfield, amidst the excited whooping of the audience, scored her first tally.
Lanny went down to second on the first pitch, and, although Houghton threw quickly and well to that bag, Lanny beat him by a yard. Danny Shores, who was at bat, had swung and was one strike to the bad when Mason grimly turned his attention to him again. Quite a few of Danny’s friends from the factory were on hand to see him perform, and when, after the third delivery, he caught the ball squarely on the nose and sent it streaking just over second baseman’s head, they shouted themselves hoarse in Danny’s honor. On the bench, Jack Tappen looked a bit glum. He had visions of being displaced by Mr. Shores. Lanny came in without hurrying much, and Danny reposed on first. Fudge tried to do his share of a hit-and-run play, but he swung far wide of the deceptive drop, and Danny was caught at second and the inning was over, with Clearfield two runs to the good.
Enthusiasm reigned among the spectators on the stand, and they “rooted” valiantly for Clearfield throughout the rest of the game. In the fifth the Point got two men on bases, and was in good position to score, there being but one out, when Pete Robey pulled down a liner that had been distinctly labeled “two bases,” raced to second ahead of the runner, and then completed the double by making a fine throw to Gordon. Mason struck out Tom easily in the last of the fifth, passed Harry Bryan, fanned Will Scott, and then, with Gordon at bat, caught Harry off first.
Every play was loudly applauded, and the audience was by this time perched on the edges of the seats. Again in their half of the sixth Rutter’s Point found Tom for two hits, and again sharp fielding kept her from crossing the plate. It was evident, though, that Tom was less of a puzzle now than in the earlier innings, and it seemed only a matter of time when the Pointers would bunch their hits and Dick would have to credit them with a run or two. You are not to suppose that Dick was doing nothing but keeping the score. He was managing that game from the bench as scientifically as if he had played the game all his short life. Every batsman got his orders from Dick before he stepped to the plate, and every coacher was instructed before he went to the box. And, besides that, Dick was teaching Harold Townsend how to score a ball game. In spite of his indifference two days before, Harold had appeared with a brand-new, black-covered score-book and a fountain pen. Dick had told him to put the pen in his pocket, and had supplied him with a pencil instead. Harold seated himself by Dick and watched and learned. He made more mistakes than enough, and his score when finished was a veritable hodge-podge of misinformation, but he seemed to get a lot of excitement and fun out of it, and he really did learn a good deal for a boy who had theretofore scored an out by placing a huge X opposite the batsman and a run by marking up an equally enormous I. When he began to memorize the symbols for struck out, base on balls, hit by pitched ball, and so on, he discovered that scoring was not the simple task he had thought it. About the sixth inning he gave up trying to keep a detailed score, and contented himself with disposing of the batsmen with his X’s and I’s. But by that time the excitement had grown so intense that it would have required a person with a much cooler head than Harold’s to keep his mind on scoring.
Clearfield went to bat in the sixth with the grim determination to add another brace of runs to her score and place the game safely away. Dick realized that Tom was weakening, and that before long the visitors would find him for some real hits, and before that occurred he wanted Clearfield to have a sufficient lead to place her out of danger. Gordon had his instructions to reach first at any cost. Then Way, who was a clever bunter, was to sacrifice him to second. Either Pete or Lanny was to supply the hit to score Gordon. But plans don’t always carry through. Dick’s didn’t on this occasion. Gordon hit squarely into Mason’s hands, and the pitcher tossed the ball nonchalantly to first for the out. Way bunted down the first-base line, and managed to beat out the throw. Pete flied to center field, and Way was held on first. With two down the inning should have been as good as over, but Fate took a hand and prolonged it until the bases were filled, and Dick, watching intently from the bench, dared to hope that Fudge might for once do the impossible. Mason had passed Lanny on purpose, forcing Way to second. Then Danny Shores had come through with a mild wallop down third-base line. Caspar had only to touch the base to retire the side, but his wits must have been wool-gathering, for, after gathering in the ball on the bound five feet away from the bag, he paid no attention to Way, dashing past him hardly out of arm’s length, but hurled the ball across to first. Perhaps Loring Townsend was too surprised to realize what was required of him. At all events, the ball dropped out of his glove, and Mr. Cochran, who had already motioned Danny out, had to reverse his decision.
And so the stage was set when Fudge seized his favorite bat and manfully stalked to the plate, resolved to do or die. Fudge was right in the midst of a baseball romance at that time, and only the night before, writing with his foolscap propped up on his knees in bed, he had described how his hero, despised and ridiculed by his school-mates, had gone to the bat in the last of the ninth and, even while the crowds turned disappointedly away from the field, had out-guessed the marvelous pitcher of the rival school and with one mighty stroke of his faithful bat had turned defeat into victory by driving out a home-run and scoring the men on bases. Fudge recalled that as he gripped his bat and faced Mason, trying hard to appear nonchalant and undismayed. He wondered whether things ever happened in real life as they did in stories. Somehow that brilliant deed of his hero seemed horribly improbable to-day. Fudge determined to tone it down a little that evening. A two-bagger would answer the purpose just as well, and would certainly sound more plausible.
Dick’s voice from the bench reached him as Mason, after glancing over the bases, wound up. “Make him pitch to you, Fudge! It only takes one!” Back and forth from behind first and third the cries of Harry Bryan and Gordon rattled. Fudge gripped his bat tighter yet and glued his eyes to the upraised hands of Mel Mason. Then the ball, a particularly dirty one, streaked toward him; Fudge’s heart beat loudly and he stepped nimbly out of the way, only to hear the fell verdict: “Strike!”
Fudge looked reproachfully at Mr. Cochran, sighed, and again faced the pitcher. That ball had come well across the inner corner of the plate, and Fudge determined that Mason shouldn’t fool him a second time with that particular kind of a delivery. So when the next ball shot forward apparently coming the same way Fudge held his ground scornfully and prepared to swing his bat. But the next instant he had forgotten all about swinging and was sitting on the ground with both hands clasped to his ribs and an expression of pained surprise on his face. When he had regained his breath and the use of his legs, Fudge thought that the joy of his team-mates was very ill-considered. It seemed nothing to them that he had narrowly escaped death at the hands of an infuriated baseball; they only shouted and jumped about because a run had been forced in!
Fudge walked painfully to first, reflecting how differently his hero would have performed. There was something distinctly humiliating to Fudge in gaining his base in such a manner, and so deeply did he feel the humiliation that he quite forgot to heed the warnings of Gordon, coaching behind the base, and was surprised to have Loring Townsend, without any provocation, punch him forcibly in exactly the spot that Mason’s in-shoot had collided with. That was too much for Fudge. The pain brought tears to his eyes and wrath to his heart. He sprang upon the first baseman with clenched fists, and only Gordon’s prompt interference prevented trouble. Gordon haled Fudge away, patiently explaining that Loring had tagged him with the ball while he had been apparently fast asleep a yard off the base. The explanation, however, was not entirely satisfactory to Fudge.
“What of it? He didn’t have to punch me in the ribs as hard as he knew how, did he?” demanded Fudge angrily. “What kind of a way is that to play ball?”
“Shut up, Fudge!” said Gordon exasperatedly. “Why the dickens weren’t you watching the pitcher? What’s the good of getting hit if you get put out the next minute?”
“Good of it!” exclaimed Fudge. “Good of it! There isn’t any good of it! I just wish he’d lammed you in the ribs the way he did me! Good of it!” And Fudge, still muttering, wandered disgustedly out to center field, one hand pressed to his side.
The seventh inning passed uneventfully. Tom had small difficulty with the last three men on the Point batting-list, and Mason disposed of Tom Haley and Harry Bryan with five balls apiece, and caused Will Scott to pop up a foul to first baseman. So the eighth inning started and Dick began to breathe easier, and the Clearfield sympathizers were jubilant. After all, three runs was a good lead, and even if the Point got to batting Tom in the next two innings, surely Clearfield could stop them short of three tallies. Thus argued Dick, and said as much to Harold, who, to-day, at least, was divided in his sympathies. Harold, having predicted great things of Mason, was a bit disgruntled with that youth, and expressed the wish once that Clearfield would wallop him out of the box. But when Dick voiced his belief that the game was pretty safe Harold took exception.
“You wait,” he said darkly. “Here comes Loring up. He hasn’t done anything yet, and he’s just bound to. And if he gets on Gil Chase will send him home. You wait!”
Loring Townsend let two balls go by, failed to size up the third delivery as a strike, and swung unsuccessfully at the next. With the score two and two, Tom sped a straight one over and Loring met it with his bat and set out for first. He didn’t run very fast, though, for the hit was a weak one and was bounding straight at Will Scott at third. But Will made a mess of that play. He got the ball, dropped it, found it again and threw hurriedly across the diamond. Gordon leaped into the air, just managed to tip the ball with his fingers, and then dashed off on a chase for it as it rolled toward the fence. When the shouting had died away, Loring was on second, Al Jensen was swinging his bat eagerly and impatiently, and Harold had dropped his score-book between his feet and didn’t know it!
That was a disastrous inning for Clearfield. Tom managed to strike out Jensen after that player had knocked six fouls into various parts of the field, and managed, too, to hold Loring on second. But when Gil Chase got the signal from first and trickled the ball into the pitcher’s box while Loring sped to third, Tom, with plenty of time to make the out at first, tossed the ball six feet over Gordon’s head and Loring slid home with the first run for the Point, while Chase got to second.
Then Tom had his troubles. His misplay had taken his nerve, and for a while he went thoroughly to pieces. Eight batsmen faced him in that inning, and four hits, for a total of six bases, and five runs were made off him before he finally managed to strike out Mason. When that inning was over the game had a different complexion. Instead of being three runs ahead, with the prospect of winning a shut-out, Clearfield was two tallies behind, and defeat stared her in the face.
The home team returned determinedly to the fray, but Mason was impregnable. In the last of the eighth not a man saw first and only four players faced him. In the first of the ninth, Rutter’s Point again started things with a whoop when Caspar Billings, first up, singled into left field, took second on Townsend’s sacrifice, and was advanced to third when Jensen hit past Will Scott. Then Jensen was caught off first and House flied out to Shores.
I would like to tell how Clearfield went to bat in the last half of that final inning and pounded Mason for enough hits to win the game. But as this isn’t one of Fudge’s romances I can’t do anything of the sort. As a matter of regrettable fact, Clearfield stood up to the plate and watched Mason’s “floaters” waft past them and listened to the fateful voice of the umpire calling strikes. Mason ended the day in a blaze of glory, striking out three men in order and sending his team off the field victors by the score of 5 to 3.
Harold Townsend, slapping his score-book shut, grinned at Dick as the last man went out. “What did I tell you?” he asked gleefully. “Say, you fellows can’t play ball for shucks, Lovering!”
Dick smiled imperturbably. He had the ability to smile in the face of disaster, had Dick.
“We’ll try you again some day,” he answered. “Good-bye, Harold. See you Monday.”
“I may not be home,” replied Harold airily.
But when Dick was accompanying his team-mates toward the dressing-room a minute or two later, he felt a hand on his arm and looked around to find that Harold had followed him.
“Say, Lovering, I—I’m sorry your team got beaten. And thanks for showing me about scoring, you know.”
The ClearfieldReporterwas quite enthusiastic over the game in its Monday’s issue. There had been, it declared, for some time a demand for a baseball team to represent the city, a demand which had now been satisfied in the recent formation of the club which had given such a good account of itself on Saturday. It was to be hoped that the organization would prosper and receive the support of the many lovers of clean sport residing in the town. TheReportergave the game almost play by play, indulging in a wealth of baseball slang and metaphor worthy of a metropolitan journal. It was quite evident that the writer had thoroughly enjoyed his task. He dealt out praise lavishly and was especially complimentary to the Rutter’s Point pitcher, who, it seemed, had struck out ten batsmen besides fielding his position perfectly. Incidentally theReporterprovided the information that the Clearfield players had failed to obtain.
“Melville Mason,” said the paper, “gives every promise of becoming a top-notch twirler, and there is no doubt a berth awaiting him in one of the big league teams if he wants it. He has been playing ball for six years, and last season was second-choice pitcher on the Erskine College team. He is nineteen years of age. The Rutter’s Point team is to be congratulated on securing the services of so accomplished a player. We are assured by Captain Billings that Mr. Mason receives no salary.” (“Bet you he’s having his expenses paid, though,” commented Gordon, when he and Dick read theReporterthat morning.) “We trust,” concluded theReporter, “that a third and determining game will be arranged between Saturday’s adversaries and that it will be played on the local grounds, where, doubtless, a large audience will be on hand to enjoy it.”
“That isn’t a bad idea,” said Lanny. “We took in forty-three dollars Saturday. I dare say we could do even better the next time. And I don’t believe but what the Pointers would be willing to play here if they got their twenty-five per cent. again.”
“We might offer them a third of the receipts,” suggested Gordon.
Dick looked puzzled. “You fellows are frightfully keen on the financial end of it, seems to me,” he said. “What’s the idea, Lanny? What are we going to do with the money we get, anyway? We can’t buy balls with all of it.”
“Well, there’s no harm in having it,” replied Lanny evasively. “You never know when you’ll need money.”
“I know when I need it,” said Dick grimly. “That’s most of the time.”
“It wouldn’t be a bad scheme to sound Billings,” said Gordon. “You might tell him we’d like to play a deciding game, and that—er—that as Clearfield is interested in the series it would perhaps be best to play here. If Billings kicked, you could offer him a third. I dare say we’d get a couple of hundred people easily for the next game, and that would give the Point something like seventeen dollars.”
“I don’t believe they’re as much on the make as you Shylocks,” objected Dick. “Still, I’ll talk it over with him some day. Perhaps, though, it would be better to wait and see if they won’t propose the game themselves. Then we’d be in a better position to make conditions.”
“Isn’t he the nifty old diplomat?” asked Lanny admiringly.
“A regular fox,” agreed Gordon. “Work it your own way, Dick.”
“We can’t play them for about three weeks, anyway,” said Dick. “We’re filled up with games until the third of September. I got a letter from Tyson over in Springdale this morning. He says they’ll play us there a week from next Saturday if we’ll come over. What do you say?”
“I say yes, by all means,” replied Gordon, with enthusiasm. “And I guess we’re all eager to have another try at those chaps after what they did to us in June.”
“Well, it won’t be quite the same team, Tyson says, and they’re calling themselves the Independents.”
“We’ll call them down,” laughed Lanny. “We play Logan the day after to-morrow, don’t we?”
“Yes, and that reminds me that I must see to getting notices printed and sent around. I wish you’d do that, Gordon. I’ve got to go out to the Point in half an hour. I’ll write out the copy and all you’ll have to do is to take it down to the printers. They’ll strike them right off and distribute them for us this afternoon.”
“All right. I’ll go there first thing. I’m going to see Morris for a few minutes this morning. Any little message I can take from you, Dick?”
“Message? No, not that I know of. Tell him I hope he will hurry up and get well again.”
“Of course, but—ah!—is there any other member of the family——”
“Oh, you run away!” laughed Dick.
If Dick expected to find a chastened and much reformed pupil at the Point that Monday morning, he was doomed to disappointment. He gathered from a remark that the boy let fall that Mrs. Townsend had kept her promise to speak to him, but Dick doubted if she had accomplished much. And yet there was improvement visible. Harold had actually mastered two of the four lessons and Dick gathered some encouragement.
“I guess we won’t go on with this,” he said toward the end of the period. “You haven’t studied it, Harold. We’ll take it over to-morrow. How did you like the game Saturday?”
“Oh, pretty well! You fellows going to play us again?”
“Maybe, some day. We play Logan Wednesday. Do you care to come over and see it? We might have another lesson in scoring.”
“I guess so. We’re going to play a team from Bay Harbor on Saturday. Say, Loring says if I’ll learn to score, I can be official scorer for the team. I guess I’ll do it.”
“Fine! Then you come over Wednesday, and we’ll try it again. You did very well the other day.”
“Did I really? Gee, but there’s a lot to put down, isn’t there? Caspar’s got six games arranged for the team. Loring says if I’m scorer they’ll take me with them when they go away to play.”
That was really no news to Dick, since it was at his suggestion that Loring had made the offer. But he pretended to be surprised and interested, and said all he could to encourage Harold to learn to score. And Harold became so enthusiastic that he walked over to the trolley car with Dick, talking volubly all the way.
“I wish you’d make a real try at those lessons to-day, Harold,” Dick said, at parting. “Won’t you?”
Harold grinned noncommittingly.
But the next morning he went through with flying colors, and when Dick complimented him he laughed. “Gee, I can get that stuff all right if I want to,” he said carelessly. “It’s easy.”
“Why don’t you, then?”
“Aw, what’s the use? I’d rather play around, anyway.”
“Don’t you want to go to Rifle Point, Harold?”
“I guess so. I don’t care much. If I do, Loring will be always bossing me about. I’d rather go somewhere else, I guess.”
“Loring’s being there will make things easier for you,” said Dick. “I fancy he’s pretty well liked and the fellows will be nice to you on his account. But I’ll tell you one thing plainly, Harold: You won’t get to Rifle Point this Fall.”
Harold opened his eyes widely. “I won’t?” he exclaimed.
“Certainly not. And you won’t get there next Fall unless you buckle down and learn something.”
“Loring said I could!”
“Loring probably thought you were more advanced than you are, then,” replied Dick. “I’m sorry, Harold; but facts are facts.”
“Then what’ll I do this Winter?” asked the boy lugubriously.
“How about another year where you were?”
“I won’t! I hate that place! I won’t go back there, no matter what anyone says!”
“Then you might have a tutor.”
That suggestion didn’t seem to make much of a hit. Harold scowled for a minute in silence. Then: “Don’t you think I could get in this Fall, Lovering, if—if I studied hard?”
Dick hesitated.
“I’m entered, you know,” pleaded Harold. “I should think I might, Lovering.”
“Yes, you might,” returned Dick grimly, “but it would mean studying a good deal differently than the way you’ve been studying, Harold. It would mean getting your nose right down into the books, putting your whole soul into it, and giving up a lot of playtime. Think you could do that?”
It was Harold’s turn to hesitate. Finally, though, he nodded.
“Well, do you think youwoulddo it?” asked Dick.
“Sure, if—if you’ll help me!”
“I’ll help you, all right, Harold. But there must be no changing your mind about it later. If we start this thing, we’re going to keep it up. If you’ll work honestly and do the very best you know how, I’ll get you so you can pass the exams this Fall. What do you say? Is it a bargain?”
“You bet!” said Harold.
“All right. Hand me those books, please.” Dick turned the pages and made new marks on the margins of them. “There; we’ll start off with eight pages instead of four, Harold. We’ve got to pretty nearly break all existing records, I guess.”
Harold whistled softly. “Gee!” he murmured. “Eight pages of that stuff!” Dick looked across inquiringly. Harold squared his shoulders with the suggestion of a swagger. “Oh, I’ll do it, all right!” he said. “You just watch me!”
Wednesday’s game with Logan attracted a smaller audience to the athletic field than had the Saturday contest but Tim Turner emptied his pockets of twenty-two dollars and fifty cents afterward, and as Logan received only her expenses there was nearly twenty dollars left. The game was one-sided, Clearfield winning by a score of 17 to 4. The Logan pitchers—she used two of them—were easy for the home-team batsmen, while Tom Haley was hit safely but thrice. Two of Logan’s runs resulted from errors, Jack Tappen, who had been reinstated, being one offender, and Gordon the other. Jack dropped an easy fly, and Gordon made an atrocious throw to second.
On Thursday Gordon was called to the telephone after breakfast. It was Louise Brent at the other end of the line, and Louise informed him that Morris wanted Gordon to come over there if he could. “It’s something about the automobile,” explained Louise. “There’s a man here to look at it, Gordon.”
Gordon promised to go right over, and did so. What passed in the sick chamber is not to be set down here, but later Gordon went out to the stable and stood around while a man with grimy hands and a smudge on the end of his nose inspected the blue runabout pessimistically and grunted at intervals. Finally:
“About fifty dollars will do it,” he said, in a sad tone of voice. “There’ll have to be new spokes set in that wheel, and them fenders’ll have to be straightened out again, and it’ll need a new lamp and the radiator’s sprung and likely leaks and——”
“Fifty dollars will fix it as good as new?” asked Gordon.
“I don’t know how good it was when it was new,” responded the man dolefully. “But fifty dollars’ll fix it up in good shape, likely.”
“All right. I’ll tell him, and he will let you know. Could you start on it right away?”
“Likely I could. I’d have to haul it down to my place, though.”
“How long would it take?”
“Two or three weeks, likely.”
“All right. Much obliged. We’ll let you know for certain to-morrow. Fifty dollars is the cheapest you could do it for?”
“Well”—the man scratched his head reflectively—“maybe I could do it for forty-five, if I didn’t find anything else the matter with it. Likely there ain’t.”
They called him “Mr. Likely” during the following three weeks, for which period of time the runabout was in his care. Mr. Likely was a born pessimist, and about every two days he called up the Brents’ house to inform whoever answered the telephone that “that wheel’s a lot worse’n I thought it was, and’ll likely have to have a new rim,” or “I got to send out West for a new lamp, and it’ll likely take two weeks or more.” But, to anticipate, Mr. Likely made a good job of it, and in the course of time the blue runabout was returned to the Brents’ stable, shining and polished like a brand-new car. By that time the family had moved out to the cottage at the Point, and it was Gordon who saw the automobile run into the carriage-room under its own power and who locked the door afterward and pocketed the key.
Morris’ leg had knitted so well by the time Clearfield played Springdale that he was allowed to make the trip to the neighboring town in a carriage and witnessed the contest from a position far more comfortable than the sun-smitten boards of the grandstand. That was a pretty good game to watch, too. There was plenty of hitting on both sides, enough errors to add interest, and several rattling good plays. The game was in doubt until the last inning, when Clearfield, with a one-run margin, trotted into the field to do her best to hold the home team scoreless. Tom Haley had been touched up for eight or nine hits—Dick and Harold made it eight, but the Springdale scorer insisted on nine—and, as luck would have it, the head of the local batting list was up when the last of the ninth began. But Tom and Lanny worked together finely, and, although one runner got as far as second, the game ended with a spectacular catch by Fudge in deep center, and Clearfield went home with the ball. The final score was 7 to 6, and Clearfield derived a lot of satisfaction from that victory.
The Saturday before she had played Locust Valley, and had been pretty badly defeated, and the following Wednesday she had barely pulled out of the game against Corwin with a victory. Corwin had journeyed to Clearfield for the contest and the club treasury had had another twenty-odd dollars added to it. What puzzled Manager Dick Lovering those days was the interest displayed by the whole team in the condition of the exchequer. It seemed to Dick that every fellow was showing a strangely commercial spirit.