The matter of a new athletic field dragged. Two more meetings had been held by the committee, and several trips of inspection had been made to near-by fields, but no decision had been reached. In the meanwhile, the surveyors had shown activity and had run lines through the old field and even demolished a section of the fence. It was a question whether the team would be able to use the diamond much longer, although inquiries failed to elicit any definite information from the men who were doing the surveying. The football enthusiasts were becoming impatient. The prospect of having no better place to hold practice the next month than an empty lot somewhere in the neighborhood of the railroad didn’t please them, and they demanded action.
Unfortunately, Mr. Grayson, the principal, had left Clearfield on his summer vacation, and several other members of the High School faculty were also out of town, and the committee showed a disposition to await their return. The hope was several times expressed that, since Mr. Brent had done nothing with the field so far, he might postpone cutting it up until next year. But when the surveyors got to work that hope seemed idle, and at last a public meeting was called at which the Athletic Committee was to make a report and recommend the leasing of what was known as Tilden’s Meadow for a term of two years. The meadow was a mile from Clearfield and on the trolley route to Rutter’s Point, and consisted of about fourteen acres of fairly level turf. Only sufficient space for a football field and diamond was to be used, and the rest of the land was to remain as at present. Mr. Tilden was to keep the grass cut in return for the hay and was to receive one hundred dollars a year. There was no question of having a running track, for the owner absolutely refused to allow one to be laid out, and that, at first glance, seemed a great objection to the project. But, as several of the committee pointed out, there was no money on hand to build a track even if Mr. Tilden would allow it. The plan was to make use of the Y. M. C. A. field, a small enclosure behind the Association’s building on Lafayette Street, for training purposes, and hold the meets with Springdale at the latter’s grounds until Clearfield could secure a track of its own.
A piece of land sufficiently large for all athletic purposes was to be had across the river and fairly handy to the G Street Bridge, but it was next to the railroad tracks and the mills and the sentiment of the female members of the High School was strongly opposed to it. “It would be horrid!” they declared indignantly. “The smoke and soot from the engines and the mill chimneys would spoil our dresses and hats. And, besides, we’d have to walk a whole block through dust up to our shoe-tops!”
In the face of such weighty opposition the committee gave way, and the North Side location was abandoned. Only Tilden’s meadow remained then, and to that, too, there was much opposition. Many thought it too far from town; others pointed out that, since it was unfenced, there would be no way of keeping persons from witnessing games without paying, and still others dwelt on the lack of a track. The Athletic Committee was not to be envied.
Dick talked it over with Louise Brent one morning. Dick had got into the habit lately of walking over to the Brents’ in the morning before going out to the Point. Brentwood was hardly on his direct line to the car, although it is true that by retracing his steps two blocks he could get the trolley at B Street and consequently went only seven blocks out of his way. But seven blocks, when you have to do it on crutches, is quite a distance, and doubtless Morris was much flattered by the interest in his recovery which led Dick so far afield four or five mornings a week. Dick began by taking books to Morris, but his library was soon exhausted, and after that he continued to call just the same. Of course he always saw Morris, and equally of course Louise appeared at some period of his visit. I think that eventually Morris began to have doubts as to being the chief attraction. At all events he very frequently left Dick for his sister to entertain and it wasn’t apparent that Dick mourned his absence. Louise was good to look at and jolly and sympathetic, and there was no reason why Dick should not have been quite satisfied with her company.
On the morning in question, the morning of the Wednesday following the Springdale game, Morris had, after offering to race Dick on crutches to the gate and back and having his proposition declined, wandered away toward the tennis court, leaving Dick and Louise on the front steps, which, at nine o’clock in the morning, were shaded and cool. Dick had brought up the subject of the athletic field and both Morris and Louise had had their say. Morris, who was an ardent football enthusiast and played a good game on the High School team, had bewailed the fact that, with practice commencing in another three weeks or so, no place had been provided for it. Louise had reminded him gently that the doctor held out slight hope of his being able to play this Fall and Morris had briefly and succinctly informed them that the doctor was an old granny and didn’t know what he was talking about. When he had gone Louise said:
“You know, Dick, both Morris and I begged papa not to take the field, but he wouldn’t listen to us. He said the school could find another place to play on without trouble. He seems to think that all we need is a back yard or a vacant lot! I don’t think papa ever saw a game of baseball or football in his life.”
“It is too bad that he has to cut that field up,” replied Dick, “but I don’t see any reason why he should consider us any. He’s been very good to let us use it so long. And he’s never charged us a penny, you know.”
“May Scott told me yesterday that her father had told her that the field might not be cut up after all. It seems that the mayor or whoever it is that has the say about such things doesn’t want papa to put the street through there unless he builds it up to some grade or other. I don’t understand about it. And papa doesn’t want to do that.”
“Yes, I heard something of that sort. I believe the matter is to come up at a meeting this week. It’s the board of aldermen, I think, who are against it. It seems that the city has established a new grade out there and the present grade is several feet below it. I suppose it means that your father would have to do a good deal of filling in if he put the street through. Otherwise the city wouldn’t accept it.”
“It sounds awfully complicated to me,” said Louise. “I just wish father would change his mind about it. I almost wish the—the aldermen would tell him he couldn’t do it!”
“Perhaps they will,” laughed Dick. “But in that case your father would probably build to the new grade. So there isn’t much hope, I fear. No, I guess it’s up to us to move to new quarters. It’s a queer thing that in a town of this size there isn’t a place we can use.”
“I know. And that field they’re talking about now is so hard to get to! Of course, there’s the trolley, but it’s been such fun to walk out to the games and have the field so near home. Your team plays a game this afternoon, doesn’t it, Dick?”
“A sort of a game. We’re going to play a team called the Live Wires at four o’clock. They’re fellows in the mills and I guess they haven’t played together much. It’ll be sort of a practice affair for us. Tom Haley can’t play and Curtis Wayland is going to pitch for us. You haven’t been to any of the games, have you?”
“No one has asked me,” she laughed. “Morris has been laid up and——”
“Would you care to go Saturday? We play the Hemlock Camp fellows. I guess they have a pretty good team.”
“I’d love to!”
“Then I——” Dick paused and frowned. “The trouble is,” he went on apologetically, “I’ll have to be on the bench a good deal of the time. Perhaps you’d rather not go.”
“I shouldn’t mind. Just come and see me now and then, Dick.”
“Really? Then I’ll get Gordon or one of the fellows to call for you about half-past two.”
“Indeed?” asked Louise coldly. “Why Gordon—or one of the fellows, please?”
“Why—why—because,” stammered Dick, “I thought probably you’d rather not—That is, I get along so slowly, you know——”
“Dick Lovering, you were going to say you thought I wouldn’t want to walk with you! Weren’t you?”
“Well, something of the sort. You see——”
“No, I don’t see at all,” she responded with suspicious sweetness. “I shall be very glad to go to the game with you, Dick, but I refuse to be palmed off on ‘Gordon or one of the fellows!’”
“Then I’ll be here for you at two-thirty, Louise. It isn’t very far, after all; only three blocks, you know.”
“I ought to know,” she said dryly, “since I can see the top of the grandstand this minute. I may decide, however, that I want to go by way of the Common, Dick.”
Dick smiled doubtfully. “We-ell, that’s all right. I’m game! Now I guess I’d better be getting along.”
“The car just went in,” said Louise. “You’ve got nearly a quarter of an hour yet. How are you getting along with your pupil?”
“Finely! I tell him two or three times a week that we’ll never be able to do it, and he doubles up his fists and glares at me and wants to fight—almost. He’s an awfully stubborn little chap and he’s simply made up his mind that he’s going to get into school this Fall, and I think he will, too. He will if I can keep him mad!” And Dick, smiling, went swinging off to catch the car.
That game with the Live Wires wasn’t as easy for Clearfield as Dick and Gordon and most of the others expected it to be. Of course Way wasn’t much of a pitcher, and that had to be reckoned with, but even allowing for that the Live Wires showed up a lot better than anticipated. From a financial standpoint the game was a huge success, in spite of the fact that the admission had been lowered to fifteen cents to entice the mill workers to attend. Attend they did, and “rooted” so lustily and incessantly for their team that poor Way was more than once up in the air. Young Tim Turner played in right field and Jack Tappen went over to left in place of Way. Tim didn’t do so badly, since out of three chances he got two flies and only muffed the third because the crowd hooted so loudly.
It was quite a tight game up to the fifth inning, with both pitchers suffering badly at the hands of the opposing batsmen and both infields guilty of many stupid errors. But in the fifth Clearfield landed on Kelly, the Live Wires’ pitcher, and batted around before they were stopped, adding seven runs to the six already accumulated. In the seventh the opposing team returned the compliment and had Way dancing out of the path of liners and giving bases on the least provocation. But the infield steadied down then and only three runs came over for the Live Wires. The final score was fourteen to eight and Dick, who had acted as gateman in Tim’s absence, turned over nearly seventeen dollars to himself as treasurer. So, on the whole, the game was a success.
When Dick got home after the game his mother told him that a Mr. Potter, from theReporter, had called to see him and would be back about eight. Gordon came over after supper and was still there when the representative of the newspaper repeated his call. Mr. Potter, a wide-awake, energetic young man of twenty-five or six years, professed his pleasure at finding Gordon on hand. “Because,” he said as he took a chair in the Loverings’ little parlor, “I want to talk about another game of ball between your team and the Point. I wrote the story of the last game, by the way. I don’t know whether you saw it?”
“Yes, we read it,” said Dick. “It was awfully good, I thought.”
“I used to do that sort of stuff in Hartford. Well, say, fellows, how about another game? Anything doing along that line?”
“Yes, we’re to play the Point again later. There hasn’t been any date set yet, though.”
“Well, that’s good. I mean I’m glad you’re going to get together again. Folks who saw that game enjoyed it. There’s nothing like a game of ball to bring folks out and give them a good time. Now, Stevens—he’s my boss on theReporter, you know—Stevens wants to get up a rousing good game for the final one, see? You and what’s-his-name out at the Point set a date; make it some Saturday, of course; and let me know and theReporterwill whoop things up. How would it do if we got the retail tradesmen or someone to offer a prize? Say a silver cup or a phonograph or a set of books or something? What theReporterwants to do is to stir up some excitement; see? Get a big crowd there, have the Mayor throw out the ball, get folks pulling for the home team and all that sort of thing. Great scheme, eh? What do you fellows think?”
The boys looked both doubtful and perplexed.
“Why, I don’t know, Mr. Potter, that we want to make a—a Roman holiday of it,” objected Dick. “We started up the team just to have some fun, you see.”
“Well, you’ll have your fun, won’t you?” asked the newspaper man eagerly. “Don’t mind winning a prize and making a little money, too, do you? Look here, fellows, I’m keen on this. I want to make it go. To tell the truth, it was my idea. I put it up to Stevens and he fell for it. This town needs livening up. Say, honest, we could have the finest sort of a hullabaloo without half trying!”
“I don’t see why not, Dick,” observed Gordon, thinking a good deal of the money side of the project.
Dick shrugged his shoulders. “Sounds sort of like a four-ring circus, doesn’t it?” He asked. “Still, I don’t mind. I dare say it would amuse folks.”
“Amuse ’em! Say, I’ll guarantee to have ’em talking nothing but baseball in a week! I’ll get ’em so they’ll be offering fancy prices for the first row in the grandstand!”
The boys laughed. There was something infectious in the man’s enthusiasm and the proposed affair began to loom up as a huge and very amusing lark.
“Do you really think you can do it?” asked Dick.
“Watch me! I’ll run a story to-morrow on the first page that negotiations are under way looking to a deciding game, see? And I’ll hint that there is so much feeling between the two teams that the outcome is doubtful. Then——”
“That’s hardly truthful, is it?” asked Dick.
“Well, maybe I can get around that,” was the untroubled reply. “I’ll say that the folks at the Point are so certain that their team will win that they’re willing to offer any sort of inducement for a third game.”
“You’ve got some imagination,” laughed Gordon.
“Have to have in my business,” replied Mr. Potter with satisfaction. “You trust me to work up the excitement, fellows. Stevens says I can go the limit. We’ll print your score-cards for you, and—that reminds me. How about a band? Ought to have a band there, oughtn’t we?”
“Bands cost a good deal,” Gordon objected.
“What of it? Why, say, we’ll have three or four hundred folks to see that game! We’ll get ’em in from the country and over from Springdale and Corwin and from miles around. It might be a good idea——” Mr. Potter paused and stared into space a moment. Then he nodded vehemently. “That’s the scheme! I’ll get the store-keepers to shut up shop that afternoon. Maybe Toppan will declare a public holiday.”
Mr. Toppan was the Mayor, and the boys stared in amazement.
“Why—why he wouldn’t do that, would he?” gasped Gordon. “Not just for a ball game?”
“Sure, he would, if theReportergot after him hard. Say, you see that Point fellow, whatever his name is, and let me know by day after to-morrow. And don’t put it off too long. Let’s strike while the iron’s hot. Folks want to see baseball now. In another three weeks it’ll be about out of season. Well, that’s all. Glad to have met you fellows.” Mr. Potter shook hands briskly. “We’ll give Clearfield a ball game she won’t forget! Good-night. I’ll see you again in a day or two.”
When he was gone the two boys looked at each other a moment and then began to laugh.
“Rather takes your breath away, doesn’t he?” gasped Gordon.
“I should say so! And of all crazy stunts——”
“Get out! It’s going to be a heap of fun! I’m for it—strong!”
“So I see. But maybe the Pointers won’t care to take part in such a silly affair.”
“Why not? Why, we’ll offer them twenty-five per cent. of the gate receipts and they’ll be dead anxious.”
“Pshaw! They don’t need any money. What would they do with it?”
“Do with it? Why—why, what would anyone do with it? Eat it, of course!”
“That’s what I’d like to know. What arewegoing to do with it, for instance?”
“Oh, there’s a lot of things we can do with it, Dick. We might—might give it to charity or—or—oh, lots of things!”
“Well, we’re in for it, anyway. I’ll talk to Caspar to-morrow. I guess two weeks from next Saturday would be a good date. The trouble is they’ve got a lot of games arranged and they may not be able to play us.”
“You tell them what this Potter chap says and whoop it up, Dick. They can cancel a game if they want to.”
True to his word, Mr. Potter started the ball rolling the next morning. TheReportercontained an announcement on the front page under a big head:
MAY PLAY OFF TIE
CLEARFIELD AND RUTTER’S POINT BALL TEAMS
NEGOTIATE FOR THIRD GAME—BITTER
RIVALRY EXISTS
“Who has the better ball team, Clearfield or Rutter’s Point? That’s the question that is agitating both this community and the summer colony at the end of the trolley. And, if present plans carry, it is a question that will soon be settled definitely, and, we hope, to the satisfaction of Clearfield. Negotiations are to be opened to-day between representatives of the two teams looking to a third and deciding contest to be played on the High School field some time between now and the end of the month. Each nine has won one game and each nine claims to be a little better than the other. Over at the Point they are so certain that they have the champion bunch of players that they’re willing to do most anything to secure another game with Clearfield. At this end of the line there is an equally strong conviction to the effect that our own aggregation has more than a shade on the Point team. That’s the way it stands now, but theReporterhopes to be able to announce in another day or two that the managers and backers of the rival teams have met and agreed on a deciding game. In which case we predict that those who are fortunate enough to witness the final battle will see a struggle they won’t forget in a long time. Watch for developments!”
Besides that highly-colored effusion there was a short editorial inside in which the writer extolled athletics in general and baseball in particular. In twenty lines the writer alluded to Greek athletes, Roman games, Christopher Mathewson, Tyrus Cobb, the American Eagle, the Spirit of Fair Play and Clearfield. The style of the two productions was so much alike that Dick and Gordon decided that Mr. Potter was responsible for both.
“I hope,” said Dick, “that Caspar won’t see this until I’ve prepared him for it. He will think we’ve gone crazy!”
As it happened, however, Caspar Billings was much too busy playing tennis that morning to read theClearfield Reporter, and when Dick met him he knew nothing of Mr. Potter’s activities. But five minutes later he had found the paper and was chuckling enjoyably over the story. “It’s great!” he declared. “That fellow ought to be working in New York. He’s lost in Clearfield. Say, we’ll have more fun than a picnic out of this, Lovering. What sort of a prize did he say?”
“A cup or a phonograph or—or something like that.”
“Me for a phonograph!” laughed Caspar. “Now, when can we play? Of course, we’ll go over to your field. Have to, anyway. How about two weeks from Saturday?”
“That’s the day I was going to suggest,” replied Dick.
“That’s all right for us. We had a game scheduled with a nine from the Ocean House at Traskville, but they telephoned the other day that they couldn’t make up a team. That gives What’s-his-name, your newspaper friend, a fortnight to work up the excitement. And I’ll bet you he will do it!”
“I guess there’s no doubt about that,” replied Dick. “That’s settled, then, and I’ll let Potter know. Did I tell you he wanted to get the Mayor to declare a holiday and have the stores close?”
“Great Scott, no!” chuckled Caspar. “He’s a wonder. Say, why don’t you suggest to him that it would be a bully idea to have the Governor issue a proclamation? Wonder if the New York stock market will close, Lovering.”
“It will if Potter thinks of it,” laughed Dick. “Well, I must be going. I’ll see you again next week and we’ll arrange about an umpire.”
“Anumpire!” scoffed Caspar. “We’ll have to have two of them for this game; one at the plate and one on bases. Maybe your friend Potter can persuade President Johnson to officiate. This is going to be some game, Lovering!”
“It’s going to be a circus,” replied Dick. “I dare say they’ll be selling popcorn and peanuts there!”
“Sure to! Well, so long. Tell Potter I’m crazy about it. By the way, how are you and young Townsend getting on? Loring told me yesterday that the kid thinks you’re about the finest thing that ever walked on—I mean——”
“Ever hobbled on two crutches,” laughed Dick. “Well, Harold and I pull together pretty well these days. The boy is really working like a slave, Billings. I didn’t think he could do it.”
“He’s a heap more decent than he was the first of the season. You always wanted to kick him then. Now he behaves like a real fellow. I suppose he’s told you he is our official scorer now? He doesn’t do so badly, either. If you criticize his way of scoring he looks at you haughtily and says, ‘This is the way Lovering does it, and he knows!’”
“You’ll have to lay the blame on me, then, if your scorer doesn’t do you justice, Billings. Good-bye!”
It was Fudge who most delighted in the sensational aspect of the third contest with Rutter’s Point. Fudge loved excitement and color and romance, and for that reason theReporter’sdaily items about the soul-stirring event filled him with joy. He started a scrap-book and almost filled it with the amazing articles that appeared from Mr. Potter’s feverish and versatile pen. On the morning after Dick’s call on Caspar Billings theReporterblazed forth at the top of the third column of the first page as follows:
THIRD GAME AGREED ON
CLEARFIELD AND RUTTER’S POINT TO PLAY OFF
TIE ON AUG. 27—LOCAL CHAMPIONSHIP AT
STAKE—WHAT CAPTAINS SAY.
What the captains said was that they expected a close game and didn’t care to predict the winner. At least, that’s what they really said. In Mr. Potter’s account they talked whole paragraphs and said a lot more. Gordon read his remarks with astonishment and began to wonder whether he had not possibly said all those things after all!
“Dick took Louise to the game on Saturday”
“Dick took Louise to the game on Saturday”
Dick took Louise to the game on Saturday and did not have to go by way of the Common. Fortunately, several of Louise’s girl friends were there and Dick’s frequent absences from her side were not so noticeable. Hemlock Camp presented a husky, sun-browned dozen of young athletes who, led by a clever captain, played the sort of baseball one reads of. The Camp’s pitcher was something of a marvel and soon had Dick’s charges eating out of his hand, to use Harold’s expression. The contest developed into a pitcher’s battle in which Tom had slightly the worst of it and which Hemlock Camp ultimately won by the score of 8 to 6. If the game was not quite so interesting as some previous contests, it was at least nearly free of errors and full of fast, clean playing. Dick regretted on the way home that Louise had seen a defeat instead of a victory, but Louise declared that she had enjoyed it all very much.
“You must come a week from to-day,” said Dick. “Lesterville is coming to play us a return game and that will be close and exciting, I think. Would you care to?”
“Yes, indeed, only we’ll be at the Point then. Still, I could come over on the trolley, couldn’t I? I’ll get Morris to come with me. I wouldn’t think of having you come way over there for me, Dick.”
Dick expressed his entire willingness to go to the Point and escort her to town, but Louise refused to allow it. “If you’ll come and see us during the game it will do just as well,” she said. Dick didn’t think so, but he said nothing.
The mass meeting to take action on securing a new athletic field came off that evening in the High School assembly hall and, after much discussion, the meeting endorsed the committee’s plan to lease Tilden’s meadow for a term of two years. The committee reported that it had a balance on hand of twenty-eight dollars and forty-six cents and asked for more money. It was voted to appoint canvassers to visit the students and the graduates, and, if not enough money was secured from them, to ask the public to assist. Dick found himself one of the committee on subscriptions. Lanny was another. They sympathized with each other on their way home and were gibed at by Gordon and Fudge. Fudge offered Dick five cents then and there, and, his offer being unexpectedly accepted, had to borrow the nickel from Gordon.
The next Monday theReporterannounced that a silver cup was to be donated by the merchants as a prize for the team winning the baseball game and that it would be on exhibition all next week in the window of Wetherell’s jewelry store. Tuesday afternoon Mr. Potter called on Dick with a proof of the poster which theReporterwas getting out. It was a gay piece of work in red and green ink and well calculated to attract the eye. In the center was a picture of a batsman with a flashing eye and a poised bat. That was printed in red. The lettering was in green and announced: “Championship Baseball! Clearfield vs. Rutter’s Point, High School Field, Saturday, September third, two-thirty o’clock. Music by Nagel’s Band. Admission 50 Cents, Reserved Seats 75 Cents. Tickets at Howland’s Drug Store, and at the Field before the game.”
“We’re going to use a heavy cardboard stock,” explained Mr. Potter, “and we’ll strike off a hundred of ’em. We’re going to charge you just what the stock and the labor cost us and no more.”
“What about the score-cards?” asked Dick.
“Won’t cost you a cent. I’ve got about a dozen advertisements and those will pay for the cards. Another thing we’re going to do is to run an ad of the game on Thursday, Friday and Saturday of next week.”
“That’s very kind,” murmured Dick. “You really think folks will pay seventy-five cents for seats? Wouldn’t it be better to make the prices fifty cents and a quarter?”
“I don’t think so, Lovering. We want ’em to understand that what they’re going to see is a real game of ball. They’ll pay the price all right. That reminds me of another thing. How would it do for you fellows to get hold of a crackerjack pitcher for this game? You could get one for thirty dollars or so. There’s Lafferty, of Providence, for instance. I dare say he’d twirl for you for twenty-five and his expenses. He’s a corker, too! I’ve seen him work.”
“I guess not,” replied Dick. “I think we’ll stick to home talent. It seems a bit fairer.”
“Well, just as you say. This fellow Mason, though, is pretty good, and everyone would like to see the home team win that game. Better think it over. If you change your mind you let me know and I’ll attend to the matter for you. I suppose you chaps are keeping up practice pretty well?”
“Yes, we practice every day except when there’s a game.”
“That’s the ticket! You play Lesterville next Saturday, don’t you? Well, I’ll give a good write-up of the game on Monday. Got to keep the excitement going.”
When the newspaper man had gone Dick went out to the porch and sank into his favorite chair beside the little table. He was tired and the day was a scorching hot one. There had been a solid three hours that morning with Harold Townsend and, although Harold had done his share without a whimper, it had been pretty hard for teacher as well as pupil. Dick closed his eyes and frowned in the green shadow of the vines. Was Harold going to make it? There were times when Dick was sure that he would, but also there were moments, usually when, as to-day, he was fagged out, when he had his doubts. If Harold could remember what he had learned when the time came he would undoubtedly get through, but there was always the danger that he wouldn’t. Dick sighed. At least, though, he reflected, his frown fading, he was doing his honest best for the boy. And—and here the frown quite disappeared—he had made a nice lot of money that was greatly needed. He would, he told himself, have enough by the middle of the month, when Harold went off to Rifle Point to put the summer’s work to the test, to pay for a new heater for the house. That was the most necessary improvement of the many that were needed. For the last two or three years the old furnace, never satisfactory, had quite failed to keep them comfortable in cold weather. Dick was wondering how much the hardware man would allow him for it when the gate clicked and Gordon and Morris Brent came up the path.
Morris still used his crutches, but, as he explained, the doctor had told him yesterday that he might lay them aside in another week. “And I’ll be mighty glad to,” he added. “They’re rotten things to have to get about with.” Then his eye fell on Dick’s crutches, leaning within reach, and he colored. “I guess I oughtn’t to kick, though,” he added hastily.
Dick smiled. “They are awkward if you’re not used to them, I suppose, Morris. I’m glad you’re getting on so well. Gordon says you’re going to move to the Point this week.”
Morris nodded. “Wednesday,” he said. “I want you and Gordon to come out some evening and have dinner. Will you?”
“Why, yes, I’d be glad to, Morris. Thank you.”
“Then I’ll settle on a day with the folks. Mother told me to tell you she wanted very much to have you. Louise, too. How would Saturday do?”
“All right, I think. We have a game Saturday, but I dare say it will be over by five. What time do you dine?”
“Seven. That’ll give you heaps of time. I’m going to fetch Louise in to see the game and we can all go back together.” Morris turned to Gordon. “That suit you?” he asked.
“Finely. Could we get the quarter of six car, do you think? I’d like mighty well to get a swim before dinner. Got an extra bathing suit out there?”
“You can take mine. What do you want to do with this?” Morris held up a book in a red cloth cover.
“Oh, I brought that over for you, Dick,” said Gordon. “That is, I borrowed it and he brought it. Thought you might like to look it over.”
“Much obliged,” said Dick, accepting the volume and reading the title rather puzzledly. “‘The Automobile; it’s Care and Management.’ Er—what——” He looked from Gordon to Morris. “What’s the idea, fellows? I’m much obliged, of course, but why should I want to study up on autos, please?”
“Oh, you like to know how to do everything,” replied Gordon carelessly. “That’s mighty interesting, isn’t it, Morris?”
“Great!” agreed the other enthusiastically. Dick still looked puzzled, but opened the book and glanced at two or three of its pages.
“All right, I’ll have a go at it some time. It does look interesting. Thank you.” He laid the volume on the table. “What ever became of that car of yours, Morris?”
“It’s home. I’m going to sell it. I paid Stacey the rest of the money I owed him the other day. He’s a mean little runt. Don’t want to buy it, do you, Dick?”
Dick smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I couldn’t afford it. It would be sort of handy for me to get around in, though, wouldn’t it? Look here!” He viewed the two boys searchingly. “You fellows didn’t bring me this book expecting I’d get daffy about automobiles and buy that one of yours, did you?”
“Of course not,” disclaimed Gordon hurriedly. “Besides, Morris has a buyer for that car already. That is, he thinks he has.”
“All right. Still I don’t see why you think I want to read up on automobiles,” said Dick. “What’s the use of knowing how to run a car and grease its joints if I haven’t got one and couldn’t run it if I had?”
“Couldn’t run it! Of course you could run it,” said Gordon. “Couldn’t he, Morris?”
“Easy! It’s nothing to do. I could show you how in two days. Why——”
But at that moment Morris encountered Gordon’s warning look and subsided. Dick stared perplexedly.
“I think you chaps are crazed by the heat,” he said. “You’ve got automobiles on the brain. What you need, Gordie, is to get out and play ball. It must be about time to start for the field, too. By the way, Harry telephoned over at noon that he couldn’t get out to-day.”
“Again? I’ll bet anything Harry’s father isn’t keeping him away from practice. He’s just lazy. I guess we’d better come down on him with that twenty-five cent fine!”
“I’ll go over with you and look on if you don’t mind,” said Morris. “You can’t call me one of the enemy now, you know.”
“Glad to have you,” responded Dick. “I’ll put this book inside and we’ll start along. We’ll make a fine appearance,” he laughed. “Two cripples and a crazy fellow!”
A big crowd turned out the following Saturday for the Lesterville game. As a manufacturing town Lesterville was something of a rival to Clearfield and baseball lovers of the latter place were eager to see the Lesterville players humbled. By half-past two—the game was scheduled for three o’clock—the stand was well filled. Dick’s charges reached the field soon after the half-hour and began practice. They had, however, scarcely begun throwing the balls around when there was a commotion at the gate and Tim Turner was seen excitedly gesticulating toward Dick, who, near first base, was watching the team. Dick hurried across to the gate and found Tim trying to exclude a short, red-faced man in blue overalls.
“He says he wants to get in to open the big gate,” explained Tim. “He says they’re going to begin work in here. They’ve got a cart down the street there and a lot of men and——”
“Sure,” said the man in overalls. “We’re going to plow in here. Them’s the orders.”
“But you can’t do it now,” exclaimed Dick. “We’re going to play in half an hour. Those folks on the stand have paid to see the game. Can’t you wait until Monday?”
“We cannot,” replied the man emphatically. “Mr. Brent give me the contract to build the street through here and me time’s valuable. You’ll have to play your game somewhere else, I’m thinking.”
“But we can’t do that! There isn’t any other place! Look here, Mr. Brent gave us permission to use this field and I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to come and break up our game like this. The other fellows have come all the way from Lesterville to play us.”
“’Tis no affair of mine, young feller.” The man tried to push by Dick and Tim, but many of the audience, attracted by the argument, had gathered around, and these, taking Dick’s side, stood immovably in the way. The contractor showed anger. “Now you fellers let me through here till I open them gates down there,” he blustered. “If you don’t we’ll break ’em down.”
“Try it!” said someone eagerly, and a laugh of approval went up.
“I’ll get the cops here if you make trouble for me an’ me men! An’ if it’s trouble you’re lookin’ for——”
“Oh, run away till the game’s over, can’t you?” asked another of the throng. “Be a sport! What’s the good of busting up the fun?”
“An’ me losin’ money while you fellers play ball, eh? What for would I be doin’ that? You leave me get to the gates.”
“Nothing doing, friend! Better back out!”
“Hold on a minute,” said Dick quietly. “Will you wait fifteen minutes, Mister—er——”
“Me name’s Mullin,” growled the contractor. “What’ll I be waitin’ fer?”
“To give us a chance to see Mr. Brent about it.”
“I got me contract, an’——”
“I know,” said Dick soothingly. “That’s all right. You’ve got a perfect right to come in here and do whatever you’ve got to do, but it’s going to put us in an awful mess. Give us time to find Mr. Brent and see what he says about it, won’t you?”
“How long will it take?”
“Not long. Say fifteen minutes. He’s probably here in town. I’ll ask his son. He’s over there in the stand.” Dick wasn’t at all certain that Morris had arrived, but he risked it. The contractor hesitated and finally nodded surlily.
“All right. I’ll give you till three o’clock. Then I’m goin’ in here, an’ if anyone tries to stop me——”
“I understand. Thank you. Tim, pass the gentleman inside until we settle this.”
“I’ll wait here,” said the contractor grimly.
Dick hurried across to the stand and searched for Morris. Presently he found him, with Louise at his side, halfway up the slope.
“Is your father in town, Morris?” he asked anxiously after he had greeted Louise.
“I don’t know. What’s wanted, Dick?”
Dick explained hurriedly and Morris whistled. “He may be at his office or he may be on his way out to the Point. He doesn’t usually stay in town on Saturday afternoons in summer. I’ll see if I can find him, though. Only thing is, it’ll take me a long time to hobble over to his office.”
“I can do it quicker, I guess. Or, hold on! I know! I’ll get Gordon to go. I’ll be back presently.”
Dick hurried down to the diamond and summoned Gordon from first base. Practice was still going on, but in a desultory way, for most eyes had been turned toward the gate. As quickly as he could Dick explained what had happened. “He will do it for you if he will for anyone,” ended Dick. “See if he won’t call off the workmen until after the game or until Monday, Gordon. Morris says he may be at his office. If he isn’t he’s gone home to the Point. Try the telephone in that case. And try to get back here by three. That chap won’t wait much longer.”
Gordon nodded and sped toward the gate just as the Lesterville team came onto the field. He was in his playing clothes, but there was no time to change them and he didn’t, as a matter of fact, give much thought to them. It was five blocks to Mr. Brent’s office in the bank building, and two of the blocks were long ones. Gordon did the distance in five minutes and leaped up the marble stairway to find a clerk just locking the outer door of the office.
“Mr. Brent?” he gasped.
“Gone home,” replied the clerk, looking curiously at Gordon’s attire and perspiring countenance. “He left about five minutes ago. You might catch him before he gets the trolley.”
Gordon raced off again and fortune was with him. Only a block down F Street he descried Mr. Brent in front of him walking briskly toward the car line and tapping the pavement with his cane. Gordon overtook him just over the Main Street crossing. Morris’ father turned at the boy’s breathless hail.
“Ah, that you, Merrick? How do you do! Want to see me?”
“Yes, sir, please!” gasped Gordon. “Mr. Brent, they’re trying to get into the field, sir, to start work on it this afternoon. And we’re playing Lesterville and there’s a big crowd there, sir——”
“You mean that Mullin is starting work there? Well, that’s all right, my boy. I told him to.”
“Yes, sir, of course, but—but couldn’t he wait until Monday, sir? We are going to play Lesterville, and they’re here and there’s a lot of folks paid to see the game.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it? Why, I don’t know, Merrick. What does Mullin say? It’s his affair now. He has the contract for the work, you see.”
“He says he won’t wait, Mr. Brent. But if you told him to——”
“But really, Merrick, I haven’t any right to interfere!”
“It—it’s your field, sir! And you said we could use it!”
Mr. Brent frowned. “I said you could use it until I was ready to put the street through, Merrick. Wasn’t that it?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose so,” replied Gordon dejectedly. Mr. Brent drew his big gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, snapped it open, frowned at it and snapped it shut again.
“As a matter of fact, Merrick, if the city council hadn’t held me up on that business you’d have lost your field weeks ago. You ought to be thankful for that. We’re late on starting that work as it is and I prefer not to have any more delay. I’m sorry, but you boys will have to play your game somewhere else.” He smiled, dropped his watch back to his pocket and turned toward the car line.
“There isn’t any other place, sir,” said Gordon sadly.
“No other place? Why, there must be lots of places! I’ve seen boys playing ball all sorts of places. There’s a back-lot behind my offices, now. I’ve seen them playing there day after day—and making a lot of noise, too. Come now, Merrick, you’re fibbing a little, aren’t you?”
“No, sir, really,” Gordon answered earnestly. “You can’t play a real game of baseball on a small lot, sir. I guess—I guess you’ve never seen one, Mr. Brent.”
“Seen a game of ball? N-no, I suppose not. I thought all you needed was an empty lot or a back-yard, Merrick. You say there isn’t any other place?”
“No, sir. We’re going to lease a piece of ground out toward the Point, but we haven’t got it yet, and, anyway, it isn’t ready for playing on.”
“Too bad,” said Mr. Brent sympathetically. “But, really, Merrick, you ought not to ask me to stop work in order that you can play baseball. That—that’s a little too much, eh?”
“I suppose so, sir,” acknowledged Gordon dejectedly. “Only—we thought—maybe a half a day wouldn’t make much difference——”
“A half a day might make a lot of difference. Minutes count, my boy. You’ll learn that some day. No, no, I can’t interfere with Mullin. It’s his job. If he wants to accommodate you, all right, but you mustn’t expect me to interfere in his affairs, Merrick. Sorry. I’d like to oblige you.”
Gordon stared at the pavement. Mr. Brent coughed, turned away and hesitated. “Well, good-day, Merrick,” he said finally.
“Mr. Brent!” Gordon raised his head, his cheeks rather red. “Mr. Brent, you said once that—that if I ever wanted a favor—you——”
“Hm; yes, I know I did.”
“Well, sir, I’d like awfully to have you do this for us.”
“Think that will square accounts, Merrick?”
“Why—why, you don’t owe me anything, sir,” stammered Gordon, “but you said——”
“Yes, and I’ll keep my word.” Mr. Brent sighed and looked regretfully down the street. “All right. Come on, then. I’ll walk over with you and see what can be done.”
“Thank you,” Gordon murmured as he fell into step beside the man. “It—it’s awfully good of you, sir.”
“H’m,” replied Mr. Brent dryly. “You evidently don’t value your service to me very highly, Merrick. It doesn’t occur to you, apparently, that you might ask a good deal more than this in return for what you did for Morris.”
“I—I never meant to ask for anything,” murmured Gordon.
“Hm. More fool you, then!”
There was no more conversation. Mr. Brent walked briskly and it was but a minute or two after three when they reached the field. It was evident that they had got there none too soon, for the big gates halfway along the board fence were open and a wagon with a plow in it was drawn partly through it. That it was not all the way through was due to the fact that the audience, or a good part of it, had gathered at the point of attack and was doing its best to repel the contractor’s men. Shouts and jeers and laughter came from the scene. At the ticket gate young Tim Turner, afraid to leave his post of duty, was peering longingly toward the turmoil. Mr. Brent strode more quickly.
“Hm,” he said, “I don’t see that I was needed much, Merrick.”
Mullin, the contractor, very red of face and angry of eye, was berating the jeering crowd with the rough side of his tongue. Five laborers, two of them clutching the bridles of the horses, looked ready and eager for a fight. At sight of Mr. Brent a cheer went up from the crowd inside the gates, and Dick, anxious-eyed, fell back from where he had been vainly trying to avert trouble. Mr. Brent walked up to the contractor.
“Get out, Mullin,” he said. “Leave it until Monday.”
Mullin scowled hard. “An’ who’ll pay me for the time I’ll be losin’, Mr. Brent?” he demanded angrily.
“I will,” was the reply. “You ought to have seen, anyway, that the field was being used. Get your team out now. I’ll settle for your loss.”
“That’s all right, then,” replied the contractor. “All I wants is me rights. Back ’em out, Jerry.” And amidst the jeers of the spectators Mullin and his men retired, the gates were closed again and barred and, laughing and jostling, the defenders hurried back to secure their seats before others appropriated them, leaving Dick and the ball players and a few still curious ones at the gate. Among the latter was Morris, and it was Morris who, grinning broadly, came forward on his crutches.
“Good stuff, dad,” he said approvingly.
Mr. Brent viewed him without enthusiasm. “You here?” he asked. “Where is your sister?”
“In the stand, sir. I——”
“You’d better go back and look after her, it seems to me,” said Mr. Brent grimly. Morris’s grin faded and, with a wink at Gordon, he hobbled back toward the seats.
“We’re awfully much obliged, sir,” said Dick. “If it hadn’t been for all these people, who had paid to see the game——”
“Of course. I understand. You needn’t thank me. Thank Merrick.”
The players went back to their places, Lesterville to the diamond to finish her warming up, and Clearfield to the bench. Gordon was left practically alone with Mr. Brent, even Dick deserting him. From beyond the fence came the angry bellow of the contractor’s orders. “Leave the team here, Jerry,” he was saying. “We’ll be back Monday, an’ I’d like to see the man that’ll be stoppin’ me then!”
“Wouldn’t you like to see the game, Mr. Brent, now that you’re here?” asked Gordon at last. He ought to be with his team-mates, but he didn’t want to walk away and leave Mr. Brent standing alone there by the gate. The latter, who had been looking curiously at the renewed activity of the Lesterville players, now glanced at his watch, grunted and nodded.
“I might as well stay awhile,” he replied. “Where do you pay?”
“You needn’t pay, sir. We’re glad to have you see the game.”
“I prefer to pay,” was the reply as Mr. Brent followed Gordon toward the stand. “Here, son!” He had caught sight of Tim Turner at the ticket gate and walked across to him. “What’s the price?”
“T-Twenty-five cents, sir,” stammered Tim.
Mr. Brent found two dimes and a nickel among his change, handed them to the awed Tim and went on. “Where’s Morris?” he asked. “I’ll sit with him a few minutes.”
Gordon didn’t know where Morris was, but he called to Dick and Dick pointed him out. Then Gordon piloted Mr. Brent up the stand and by dint of much moving and shoving a place was made for him and Gordon, muttering his thanks again and getting a non-committal nod from Mr. Brent, took himself off.
“I’m so glad, papa,” said Louise gratefully. “It would have been horrid if they couldn’t have played the game, wouldn’t it?”
“Would it?” Mr. Brent smiled and settled his cane between his knees. “Who are those young fellows out there, Morris?”
“Those are the Lesterville players, sir. They’re warming up for the game.”
“Warming up, eh? Then the game hasn’t begun yet?”
“No, sir. They’re coming in now, though. It will start in a minute.”
“Need all this room for a game of ball, do they?”
“Why, of course, papa,” replied Louise. “Sometimes they hit the ball way over by the further fence there!”
“That so? Well, let’s see ’em do it!”
Perhaps a liking for baseball is latent in every American. Otherwise how explain the fact that Mr. Jonathan Brent, who, on his own showing, had never witnessed a game before in his life, watched that one with very evident interest? It was, of course, quite incomprehensible to him at first and both Morris and Louise had to do a lot of patient explaining. But by the end of the second inning their father had a very fair notion of what was going on, although he still was puzzled by many of the incidents. As when a Lesterville player tried to reach second after Will Scott had captured a foul behind third base and was thrown out by a scant foot. If it was a foul, argued Mr. Brent, that fellow on first shouldn’t have left his base. No sooner was that explained—by Morris, since Louise’s knowledge of baseball wasn’t sufficient for the task—than Tom Haley was unfortunate enough to hit the Lesterville right fielder on the elbow. The umpire waved the squirming, dancing batter to first and Mr. Brent exclaimed: “Now, what’s that for, Morris? He didn’t hit the ball, did he?”
At the end of the fourth inning, when Clearfield had managed to bat out a two run lead, Mr. Brent looked at his watch and announced his intention of leaving. “Guess you can finish this without me now,” he said. “Mother will be wondering where I’ve gone to.”
“No, she won’t,” replied Louise. “Mama’s gone to Mrs. Grey’s this afternoon. Do stay and see just two more innings, papa.”
“Yes, don’t leave us now, dad,” said Morris. “You never can tell what’s going to happen in a ball game!”
Mr. Brent frowned, fidgeted and finally leaned back again. “Well,” he said, “I’ll see one more turn for each of ’em.”
But at the end of the seventh when, after Lesterville had gone ahead in the fifth, Clearfield came back with two doubles and a base on balls and evened up the score, Mr. Brent was still there and showed no signs of leaving. In fact, although we have only Morris’ word for it—Louise remaining smilingly reticent on the point—when, in the eighth, with three Lesterville players on bases and only one out, Harry Bryan and Pete Robey executed a lightning double-play that retired the side without a tally, Mr. Brent’s voice was to be heard with the others that went up in a shout of delight! And even Louise affirmed that, in the tenth inning, when Gordon rapped out the single that sent Harry Bryan across with the winning run Mr. Brent pounded approvingly with his cane and declared that “that Merrick boy was a smart one!”
Ten to nine was the final tally and Dick and Harold Townsend, who had sat beside the manager during the entire game and kept a perfectly correct score—barring a mistake or two quickly set right by a surreptitious glance at Dick’s columns—closed their score-books with delighted slams. Revenge is sweet, and this had been fairly won.
Later on Louise, Morris, Dick, Gordon and the unescapable Harold journeyed together by trolley car to the Point and talked the game over with a wealth of detail and enthusiasm. There was a very merry party at the Brents’ cottage that evening. Mr. Brent pretended to have found the game very tiresome and declared that he didn’t see any sense in grown-up boys wasting their time on such nonsense, and the young folks, and Mrs. Brent, too, she having heard of her husband’s doings, pretended that they believed him. After dinner Gordon, who had failed to get his swim in the ocean before, borrowed Morris’ suit and went in by moonlight. The cottage almost overhung the waves and the others, on the veranda, watched him glide in and out of the moon’s path and supplied him with a lot of doubtless excellent advice on the subject of swimming. Still later, with Gordon once more among them, Louise brought out her mandolin and they sang songs. Attracted by the music, Loring Townsend and Caspar Billings joined the company and added their voices to the chorus. Then they talked some more; of the day’s game, of the next Saturday’s important contest—and theReporter’slatest efforts—of school and a dozen other things.
Dick and Gordon got the last car back to Clearfield, both comfortably tired and sleepy, and Gordon walked home with Dick. It was just before they reached the Levering gate that Dick sprung a surprise on his friend.
“I’ve been thinking,” announced Dick, “that there’s one mighty good use we can put our money to, Gordie.”
“What money?” asked Gordon, with a yawn.
“Why, the money we’ve made on the games. You see, if we have the crowd next week that Potter thinks we’ll have we ought to be about two hundred and fifty dollars in pocket.”
“Easy! Then what?”
“Present it to the Athletic Committee to build a track on the new field. How’s that for a scheme?”
“Why—er—oh, that’s fine!” But Gordon’s tone didn’t sound terribly enthusiastic!
Mr. Potter’s prediction came true. By Monday Clearfield was undeniably baseball-mad. Even middle-aged and serious-minded merchants discussed the probable outcome of the third game between the home team and the Pointers when they met each other on the street or when they hobnobbed over the Fifty Cent Merchant’s Lunch at Martin’s Café. The younger element of the town was wrought up to a fine pitch of excitement. Those of its sterner sex who could do so went out to watch the Clearfield team practice in the afternoon, while the gentler sex, especially those with High School affiliations, became wildly partisan. A dozen or more girls, led by Grace Lovering, got together and manufactured a gorgeous pennant of purple and white silk, some four feet long, which, when completed, was hung behind the silver trophy in Wetherell’s window and, like the handsome cup, was to be presented to the winner. It was Lanny who made the suggestion that the pennant was much too good looking to become the property of the Pointers and that it should be a perpetual trophy to be played for each year. The girls approved the suggestion and theReporteramended its previous statement regarding the flag. The trolley company announced a fare of one-half the usual rate for the round-trip on Saturday between Clearfield and near-by towns, and, while Mr. Potter failed to prevail on the Mayor to declare a public holiday, he did persuade the shop-keepers to agree to close their places of business between the hours of two and five. As a matter of fact, with few exceptions all of them were glad to do so, for they wanted to see that game as much as anyone!
There was usually a crowd in front of Wetherell’s jewelry store that week. In the front row one found a half-dozen or so of small urchins with their noses pressed closely against the plate-glass, while behind them stood a scattering of older persons admiring, criticizing and audibly reading the engraved inscription which informed the world that the cup was to be “Presented by the Retail Merchants of Clearfield to the——Baseball Club, Winners of the Clearfield Championship, September Third, Nineteen Hundred and——.” It was a very attractive affair, that trophy; twelve inches high, with a fluted base and two scrolled handles and a polished ebony stand beneath it. It was generally conceded that the merchants had done themselves proud. TheReportergave a picture of it and a half-column list of those who had subscribed.
The town was liberally scattered with the red and green posters on Monday. They glared and shouted at one from every window. One was not allowed to forget for an instant that on the following Saturday afternoon the greatest and most important athletic event in the history of Clearfield was to be witnessed at the High School Field for the ridiculously moderate price of fifty cents—or seventy-five if you wanted to be sure of a seat!
All this in spite of the fact that from every indication there would be no field to play on!
Mr. Potter was at Dick’s at a quarter past seven that morning. He was filled with dismay and wrath, and some of the things he said about Mr. Jonathan Brent would not look at all nice in print! At seven-thirty-five he hurried away to find Mr. Brent. At a few minutes before nine he was back again, literally frothing at the mouth.
“Say!” he almost shouted in response to Dick’s anxious query. “Say! He didn’t say a thing! He let me talk my head off, that is all he did! I told him that public opinion would be against him if he allowed that field to be demolished before the game, that Clearfield would be up in arms, that theReporterwould deal editorially with the matter and not mince its words!” Mr. Potter faltered then.
“What did he say to that?” asked Dick. “He must have said something!”
“He said,” replied the newspaper man subduedly, “that he controlled three-fifths of the stock of theReporterand he guessed the paper wouldn’t be too hard on him!”
Dick grinned. “Does he?”
Mr. Potter nodded sheepishly. “Yes, but I’d forgotten it. After that I had to—well, I had to tone down a bit. I asked him if it wouldn’t be possible to delay work on the field until after Saturday. I told him about all the advertising that had been done and how everyone was looking forward to the game and all that, you know.”
“Yes? And he wouldn’t agree?”
“He said, ‘Young man, get out!’ Just that and not another word!”
“Then I guess it’s all off,” said Dick regretfully. “It’s too bad. Of course, we might play the game at the Point——”
“We couldn’t get the crowd over there. No, sir, it’s got to be played here. You’re certain there isn’t another field anywhere?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“Then there’s just one thing to be done. It’s a last resort and it doesn’t promise well, but I’ll try it.”
“What?” asked Dick.
Mr. Potter sank his voice. “See the contractor,” he said, “and buy him off. For a hundred dollars——”
“A hundred dollars!” exclaimed his hearer. “Where’d we get it?”
“Pshaw, we’ll clear up two hundred easy if we can pull the game off!”
“Well,” replied Dick doubtfully, “but even so I don’t believe Mullin would dare to do it.”
“Supposing, though, his men went on strike?” suggested the other with a wink. “He couldn’t help himself then, could he?”
“N-no, but—I don’t like it, Mr. Potter. It’s pretty under-hand, it seems to me. After all, we don’thaveto play that game, and——”
“Don’t have to! You bet you have to! Look at that cup! Look at all the printing we’ve done; posters, score-cards, tickets! Look at——” But words failed him and he seized his hat from the table. “Here, I’ve got to get busy! That Irishman may be plowing up the field right now! See you later, Lovering!”
And Mr. Potter dashed off again.
Lanny called up a few minutes later to ask about developments and after that Tom Haley wanted information. Dick had no hopeful news to impart, however. Gordon and Fudge came around just as Dick was starting for the Point—by way of Brentwood—and walked with him as far as the corner of A Street. There Gordon drew Fudge back and reminded him that three was a crowd. Dick had the grace to blush.
“Oh, come on,” he said awkwardly. “Don’t be a silly chump!”
“Thanks,” murmured Gordon sweetly, “but we wouldn’t think of intruding. Come along, Fudge.”
“Wh-wh-what’s up?” asked Fudge when Dick had gone on. “Wh-why didn’t you w-w-want to go along?”
“I can’t explain,” replied Gordon gently. “You’re too young, Fudge, to hear such things.”
Whereupon Fudge impolitely requested Gordon to “ch-ch-chase himself!”
Mr. Potter was back again after lunch, mildly incensed at Dick because he hadn’t been able to find him before. “Say, there’s something funny about this business,” he confided, sinking into a chair on the porch and mopping his forehead vigorously. “I went over to the field after I left you this morning and there wasn’t a thing doing. You said Mullin left his wagon there, didn’t you?” Dick nodded. “Well, it’s gone now. I tried to get him on the ’phone and his wife said he was out of town. What do you make of that?”
Dick shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe Mr. Brent thought better of it after you left him. You’re certain the wagon was gone?”
“Sure! I walked all around the field and went inside. There wasn’t a scratch there and there wasn’t even a wheelbarrow in sight outside. Now, what does that mean? I’d call the old chap up and ask him, only—well, frankly, Lovering, I’m afraid I’ll lose my job! I suppose you wouldn’t want to get him on the telephone and ask him about it?”
“I’d a lot rather not,” owned Dick. “I guess I’m just about as scared of him as you are.”
“But he can’t hurt you! With me it’s different. If he ever tells Stevens I went to his office and read the riot-act to him Stevens will hand me a ticket and a week’s pay!”
“I guess Gordon would do it if I asked him to,” said Dick after a moment’s thought. “I’ll see if I can find him on the ’phone.”
But Gordon was not at home. Mrs. Merrick said she believed he had gone somewhere with Fudge.
“I’ll see him at four o’clock,” said Dick. “I told the fellows we’d meet at the field and hold practice if we could find room there. I don’t see why—Excuse me a minute, will you?”
The telephone had rung and Dick took his crutches again and once more swung himself into the house.
“This you, Dick?” asked the voice at the other end of the line. “This is Morris. Say, Dick, I had a funny message from my dad a few minutes ago. He telephoned from the office. ‘You can tell that Merrick boy,’ says he, ‘that he can go on and use the field. Tell him to come and see me Wednesday. I’m going to Hartford at three and I’ll be back Wednesday noon.’ That’s great, isn’t it?”
“Fine! Do you suppose he means that we can have it until after Saturday, Morris?”
“Sure! Anyway, it sounds so, doesn’t it? And his wanting to see Gordon makes it look that way, too. I’ve been trying to find Gordon, but his mother says he’s out somewhere. If you see him get him to call me up here at the Point, Dick.”
“I will. That’s bully news, Morris, and your father’s a brick! I’ve just been talking with Mr. Potter. He’s all het up about it,” laughed Dick. “He will be tickled to death! So long, Morris, and thanks. I’ll tell Gordon when I see him about four.”
Dick hung up the receiver and went back to the porch to be confronted by Mr. Potter’s eager and questioning countenance.
“I couldn’t help hearing what you said,” he exclaimed. “Has he come around?”
“I think so. He telephoned Morris to tell Gordon that we could go on and use the field and that Gordon was to call and see him on Wednesday. He’s going to Hartford this afternoon. I guess it’s all right.”
Mr. Potter heaved a vast sigh of relief. “Well, I hope so. I want to put this thing through now that I’ve started, Lovering. I’ll breathe easier, though, when I hear for certain. If he changes his mind again about Wednesday we’ll be in a worse pickle than ever!”
“I don’t think he will, Mr. Potter. I guess he’s concluded to let us use the field. If he hadn’t Mullin would be at work this minute. If I were you, though, I’d hear what Mullin says.”
“I will, just as soon as he gets home.” Mr. Potter looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. “I must be off. Say, that’s a load off my mind, all right! Now I’ll go ahead and close with Nagel for the music. He wants twenty dollars for two hours. I guess that’s fair enough. By the way, can you let me have your batting-list to-morrow? We want to print those score-cards about Wednesday. And, say, if you hear anything more call me up at the office. If I’m not there they’ll take a message. Bye!”
“I wonder,” mused Gordon when Dick met him at practice an hour later, “what he wants to see me about.”
“Well, it’s about the field, I suppose,” said Dick. “Don’t look so frightened, Gordie. He won’t eat you!”
Gordon laughed and then shook his head ruefully. “I know, but that man scares me to death. I don’t know why, either. He’s always been as nice as pie to me. I guess it’s his eyes. They sort of go right through you and come out the other side!”
There was a big crowd of onlookers there that afternoon and the Clearfield Baseball Club performed to enthusiastic applause. Dick had sought to arrange a game for Wednesday afternoon but had found no team that could or would play them, which was a matter of regret since Clearfield needed harder practice than it could get without an opponent. Rutter’s Point, which had been playing two games a week steadily, was to meet Logan on Wednesday at the Point.
“I wish we had got them,” said Dick. “They’d give us just about the sort of a game we need.”
“Maybe,” suggested Jack Tappen, “they’d swap dates with us if we asked them. They won’t get any money at the Point, you know.”
“Yes, they will,” piped up Harold, who had come over to watch practice at Dick’s invitation. “They pass a hat around and sometimes get ten or twelve dollars.”
“Anyway, I don’t care to do a thing like that,” said Dick. “It wouldn’t be exactly square, I guess.”