Barbour Ralph Henry
The Lucky Seventh

When Dick got home after the game his mother told him that a Mr. Potter, from the Reporter, 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 the Reporter, 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 the Reporter will 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 the Reporter wants 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 the Reporter got 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.”

CHAPTER XIX
MR. POTTER GETS BUSY

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 are we going 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. The Reporter contained 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 the Reporter hopes 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 the Clearfield 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.”

“An umpire!” 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 the Reporter’s daily 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 the Reporter blazed 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 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 the Reporter announced 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 the Reporter was 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 5 °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!”