Barbour Ralph Henry
The Lucky Seventh

“Three o’clock, I suppose,” answered Gordon. “That will give us plenty of time to get over on the two-o’clock car and warm up a bit before the game. You might tell him about our field, and say that if they want a return game we’ll play it over here if we can get the use of the field. By the way, that grandstand at the field belongs to the school. We’ll have to move that if we get out. I wish Mr. Brent would be satisfied with all the money he’s got and not go and take our field away from us.”

“So do I. What we want to do, though, is to watch out and be sure he doesn’t swipe the grandstand too!”

“Well, you are rabid!” laughed Gordon. “Still, I don’t know that I blame you. I never knew that about your father, Dickums.”

“Well, don’t repeat it, please. It’s all done with now, and there’s no use talking about it. I don’t – very often. Only sometimes – Well, I get sort of hot under the collar when I think of all the money Jonathan Brent has and how awfully hard we have to scrabble to get along. Good-bye, Mr. Captain.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Manager. I’m not captain, though.”

“You will be,” laughed Dick. “You always are, you know!”

CHAPTER III
A RICH MAN’S SON

Gordon had doubts of finding Morris Brent at home when, shortly after nine o’clock the next morning, he walked up the neat artificial-stone path to the front door of Brentwood. But the maid who responded to his ring assured him that Master Morris was in, and led the way to the gray-and-gold reception room. He decided to take no chances with the spindle-legged, silk-brocaded chairs, and took refuge in front of the mantel, from which place he viewed the gray satin wall panels and dainty luxuries of the apartment with surprise. He didn’t have to wait long, however, for he had only just reached the conclusion that the room was pretty but uncomfortable when footsteps sounded quickly in the hall and a boy a year older than he appeared in the doorway.

“Hello, Gordon! How are you? Say, what did they put you in here for? This room gives me the creeps, doesn’t it you? Come on out on the piazza.”

Gordon followed his host across the hall, through a warm-toned, luxurious but decidedly comfortable library and out of a French door onto a wide porch that was screened and curtained. There were many bright rugs and gayly cushioned easy-chairs here; and tables with blossoming plants and books and magazines on them. From the porch one looked across a carefully kept lawn to where a symmetrically clipped hedge bordered Louise Street. Mr. Brent owned not only the block on which his estate was located, but some eight or nine adjoining blocks besides, his property running from his back line across Troutman, Lafayette, Main, and Common Streets to the river, including, two blocks north, the plot of land which for many years the High School had used as an athletic field. Mr. Brent had laid out the section himself and had named the two cross streets after his son and daughter, Morris and Louise.

Morris was a good-looking youth, with a self-confident air and a somewhat dissatisfied expression. He was tall, carried himself well, dressed rather more expensively than his companions in high school, and was never quite able to forget or allow others to forget that he was Jonathan Brent’s son and heir. But, in spite of that, he was not unpopular, and if there was any snobbishness about him it was unconscious. In fact, there were one or two of his acquaintances in Clearfield to whom he went out of his way to ingratiate himself. Gordon was one and Dick was another. But Gordon had never cared to respond more than half-heartedly to Morris’ advances, while Dick’s attitude we already know.

Morris pulled forward the most comfortable chair for his guest, repeated that he was glad to see him, and for several minutes gave Gordon no chance to state his errand. When he did, however, Morris was as much surprised as Dick had been.

“Dad hasn’t mentioned it to me,” he said, with a frown. “That’s too bad, isn’t it? I don’t see why he needs to cut up that land just now. What’ll we do, Gordon, for a place to play?”

“Dick said he supposed we’d have to go across the river. That would make it pretty far from school, though. But I don’t know of any place in town, do you?”

Morris shook his head, and Gordon went on:

“What I wanted to see you about was to ask if you thought your father would have any objection to our using the field until they began to build on it. I don’t think they’ve done anything there yet. I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind asking your father, Morris.”

Morris hesitated a moment. “I’ll ask him,” he said, at last, “but he and I – well, we aren’t on very good terms just now. Honestly, I think it would be better if you asked him yourself, Gordon. I’m afraid he’d say no to me just to – to be nasty. You see, we had a sort of row about an automobile. He kind of promised last Christmas that he’d get me a runabout this Spring, and when I asked about it he put me off; and so I” – Morris grinned – “I went ahead and got Stacey to order one for me. It came yesterday, and I told dad and he got as mad as a hatter about it. Says I can’t have it now. I’m going to, though. I’ve got some money in the bank, and Stacey says he’ll wait for the rest of it. It’s only six hundred dollars, anyway.”

“Too bad!” murmured Gordon, not very enthusiastically. “Maybe he will change his mind, though.”

“Not he! He isn’t made that way. What are you going to do at the field? Play ball?”

Gordon told about the letter from Caspar Billings and the formation of the ball club. “I suppose,” he ended, “you’ll play with the Point fellows?”

Morris shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose so. I haven’t heard anything about it yet. Caspar’s a friend of mine, though. We don’t move out to the Point until the seventeenth this summer. Dad’s full of business and as grouchy as the dickens. Sis and I have been trying to get mother to spunk up and insist on moving right away, but she won’t. Who’s on your team, Gordon?”

Gordon told him. Morris criticised several of his selections and was infinitely amused at the idea of Fudge Shaw playing. Gordon had an uneasy feeling that Morris perhaps resented not being asked to join. But if Morris held any resentment, he didn’t show it.

“We ought to have some good games,” he said finally and approvingly. “I dare say Caspar will want me to play on his team. You know him, don’t you?”

Gordon was doubtful. “I think I remember him,” he said, “but I’m not sure. What does he look like?”

“Oh, rather a good-looking chap – big, dark hair, plays tennis a lot and is pretty good at it. He lives in a cottage near the hotel, the second in the row at the left. He’s a dandy chap, Billings. I don’t see, though, where he’s going to get enough fellows at the Point to make up a nine, unless there are more there this year than usual. Perhaps he’s got some fellows staying with him. He goes to St. George’s, you know, and last year he brought a couple of friends home with him for a while.”

“Dick went over to the Point this morning to see about coaching a boy who is going to Rifle Point in the Fall,” said Gordon. “He’s going to look up Billings and tell him we’ll play him a week from Saturday.”

“Could Dick do that? Coach, I mean.”

“I guess so. You know he’s about the smartest fellow in his class at school. He wants to earn some money, and there aren’t many things he can do. I hope he gets the job.”

“Yes. I like Dick. He’s terribly white, isn’t he? Gee, if I had a bum hip like his and had to live on crutches, I’d – I’d – ” But words failed him. He shook his head. “He’s so awfully cheerful. Who is the kid he’s going to coach?”

“I’ve forgotten the name. He told me. Something like Prentiss, I think.”

Morris shook his head again. “Don’t know them. They must be new. When I get over there, Gordon, I’ll see if I can’t drum up some trade for Dick. I know about everyone there.” He paused, and then added morosely, with a wry smile: “It might be a mighty good scheme if I had him coach me a bit. I’ve got to take my college exams next year, and I know blamed well I won’t pass them.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’ve got another year yet. Do you have to go? Stay and play a couple of sets of tennis with me. You’ve never tried our court, have you?”

“I’d like to, but I want to get this business settled. I guess I’d better go and see your father about the field. I’d like to play, though, some time,” he added, as he saw Morris’ face fall. “It looks like a bully court.”

“It is. It’s a dandy. Fast as lightning. I haven’t played much myself this year, and I’m all out of trim. Sis and I had a couple of sets the other day, and she pretty nearly licked me.”

“I hope your sister is well,” murmured Gordon. “And Mrs. Brent.”

“Yes, thanks. Sis ought to be around somewhere. Wait till I see.”

He got up and passed into the library, and Gordon heard him calling his sister at the stairway. He came back in a moment. “She’s coming down,” he announced. “Don’t hurry off. Dad will be in his office all the morning, I guess. I hope you don’t mind my not wanting to ask him, Gordon. I would in a minute, only, as I say, we aren’t very chummy just now.”

At that moment Louise Brent came through the doorway, and Gordon, who had reseated himself after his first start to leave, arose again. She was tall, like her brother, but, unlike him, was light in coloring, with brown hair that just escaped being yellow and a very fair skin and blue eyes. She was not a beauty, but she was pretty in spite of irregular features, with a lot of animation and a smile that won friends at once. She was fifteen; but she looked older, Gordon thought as he took the hand she extended.

“I haven’t seen you for a long time, Gordon,” she said, as she seated herself on the edge of Morris’ chair. “Not since the school dance in January. And then you didn’t ask me for a single dance.”

Gordon smiled a trifle embarrassedly. “I – I don’t dance very well,” he said. “I thought it would be kinder to spare you.”

“You didn’t spare Grace Levering,” she laughed.

“Well, Grace – ”

“Is awfully nice. I know.”

“I didn’t mean that! I meant that – she’s only thirteen – and – ”

“Oh, I’m too old?” Louise opened her eyes very wide. “But I’m only fifteen, Gordon. How old are you? Or isn’t it polite to ask?”

“Fifteen, too,” he laughed. “I guess the reason I danced with Grace so much was because I thought she wasn’t old enough to be fussy about the way I did it. Kind of tough on her, though, wasn’t it?”

“Kind of tough on the rest of us, you mean,” responded Louise. “You’ll have to make it up this summer by coming to some of our parties at the Point. Will you?”

“Why – yes, if you want me to. But, really and truly, I’m a fierce dancer, Louise.”

“Is he?” She turned to her brother. Morris shook his head.

“Search me. I know he can bat a ball like sixty, though. I’ve been trying to get him to stay and play some tennis, but he won’t. You ask him, sis.”

“Won’t you?” she begged. “The court’s just crying to be played on. If you will, I’ll bring you out the biggest, coldest pitcher of lemonade, Gordon, you ever saw!”

“Thanks, but – some other time – ”

“That means never!” she sighed. “I don’t think you’re as nice as you used to be. Is he, Morris?”

“He’s so full of business these days. Say, sis, father’s going to cut up the athletic field for building lots. What do you think of that?”

“What for?” she demanded.

“Search me. It leaves the school in a hole, all right.”

“How horribly mean!” said Louise. “It was such a nice field, too! I don’t think he ought to do it, Morris, and I guess I’ll tell him so.”

“Go ahead!” laughed her brother. “It’ll make a lot of difference – I don’t think! Gordon came around to get me to ask dad to let the fellows use the field until he began to cut it up, but I told him that he’d better do the asking himself. If I asked he might give orders to build a dozen houses on it to-morrow!”

“I know.” Louise nodded. “I wish you’d give up the idea of that automobile, Morris. Mother doesn’t want you to have it, either.”

“Just because dad made such a fuss,” he grumbled. “She was all right before that. I’m going to have it, just the same.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she murmured. “Do you think he ought to drive an auto, Gordon? Don’t you think it’s too dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” answered Gordon. “I’ve never had much experience with automobiles. I suppose, though, that if one is careful – ”

“Morris won’t be,” mourned Louise. “He’ll have an accident, kill himself, break his arm or something.”

“Oh, piffle, sis! I can run an automobile as well as any chap. I’ve done it. When I get the car you’ll be tickled to death, and you’ll want to be riding in it every minute.”

Louise shook her head energetically. “No, I shan’t, Morris. I’d be scared to death. And I think it would be much better for you to wait another year or two. Papa won’t like it a bit if you take your money out of the bank and spend it on an automobile.”

“It’s my money, and I have a right to do as I please with it,” responded her brother. “Besides, if he’d kept his word – ”

“Oh, Morris, you shouldn’t say things like that! Papa never actually told you you could have it.”

“Well, he as much as told me,” muttered Morris. “Anyway, I’m going to have it. Stacey would think I was a pretty funny sort if I refused to take it after he’d got it for me.”

“Maybe he could sell it to someone else,” suggested Gordon. “’Most everyone is buying the things nowadays. Well, I’ll be going, I guess. Good-bye. Good-bye, Louise. I’ll come over some time and have that tennis, Morris, if you’ll let me know.”

“Come whenever you can, will you? I’m at home most of the time; or I shall be until I get my car.” And Morris grinned exasperatingly at his sister.

“Don’t forget that you’re to come to the Point some time and dance every dance with me,” Louise reminded, as she and Morris accompanied Gordon to the door. “That’s the only apology I’ll accept.”

“You’ll wish you hadn’t invited me after the first dance,” replied the visitor grimly. “But I’ll come if you want me to some time. Good-bye.”

On his wheel once more, and spinning down the shadow-dappled street, he thought, not without a little natural envy, how fine it must be to have as much money as the Brents. Morris had spoken of buying a six-hundred-dollar automobile in much the same way as Gordon might have announced his intention of purchasing a new suit of clothes! And yet, on reflection, Morris didn’t seem really happy and contented, and never had. He always appeared to have a quarrel with someone or something. Sometimes it was the teachers at High School, who were imposing on him; once it had been the baseball coach, Mr. Farrel, who, according to Morris, was keeping him off the team for spite, and now it was with his father. It would seem, then, that the possession of much wealth didn’t always bring contentment. There was Dick Levering, who was not only poor but a cripple as well, and who was absolutely the most cheerful and contented fellow of all Gordon’s acquaintances. It was a bit puzzling, Gordon thought, as he whirled into E Street and headed toward the business section of town.

Mr. Jonathan Brent’s office was in the Clearfield Trust Company’s Building, opposite the common. Gordon left his wheel against the curb and mounted the flight of marble stairs. A clerk took his name doubtfully and indicated a chair for him to sit in while he waited Mr. Brent’s pleasure. As it happened, although the mill president was a very busy man, Gordon didn’t have to wait long. Almost at once a buzzer sounded, the clerk disappeared, returned, and conducted Gordon through a door whose ground-glass pane was marked “Private.”

Mr. Brent’s office looked out across E Street into the elm-shaded greenery of the common. An electric fan made a soft and pleasant whirring from the top of the big desk which, until Gordon had crossed the room, hid Mr. Brent from view. A chair was set at the end of the desk and into this, not very confidently, Gordon lowered himself while Mr. Brent, without looking up, ran his eye over a letter in his hand.

Jonathan Brent was a small man, small and narrow, with a lean and wrinkled face, shrewd but not unkindly, and a pair of gimlet-like, blue-gray eyes. His face was clean-shaven and the grizzled brown hair had retreated until the top of his head was as bald and shining as the white-enameled newel-post at the foot of the Merricks’ stairway. His mouth was thin and set in a firm, straight line, a line that never altered as, presently, he laid down the paper in his hand and raised his gaze to Gordon’s.

“Well, what do you want, my boy?” he asked, in a quick but not unpleasant voice.

“I came to see you about the athletic field, Mr. Brent,” responded Gordon. “I heard yesterday that you intend to cut it up for building lots, sir.”

“Quite right. What of it?”

“Well, sir, you see we’ve been using it for baseball, and some of us are getting up a nine to play this summer, and I wondered if you’d let us use it until you got ready to – to build on it.”

“Oh! I see. What’s your name? Herrick?”

“Merrick, sir; Gordon Merrick.”

“Ellis Merrick’s boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know your father. Are you in the High School?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Know my boy?”

“Yes, sir. I – I went to see him this morning. I thought maybe he would ask you for me, but – he – ”

Gordon floundered, and a tiny smile moved the corners of Mr. Brent’s straight lips.

“He didn’t care to, eh? Well, Merrick, you’re welcome to use the field as long as you don’t interfere with the engineers or workmen. I believe they’re going to survey there for the street in a week or so.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brent.”

“All right. I dare say you boys are going to miss that playground.”

“Yes, sir, we are. It – it’s been a fine place for us.”

“Yes. Sorry I can’t let you have the use of it longer, but I need the ground. I suppose you can find another field without much trouble.”

“I think so,” agreed Gordon doubtfully.

“You and Morris friends?”

“Yes, sir. That is, we – we know each other pretty well.”

“Only pretty well, eh? What’s the matter? Don’t you like him?”

“Why, yes, sir, but – but we don’t see each other much.”

“Doesn’t he like you?”

“I think so. He seems to.”

“Did he say anything to you about an automobile, Merrick?”

“Yes, sir, he mentioned it.” Gordon began to wish himself away.

“Ever drive one of the things?”

“No, sir.”

“Like to?”

“Yes, sir, I guess so. I think it would be fun to – to have one.”

“Why doesn’t your father get you one?”

“I don’t think he could afford it, and, besides – ”

“Yes? Besides?”

“I guess he wouldn’t think I was – was old enough to run it.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

“Morris is sixteen. Think your father would let you have one if you were a year older and he could afford it?”

Gordon shook his head. “I don’t believe so, Mr. Brent.”

“I don’t, either. Well, help yourself to the field, Merrick. Glad to have met you. Good day.”

CHAPTER IV
THE TEAM ELECTS ITS CAPTAIN

There was a full attendance at the organization meeting which assembled in the Merricks’ front parlor that evening. Besides Gordon himself, Dick Lovering, Fudge Shaw, Harry Bryan, who had won his father’s consent, and Tom Haley, all of whom we have met, there was Lansing White, otherwise known as “Lanny,” Jack Tappen, Pete Robey, Will Scott, and Curtis Wayland. Curtis and Will were inseparable companions. Damon and Pythias would have been excellent, if hackneyed, nicknames for the pair. Dick had once remarked in his quiet way, when the two chums had appeared arm in arm on the ball field: “Where there’s a Will there’s a Way.” Thereafter Curtis was called Way, and Dick’s pun was handed over to an appreciative public in the “Caught-in-the-Corridor” column of The Purple, the High School monthly. Way and Will were both of an age, which was sixteen, both of the same height to a fraction of an inch, and, perhaps by reason of having been together ever since they were in kindergarten, were so much alike in general appearance, manners, and speech that they were always mistaken for brothers and not infrequently for twins. Way was a little heavier in build than Will, and had dark brown hair, whereas Will’s was light. For the rest they were much the same, with brown eyes, short noses, and round, freckled faces. Good, healthy, jolly, normal boys both.

Pete Robey was fifteen, a lank, dark-eyed fellow, rather diffident and quiet. Jack Tappen was only fourteen, but he was big for his years. He was not at all diffident. In fact, Jack had a pretty good opinion of himself. He was a clever ball player, and, for that matter, did many things about as well as the older fellows with whom he associated.

Lansing White, or Lanny, as he was always called, was fifteen. Every one who knew him would have assured you earnestly that Lansing White was destined for great things. Perhaps they were right. At all events, he had the fine faculty of making friends on the instant and holding them. There wasn’t a kinder-hearted fellow in school, nor one more thoughtful of others. If a ballot had been taken for the most popular student, Lanny would have won, hands-down, over many a fellow far more prominent in school affairs. He caught for the school nine, played a fine game at left halfback on the football team, and regularly won his five points in each of the sprints at the track meetings with Springdale High School.

In appearance he was rather striking by reason of his hair, which was as near the color of ripe flax as hair ever gets, and his eyes which were so dark a brown that they looked black. The contrast between light hair and dark eyes was rather startling. He was always a little too lean, his parents thought, but his leanness was quite healthy and was due, probably, to the fact that he was always in training for something.

The nine members of the Clearfield Ball Club sat around the parlor, occupying every available chair and couch, and discussed the project exhaustively and with enthusiasm. They all agreed that it was the bounden duty of someone to humble the pride of those Rutter’s Point chaps, to whom they had long been in the habit of referring as the Silk Stocking Brigade; and they didn’t see but what the duty could be performed by them as well as by any others. Jack Tappen thought they could attend to it a little better than any others, and so declared. That point agreed on, they discussed ways and means. Everyone there except Fudge and Pete Robey had a High School uniform which it would, they decided, be quite permissible to wear. Fudge declared that he would buy a uniform, and Pete was sure he could borrow one. Gordon’s announcement that Dick had been tendered and had accepted the position of manager met with acclaim, and Will and Way, in the same breath, demanded a speech. Dick declined to address the meeting, contenting himself with reminding the turbulent pair that as manager he had the power to fine them for misconduct. At which Will and Way, pretending to be much alarmed, subsided. It was agreed that every member was to pay his own car-fares when the team journeyed from home, and that the manager’s expenses were to be provided for by an assessment on each of one-ninth of the necessary amount. Dick claimed the floor, there to state that it would probably not be necessary for the others to provide his expenses, and that in any case he would pay his own way unless the team journeyed a long distance.

The name of the team was decided on – the Clearfield Baseball Club. Harry Bryan was in favor of something with more “snap” to it, something like the Clearfield Pirates or the Clearfield Giants, but he was defeated. Dick, who had taken the proceedings in hand, then announced that the election of a captain was in order, and Tom Haley, Fudge, and Jack Tappen nominated Gordon in unison. The others signified approval noisily. Gordon, however, insisted on being heard.

“You fellows don’t have to make me captain,” he protested, “just because I started the thing going. It wasn’t my idea, anyhow; it was Bert Cable’s. I’ll be captain if you really want me, but I think some of the rest of you would be better, and I nominate Tom.”

“Nominate all you like,” grunted Tom Haley. “I decline.”

“I nominate Lanny,” said Will Scott.

“Second the nomination!” piped up Way.

“Much obliged, fellows,” said Lanny, “but I’d rather not. Let’s make Gordon captain and not be scared out of it. All in favor make a lot of noise!”

There was a lot of noise, a very great deal of noise, and Dick laughingly declared Gordon elected. “Speech! Speech!” shouted the irrepressible Fudge, beating a tattoo on the hardwood floor with his heels.

“Shut up, Fudge! And stop denting the floor with those hob-nailed shoes of yours. I saw Mr. Brent this morning, and asked him if we could use the field as long as it wasn’t wanted for anything else, and he said we could. So I propose that if the Point plays us a return game we play on our own grounds. Now, about practice. You fellows know we’ve got to get together and have a good lot of real work before we run up against those Point fellows. So I say let’s have practice every afternoon next week at four-thirty. Maybe after next week every other day will do, but we don’t want to let those silk-sox chaps beat us, and so we’ve got to practice hard. Will all you fellows agree to come to practice every afternoon? That doesn’t mean Tom, because he’s got a lot of work to do, and, besides, we don’t need him so much. He will come as often as he can. But the rest of us ought to get out every day.”

“That’s right,” agreed Jack Tappen. “If we’re going into this thing, let’s go into it with both feet. There’s no reason I can see why we shouldn’t have as good a baseball team as there is in this part of the state. We all know the game pretty well – ”

“Oh, you right-fielder!” exclaimed Fudge.

“ – And most of us have played together this Spring. And with Gordon for captain we ought to just everlastingly wipe up the county!”

Loud applause greeted this enthusiastic statement, and Fudge began his tattoo again, but was cautioned by a well-aimed pillow which, narrowly avoiding a vase on a side table, eclipsed his joyous countenance for an instant.

“I guess,” said Lanny, “that we can all get out and practice; can’t we, fellows? In fact, Gordie, it might be a good plan to have it understood that any fellow not turning up, without a real, genuine excuse, is to pay a fine.”

“How much?” demanded Fudge anxiously.

“Half a dollar,” suggested Will.

“A quarter,” said Jack.

“A quarter’s enough, I guess,” said Dick. “How about it? Everyone agree?”

“Who’s going to decide whether the excuse is a good one?” inquired Fudge.

“Dick,” said Gordon.

Fudge sighed with relief. “All right. Dick’s a friend of mine.”

“Then Wednesday at four-thirty, fellows,” said Gordon, “and bring your bats. By the way, there’s one thing we’ve forgotten: We’ll have to buy balls. Suppose we all chip in a half to start with?”

That was agreed to, and the meeting was served with lemonade and cakes and adjourned, everyone departing save Dick, Lanny, and Fudge. These, with Gordon, went out to the porch and took possession of the front steps. There was a fine big moon riding in the sky, and, since Clearfield was economical and did not illuminate the streets in the residence districts when the moon was on duty, it had no competition. The leafy shadows of the big elm fell across the porch, blue-black, trembling as a tiny breeze moved the branches above. Dick leaned against a pillar and laid his crutches between his knees, and the others grouped about him. Perhaps the refreshments had worked a somnolent effect on them, or perhaps the great lopsided moon stared them into silence. At all events, nothing was said for a minute or two, even Fudge, usually an extremely chatty youth, having for once no observations to offer. It was Gordon who finally broke the stillness.

“Some moon,” he said dreamily.

“Great!” agreed Lanny. “You can see the man in it plainly to-night.”

“Supposing,” said Fudge thoughtfully, “supposing you were terribly big, miles and miles high, and you had a frightfully huge bat, couldn’t you get a d-d-dandy swipe at it!”

“You could make a home run, Fudge!” laughed Lanny. “Only you’d have to hit pretty quick. Why, if you were tall enough to reach the moon, it would be going past you faster than one of Tom’s straight ones, Fudge!”

“Quite a bit faster,” agreed Gordon. “Still, it would be ‘in the groove,’ and if you took a good swing and got your eye on it you could everlastingly bust up the game!”

“I think,” replied Fudge, who had literary yearnings, “I’ll write a story about a giant who did that.”

“Well, there are some pretty good hitters among the ‘Giants,’” commented Dick gravely. Fudge snorted.

“You know wh-wh-what I mean!” he said severely.

“Of course he does,” agreed Lanny. “Dick, you oughtn’t to poke fun at Fudge’s great thoughts. Fudge is a budding genius, Fudge is, and if you’re not careful you’ll discourage him. Remember his story about the fellow who won the mile race in two minutes and forty-one seconds, Dick? That was a peach of a – ”

“I didn’t!” declared Fudge passionately. “The p-p-printer made a mistake! I’ve told you that a th-th-th-thousand t-t-times! I wrote it – ”

“Don’t spoil it,” begged Dick. “It was a much better story the way The Purple printed it. Any fellow might run the mile in four-something, but to do it under three shows real ability, Fudge. Besides, what’s a minute or two in a story?”

“Aw, cu-cu-cut it out!” grumbled Fudge. “You f-f-fellows m-m-m-m – ”

“You’ll never do it, Fudge,” said Gordon sympathetically. “I’ve noticed that if you don’t make it the first two or three times you – ”

“ – M-make me tired!” concluded Fudge breathlessly but triumphantly.

“Snappy work!” approved Lanny. “If at first you don’t succeed – ”

“T-t-try, try again,” assisted Gordon. Fudge muttered something both unintelligible and uncomplimentary, and Gordon turned to Dick: “How did you get on with Mrs. Thingamabob at the Point, Dick?” he asked. “What’s the kid like?”

“All right. The name is Townsend. They’re at the hotel. The boy is thirteen and he’s – he’s a bit spoiled, I guess. There’s an older brother, too, a fellow about seventeen. He confided to me that I’d have a beast of a time with the youngster. His name – the brother’s – is Loring Townsend. Anybody know him?”