The Lucky Seventh. Barbour Ralph Henry
usually. I’m not particular. I’m not much of a player, but I get a lot of fun out of it. I’ve tried two years running for the team at school and haven’t made it yet.”
“What school do you go to?”
“St. George’s. We turn out some pretty fair ball teams there. I’m going to try again next Spring. It’s my last year, and if I don’t make it then I’m a goner.”
“I suppose you’re going to college, though?”
“No; my father doesn’t want me to. Says he needs me with him in the office. I don’t mind – very much. Of course, I’d like to go; ’most every fellow I know at school is going. Maybe father will change his mind before Spring. What about you, Lovering?”
“College?” Dick shook his head. “I’d like it mighty well, too, but it costs too much. Funny how fellows who can go don’t care about it. There’s Morris Brent. His father’s crazy to have him go to college. He tells Morris he can have his pick of them all. Morris doesn’t want to go a bit; and he won’t, I guess, if he doesn’t brace up.”
“Exams, you mean?”
Dick nodded. “Morris is always in trouble with his studies.”
“His father’s a bit of a Tartar, isn’t he?” asked Caspar. “I’ve only met him once or twice, but he seemed sort of cross-grained.”
“I don’t know. I know he and Morris are always at outs about one thing or another. Just now, I hear, it’s an automobile. Morris wants one, and his father says he can’t have it. Do you know him very well?”
“Not very. We’ve seen each other quite a little for several summers, but we aren’t awfully chummy. I don’t quite – ” Caspar paused, with a puzzled frown. “If he’d forget that his father has a lot of money, he’d get on better with fellows here. I like his sister, though. She’s an awfully nice, jolly kid. And his mother’s mighty nice, too.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard. I don’t know them. Well, I must get along. We will be over here in time to begin the game at three on Saturday, Billings. I’ll talk to Gordon about the umpire, but I’m pretty sure the chap you speak of will be satisfactory to us. Thanks for being so kind. Will you say good-bye to your mother and sisters, please?”
“That’s all right,” replied Caspar warmly. “Hope you’ll come around often, Lovering. See you Wednesday, anyway.” He watched Dick’s deft manipulation of his crutches anxiously. Finally: “I say, it’s a long walk to the trolley. Let me take you over, won’t you? We have a sort of a horse and cart here, and it won’t take a minute to hitch up.”
“No, thanks; I like to walk,” replied Dick, with a smile. “Maybe you wouldn’t call it walking, though; perhaps I ought to say that I like to ‘crutch.’”
“Call it what you like,” responded Caspar heartily, “you certainly do it mighty well, Lovering!”
Dick reached the trolley station in ample time for the two-forty-five car back to Clearfield, and on the way his thoughts dwelt largely on Master Harold Townsend. Master Harold was a good deal of a problem. So far, as Dick had told Mrs. Billings, the boy had behaved very decently, but Dick knew quite well that it was principally because he was still in some awe of his tutor. That awe would soon wear off, for there wasn’t enough difference in the ages of the two to allow Dick to keep the upper hand very long. Then, as Dick realized, there’d be trouble. Unfortunately, he could not, he felt, count on the boy’s mother to back him up, for that lady was lamentably weak where her youngest son was concerned. Of course, Dick might keep on drawing his wages all summer and nothing would be said, but he didn’t intend to do that unless he was earning them. And it wasn’t going to be an easy matter to earn them as soon as Harold got over his present diffidence and the slight enthusiasm with which Dick had managed to imbue him. The money meant a good deal to Dick, and he hated to think of losing it, but one thing was certain: As soon as he failed to make progress with Harold he would quit. Perhaps he would find another pupil, he reflected more hopefully, although so far only Mrs. Townsend had replied to his application.
Just then, his gaze wandering along the flying landscape, he caught sight of a small blue runabout automobile trying desperately to keep pace with the trolley car. The road was a good three hundred yards away, and it was not possible to make out with any certainty the identity of the lone figure in the blue car, but Dick was pretty sure that the daring driver was Morris Brent. If so, he had, then, overruled his father in the matter, thought Dick. It wasn’t like Mr. Brent to change his mind, either. In any case, and whoever was driving the runabout, that light vehicle was plunging along the none too smooth road at a pace that brought Dick’s heart into his mouth more than once and attracted the concerned attention of all the occupants of the trolley car. Several times, as it seemed, the runabout narrowly avoided collision with the white fence which ran beside the dirt road, and Dick was heartily relieved when, presently, a team approached from the direction of Clearfield, and the driver of the automobile, recognizing the futility of trying to pass at his present reckless speed, slowed down and was lost to sight from the car.
Dick mentioned the incident to Gordon at practice that afternoon, but Gordon was unable to say whether Morris had bought the automobile he had spoken of. “He said he was going to, though, whether his father wanted him to or not. Said he had some money of his own and that Stacey, the agent on Oak Street, would wait for the rest. If his father finds it out, he will be hopping mad, I’ll bet.”
“It won’t take him long to find it out,” replied Dick dryly. “At least two dozen persons saw him to-day. Someone’s pretty sure to speak of it. The idiot was driving as though he wanted to break his silly neck!”
“That’s the way Morris would drive,” said Gordon. “By the way, there’s a meeting of the Athletic Committee called for next Saturday night in Assembly Hall to consider a new field. Will was telling me. He says he doesn’t see how we’re going to get a field without paying for it, and we haven’t any money to do that.”
“It’s tough luck,” replied Dick. “Have they any field in sight?”
“I don’t think so. Will said something about a piece of land on the way to the Point, near the picnic ground. Do you know what he means?”
“No; but I guess there’s plenty of land there. I don’t believe it’s very level. I suppose beggars mustn’t be choosers, however.”
“I think it’s mighty mean of Mr. Brent to take that field away from us!” said Gordon scowlingly.
“Did you tell him so the other day?” Dick asked innocently.
Gordon laughed. “No, I forgot to! Come on and let’s get these fellows started. Tom, will you pitch at the net for a while?”
“Shall I tell Billings it’s all right about the umpire, Gordie?”
“Yes; we don’t care who umps as long as he knows how. If they play us again, we’ll have the choice then. Now then, fellows, get your batting eyes! Don’t be too easy with us, Tom. Speed ’em over, old scout!”
CHAPTER VI
CLEARFIELD PLAYS THE POINT
Clearfield boarded the two-fifteen trolley car on Wednesday and set out for Rutter’s Point in high spirits. They had intended taking the two-o’clock car, but Harry Bryan and Fudge had failed to arrive at the starting point on time. Harry claimed business affairs as his reason for tardiness, but Fudge’s excuse was both vague and involved, and Gordon informed him that the next time he failed to be on time he would be left behind. Fudge smiled dreamily.
The team in their gray uniforms with purple stockings presented a very natty appearance. To be sure, some of the stockings were pretty well faded and several of the suits were somewhat stained, but on the whole the players passed muster very well. They took possession of the first two seats on the car and had a very happy and fairly noisy time of it. Dick and Gordon got their heads together over the batting order and rearranged it for the third time. When it was finally fixed to their liking it was as follows: Bryan, 2b; Scott, 3b;