CHAPTER XX
MR. BRENT TO THE RESCUE
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!”
CHAPTER XXI
MR. BRENT TELEPHONES
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 the Reporter’s latest 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 the Reporter amended 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. The Reporter gave 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 the Reporter would 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 the Reporter and 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’t have to 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!”