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!”

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.”

“I’ll tell you what!” exclaimed Harold.

“Go ahead,” said Jack. “You’re full of information, kid.”

“Well,” said Harold, pausing long enough to regard Jack with a look of disdain, “why don’t you play them in the morning?”

“By jove!” said Lanny.

“‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings!’” murmured Jack. “Kid, you’re all right!”

“We might,” pondered Dick. “They’re coming over anyway, and I dare say they’d just as lief come in the morning as later. I’ll get hold of that captain of theirs this evening and see what he says.”

“Tell ’em we’ll pay their fares both ways,” suggested Will Scott.

“Sure thing; and buy them a lunch,” agreed Way.

“They’ll do it,” said Gordon. “Make the game at ten-thirty, Dick.”

“Better say eleven. They could hardly get over here before half-past ten. Well, I’ll get after them as soon as I get home. Harold, you are a youth of ideas!”

And Harold smiled proudly.