If that Saturday had been manufactured to Mr. Potter’s order it couldn’t have been finer. There was a bright blue sky overhead and not a cloud bigger than a handkerchief to be seen. A westerly breeze, bearing the first hint of Autumn, cooled the ardor of the sun. Clearfield had a gala look as soon as the shades at the store windows were drawn in the morning. Touches of purple appeared everywhere. By ten o’clock the downtown streets began to show the incursion of visitors from the neighboring villages and even from the country and the stores reaped a small harvest. At noon Common Street in the vicinity of the field was well lined with sidewalk vendors of peanuts and popcorn, lemonade and soft drinks, while in a vacant lot near-by a hustling gentleman with a blue-black mustache and a yellow corduroy coat had set up a merry-go-round whose strident organ ground out a repertory of four tunes monotonously from forenoon to midnight. Small boys with purple pennants bearing white C’s importuned passers to show their patriotism at the expense of a quarter of a dollar and other small boys flaunted copies of the morning Reporter. “Line-up of to-day’s game! Here you are! Reporter! Only two cents!”

The reserved seat tickets on sale at Howland’s gave out at eleven o’clock, and at twelve, after a hasty conference over the telephone with Dick, Mr. Potter had a load of lumber and four carpenters at the field erecting sixty extra seats.

At one, even before the last nail had been driven, the drug store reported that they had again sold out. “Sell fifty more,” telephoned Mr. Potter, “and mark them ‘Bench!’” Then he hurried to Odd Fellows’ Hall with a moving-van and transferred ten settees from there to the ball grounds and placed them in a double row all along the third base line. After that he threw up his hands.

Shortly before noon a blue runabout, with its brass glistening radiantly and its newly varnished surface reflecting back the sunlight, stopped in front of the carriage gate at the field and honked its horn. After which Gordon, who rode beside the operator, jumped to the ground, climbed the fence and unbarred the gates from inside. Then Morris drove in, Gordon dropped the bar back in place and climbed into the car again and the blue runabout ambled across the white foul line and stopped a few feet from the home plate, with its glistening radiator pointed at the grandstand.

“That’s my last ride in her,” said Morris regretfully as he got out.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Gordon. “He may give you a lift some time.”

Morris smiled. “I meant the last time I’d run her,” he amended. “Gee, but I kind of hate to give her up, Gordon.”

“She’s a nice little car,” replied the other, “even if she did try to break your neck for you. And she certainly looks dandy. And she runs as well as ever, doesn’t she?”

“Better, it seems to me. I suppose she’s getting the stiffness out of her. Well, we’d better hike along to dinner. You’re sure your mother won’t mind having me, Gordon?”

“She expects you. I telephoned I was bringing you. Come on.”

It was long before two o’clock when the crowd began moving toward the field. Stewart, the liveryman, ran carriages from the station to the entrance and did a good business. At a few minutes before two Gordon and Dick and Lanny arrived. Mr. Potter was already on hand, instructing the two boys who were acting as ushers and keeping an eye on the amateur ticket seller at the gate. Tim Turner stood inside and took the tickets, dropping them into a tin box and looking as professional as you please. Dick’s gaze found the automobile the instant he was inside and he stopped short and stared at it. And no wonder, for a blue runabout placed imposingly in the center of a baseball diamond is about as incongruous a sight as one often sees.

“Wh-what the dickens!” gasped Dick.

“Oh, that?” said Gordon. “That’s the car that Morris just sold. Looks pretty well, doesn’t it? Come on in the dressing-room.”

“But what’s it doing there?” asked Dick. “Whose is it?”

“I suppose someone left it there. Gee, Dick, look at the crowd here already! We’ll have to have groundrules if they keep coming!”

“Yes, I guess so. But—that car! It can’t stand there, Gordie!”

“Of course not. It’ll be out of the way by the time we’re ready to practice, I dare say. There’s Tom. Come on. We’d better get changed. It must be almost two.”

Dick followed them into the dressing-room without further remarks, but it was plain to be seen that the incident of the misplaced automobile was occupying his thoughts. Most of the team had arrived and in another moment Dick found enough to attend to and talk about without further bothering his head with the blue runabout. The Point team came in a few minutes later and then there was a fine confusion and noise in there. Everyone was in the best of spirits and there was no sign of animosity between the opponents. One might have thought, were it not for the difference in costumes, that the two dozen or so fellows were team-mates rather than rivals. It was the first time that most of the Clearfield fellows had seen the Rutter’s Point players in their new togs, and they had to acknowledge that the white suits and blue-and-yellow-striped stockings were very attractive.

Of course Harold was there, score-book under arm, following Dick around closely. And Morris, too, in his capacity of honorary member of the visiting nine. Probably he would have been welcome in any case, for to-day was to witness the formal transfer of the field, in Morris’s name, from Mr. Brent to the High School. Mr. Grayson, who had arrived home the day before, was to attend and Morris was to deliver the deed to him, as a sort of added attraction. Morris, however, didn’t appear oppressed by his importance, a fact which his companions were quick to notice and approve.

At five minutes past the two teams went out to the diamond, and as they appeared, the band, massed fourteen strong in front of the grandstand, broke into the triumphal strains of “See the Conquering Hero Comes.” By that time the stand was filled to overflowing, the extra seats were well occupied and the settees sprinkled, while around the diamond what looked to the startled gaze of the players to be a vast assemblage sat or stood.

“Jumpin’ Jupiter!” muttered Fudge, his eyes very big and round. “S-s-s-say, Jack, I won’t b-b-b-be able to c-c-catch a thing!”

“I guess we’ll all have stage-fright,” replied Jack Tappen, with a rather nervous laugh. “Who would have thought all this crowd would have come? And look at the gate! They’re still coming, Fudge!”

“G-g-guess I’ll s-s-s-sneak home,” said Fudge.

Dick was frankly puzzled. Instead of trotting into the field to begin practice, his charges were lounging over toward the plate, and with them went the Point team. Then Dick’s eyes fell on that blue runabout again, and he frowned and followed the players, who by this time had gathered about it. Harold, who never allowed Dick to get more than six feet away from him, went, too.

“Someone will have to get that car out of here,” announced Dick impatiently. “Whose is it, anyway?”

As the band, which had been blaring forth a twostep, stopped suddenly at a signal from Gordon, just in the middle of Dick’s pronouncement, he finished it in a voice which, owing to the silence, was audible halfway to the outfield. A ripple of amusement came from the nearer seats. Dick, embarrassed by events and by an impending something that he sensed, looked blankly about the grinning faces.

“Wh-what’s the matter?” he faltered, appealing to Gordon.

Gordon cleared his throat and took a step forward. The rest of the players shuffled into the semblance of a half-circle behind him and about the blue car. The audience, none of them in the secret but all suspecting interesting developments, grew very still.

“Dick,” began Gordon, very red of countenance and nervous of manner, “we—that is——”

“Go to it, Gordie,” murmured Lanny encouragingly. Gordon took a deep breath and another start:

“The Clearfield Baseball Club, in recognition of your services as manager and—and in token of its esteem and——”

“Respect and esteem,” prompted Lanny, sotto voce.

——“Respect and esteem,” corrected Gordon, who had prepared his speech with much care and had now pretty well forgotten it, “desires to present to you this automobile, in the hope—er—in the hope——”

“That it will provide——”

“——That it will provide both comfort and pleasure. It is with much—it is with much——”

Gordon looked imploringly at Lanny, but Lanny’s gaze was fixed blankly on space. He, too, had forgotten the lines! Fudge gave way to his nervousness and giggled. Gordon waved his hand toward the car. “And we hope you’ll like it,” he ended breathlessly.

There was an instant’s silence, and then came a joyous screech from Harold. That was the signal for much hand-clapping and other evidences of applause from the spectators who, although Gordon’s speech had not been audible to them, had by this time gathered that someone was being presented with the natty blue automobile. Dick, rather white of face, smiled.

“I—I——” he began. Then he faltered. When he went on his voice was husky. “Thank you, fellows,” he said. “I don’t see why you did it, but—but I appreciate it more than I can say. And—I can’t make a speech, so I’ll just say thank you and—you’ll have to understand that it means a lot more than I can put in words!”

Then they cheered quite madly, being heartily glad to be over with the embarrassment, and flocked around him and shook hands just as though they hadn’t seen him for months!

“‘It is with much pride that we offer this small token,’” said Lanny explosively in Gordon’s ear. Gordon laughed derisively.

“What’s the good now?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you say that two minutes ago? You’re a fine one to help a fellow!”

“Why didn’t you remember it yourself?” asked Lanny, in an injured voice. “Gee! You wrote it, didn’t you?”

Morris jumped into the driver’s seat of the car and Dick, impelled by friendly hands, climbed in beside him. Will Scott spun the crank, the engine purred, and, to the cheers and laughter of the fellows and the enthusiastic applause of the spectators, the blue runabout chugged around the field and back into an angle of the grandstand, while the band played loudly.

“I’ll show you how to run it in two days, Dick,” Morris said, as they circled the diamond. “You’ll find it’s as easy as anything you ever did.”

“Did you know about it?” asked Dick curiously.

“Sure. It was Gordon’s scheme; but he told me what he wanted to do and dad and I were strong for it.”

“But—but where’d they get the money?” asked Dick.

“They haven’t got it yet,” chuckled Morris. “You have it!”

“I have——Oh, the baseball money!”

“Surest think you know, Dick!”

“Oh!” Dick gave a sigh of relief. “I was afraid they’d paid for it out of their pockets or—or somehow. I—I knew for two or three weeks that they were up to something, but I never suspected this. Say, doesn’t it just get there!”

“She’s a fine little car,” agreed Morris proudly, as he brought it to a stop behind the extra seats. “And I’ll just bet you’ll be crazy about her, Dick, in a week!”

“I guess I’m sort of crazy about her now,” murmured Dick.

There was still another ceremony to be gone through with; in fact, two. The first was performed a minute later when Morris, taking a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, walked across to the front of the grandstand, accompanied by the players, and with a neat but brief speech formally presented the deed of the athletic field to Mr. Grayson. The principal, however, wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to indulge in eloquence, and his speech of thanks went on for quite five minutes. It was a very good speech, too, but few heard it, for the spectators out of ear-shot were clamoring for the game to begin. When he had finished and bowed and taken his seat again, there was more applause, and the bass drum boomed ecstatically and Gordon led three cheers for Mr. Brent, and at last the home team trotted on to the diamond and the visitors began passing and warming up at one side.

By that time it was nearly the hour set for the game to begin, and almost every available spot on the field was occupied by spectators. Four of Clearfield’s modest police force were on duty in the outfield, patrolling back and forth, restraining the advance of the crowds which stretched along the continuations of the foul lines.

On the “press stand,” a kitchen table and two straight-backed chairs at the end of the home team’s bench, stood the silver trophy on its ebony stand. Around the base was twined the purple silk pennant with the white “C.” At the “press stand” sat Mr. Potter, his straw hat tilted back on his head, a pile of yellow copy paper in front of him and a big cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth. Mr. Potter, looking proudly about the crowded field, was happy. Apparently all the pennants had been purchased, for they waved on all sides, and flashes of purple glowed everywhere in the sunlight; everywhere, that is to say, except in one small section of the main stand, where the Rutter’s Point contingent, some fifty strong, waved blue-and-yellow flags and cheered for their heroes.

Dick, leaning on his crutches near first base, allowed his gaze to wander a minute from the work of his charges toward the crowded seats. There were his mother and Grace up there, and, farther along, Mr. and Mrs. Brent and Louise—and Morris just returning to his place beside them. Strangely enough, Louise happened to be looking just as Dick glanced her way, and nodded and waved. Dick took off his hat in answer. A second later he was bowing again, for Mrs. Townsend was waving her blue-and-yellow banner toward him.

Then, presently, the home team yielded the diamond to the visitors, and Dick went back to the bench with them. Harold was sharpening his pencils as Dick took his place beside him.

“Dick,” he said, in a low voice, “I hope you win.”

“Thanks, Harold! That’s treachery, isn’t it, though?”

Harold frowned and shook his head. “Can’t help it,” he muttered. “I do, anyway.”

The umpires were Mr. Cochran, of the Y.M.C.A., chosen by Clearfield, and Mr. Vokes, who had officiated at the first game between the two teams, the Point’s selection. The latter gentleman was on bases and Mr. Cochran umpired at the plate. At twenty minutes to three Clearfield trotted into the field to the cheers of the audience, and Gordon, taking a nice new ball from Mr. Cochran, ascended the stand to where Mr. Brent sat.

“Mr. Brent,” said Gordon, “we’d like very much to have you throw out the ball to us, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“Throw out the ball!” exclaimed Mr. Brent. “How—how do I do it?”

“Just stand up, sir, and toss it to Tom Haley, down there.”

Mr. Brent looked doubtful, but Morris and Louise urged him on, and finally he got to his feet, measured the distance anxiously, clutched the ball with a death-like grip, and hurled it toward Tom. It went a yard over his head, and was fielded by Harry Bryan near second! But that didn’t matter! Everyone cheered just as hard!