On a crisp and sunny Saturday morning, a fortnight after the game, a blue runabout automobile came quietly and circumspectly along Troutman Street, under the yellowing maples, and, with two gruff toots of its horn, slowed down and came to a stop in front of the Merricks’ gate. As the driver of the car slid the gears into neutral and kicked off the switch at the battery, a look of relief succeeded the somewhat strained and anxious expression he had worn. I think he even sighed his satisfaction as he relaxed his grasp of the steering wheel and looked toward the doorway. Along the running-board on the driver’s side of the car lay a pair of crutches, held in place by an ingenious contrivance of heavy wire.

After that, there is no use trying to longer conceal the identity of the boy at the wheel. It was Dick. A week of instruction by Morris and a second week spent in operating alone had made him a fairly competent driver, but he had not yet passed the stage where a corner was something to be approached with vast anxiety and to be negotiated with care and deliberation. Every inch of the blue varnished surface of the car shone resplendently, and every particle of brass was polished until it was painful to view.

Two more blasts of the grumpy horn at last produced results. The screen door flew open, and Gordon, a piece of toast in one hand and a napkin in the other, appeared.

“Say, what time do you think it is?” he demanded laughingly.

“It’s time you were through breakfast, anyway,” responded Dick. “Get a hustle on. Eli hates to stand.” (Dick had named the car Eli Yale because of its color, but generally referred to it as Eli.)

“I’ll bring a lump of sugar for him,” said Gordon. “Keep a tight rein on him, Dick, and I’ll be with you in five minutes. Maybe he will stand long enough for you to come in and have a cup of coffee.”

“I wouldn’t dare risk it,” replied Dick gravely. “Besides, I never take coffee in the middle of the forenoon.”

“Middle of the forenoon!” grunted the other. “It isn’t half-past eight yet! Since you got that car, you never go to bed at all, I guess!”

Gordon vanished with that, and Dick leaned comfortably back in the runabout to wait. But an instant later a speck of tarnish on the dash clock—a gift from Louise Brent—caught his eye, and he whisked a piece of cheesecloth from a pocket on the inside of the door and attacked it indignantly. Before he had conquered it, returned the cloth and buttoned the flap again, Gordon appeared once more, capped and ready for the ride.

“All set?”

Dick looked carefully at levers and switch. “All set,” he said.

Gordon turned the handle half over, and Eli broke into a frantic chugging that could be heard six blocks away. Dick pushed back the throttle and pulled down the spark, however, and Eli moderated his transports. Gordon, who had clapped his hands to his ears, grinned as he climbed in beside Dick and slammed the door. “Gee,” he said, “but he’s some noisy!”

“Not at all,” denied Dick indignantly. “He naturally chortles a little at times.”

“Oh, was he chortling? I thought he was champing his bit. Hello, see who’s here!” added Gordon, as the car swayed across B Street. A lusty shouting was heard, and Fudge came racing along the sidewalk. Dick stopped.

“W-w-where you going?” panted Fudge. “Take me, too, Dick. You haven’t given me a ride yet!”

“All right,” laughed Dick. “Open the door and sit on the edge there, Fudge. But don’t drag your big feet and stop the car.”

“Go get your cap,” advised Gordon.

“Don’t need a cap. Where are you going?”

“Oh, just for a ride,” replied Dick, throwing in his clutch again after a calculating survey of the empty street.

“The Springdale road’s pretty good,” suggested Gordon, with a wink at Fudge.

“I thought I’d run out toward the Point,” said Dick carelessly. “You don’t meet many teams that way.”

“By the way,” asked Gordon, “when do they move in?”

“Who?” Dick inquired.

“The Brents, of course.” Fudge giggled.

Dick laughed. “Who said anything about the Brents, you idiot?”

“No one; only you spoke of going to the Point. You can drop Fudge and me at the hotel. We don’t want to be in the way.”

“Oh, you run along and play!” said Dick good-naturedly. “If you really want to know when they’re coming back to town, I’ll tell you. They’re going to move in next Wednesday. Morris says it’s too hard to get to school on time. And since football practice has begun——” Dick broke off to negotiate a corner.

“Morris is crazy to think he can play this Fall,” said Fudge. “He will bust his leg again. You’ll see.”

“He’s going to try, anyway,” said Gordon. “They’re going to mark out the gridiron this morning, Dick.”

“That so? Oh, by the way, I heard from Harold. I’ve got his letter here somewhere. Steady the wheel a minute, Gordie, will you?” Dick drew forth an envelope from his pocket and handed it across. “Read it aloud.”

“‘Dear Dick,’” read Gordon, “‘I passed all right. Only I have got to do some extra Math this term. I was sort of rotten on Math. Old Penny (he’s the principal) says I did better than lots of fellows who come here. Loring said I was to thank you, and I do awfully, Dick. You were fine and dandy to me, and I am sorry I was such a rotter at first. And I am very sorry about the Math. It wasn’t your fault, Dick. Please remember me to the fellows, and tell them I am coming back next year. I am going out for the junior baseball team next week and maybe next summer I can play for you, Dick, if you want me. Loring says remember him to you, and so no more at present from your firm friend,

Harold.’”

“‘Firm friend’ is pretty good,” commented Gordon, as he folded the letter up and returned it to its envelope. “But I’m glad the kid passed, if only on your account, Dick.”

“Yes; if he had failed, I’d have felt sort of mean about taking the money. Speaking of money, fellows,” he continued, as the runabout slid across the trolley tracks and headed toward Rutter’s Point, “Mr. Potter sent me the statement this morning. I didn’t bring it, though.”

“How did we come out?” asked Gordon. “About the way we figured?”

“Nearly forty dollars better. There were six hundred and thirty-three paid admissions to the game, amounting to four hundred and three dollars. The total expenses were, I think, sixty-one dollars; or maybe they were sixty-three. Anyway, the net profits amount to three hundred and forty-two dollars. That includes four dollars and something made on the pennants sold.”

“Peanuts?” exclaimed Fudge. “I didn’t know we——”

“Pennants, stupid!” corrected Gordon. “Well, that’s doing pretty well, Dick. Then, after paying for the car, we have money left?”

“Over fifty dollars,” was the reply. “What shall we do with it?”

“G-g-give it to me,” suggested Fudge.

“I think you ought to have it for gasoline and tires,” laughed Gordon. “This thing will keep you poor, I’m afraid, Dick.”

“No, sir,” replied the owner of the car seriously. “I’m studying up on autos, and I’m going to make my own repairs. And I’ve sent for a vulcanizing outfit that only costs three dollars and a half. When I get that I can fix my own tires. As for gasoline, why, Eli only drinks a gallon every twenty miles! And I don’t run that far in three days! I think it would be a good plan to hand over what we have left to the Athletic Committee, Gordie. They’ll need a lot of money now that we own the field. We’ll have to pay the taxes and for water and other things.”

“That’s right. As far as I’m concerned——”

“Remember this place?” interrupted Dick.

Gordon nodded. “Yes; that’s where Morris steered the car into the fence and me into the bushes.”

“It’s where you became a blooming hero,” said Fudge.

“Hero, nothing! What I did didn’t amount to a row of pins!”

“Well, it amounted to the gift of an athletic field to the school,” said Dick, with a smile. “That’s something, you know!”

“And it amounted to something else, t-t-too,” added Fudge. “It made Morris a respectable member of s-s-s-society!”

“What beautiful expressions you do use, Fudge!” laughed Gordon.

“Fudge is right, though,” agreed Dick, when he had carefully steered the car around a wagon. “Morris is a heap more—more likable than he was last year. Whether it was the accident——”

“It jarred some of the nonsense out of him, perhaps,” said Gordon. “Although, for that matter, Dick, maybe you like him better for other reasons.”

“Humph!” said Dick, with a suspicious sidelong glance. Fudge chuckled.

“Even you and Morris’ father seem to be getting quite chummy,” pursued Gordon, “while as for Mrs. Brent, why, she’s absolutely spoony about you!”

“Go ahead and enjoy yourself,” said Dick. “I don’t mind your ravings. Looks as though they were getting ready to close the hotel, doesn’t it?” he added, as they took the corner cautiously and turned into the shore road.

“I should think they would. About everyone has gone. Did I tell you what Caspar Billings said at the station the other day?”

“I don’t think so. What was it?”

“He said he was going to send circulars of the hotel to all the prep schools next Spring, so he could get up a nine that would beat us next summer and get that pennant back!”

“L-l-let him!” sputtered Fudge. “We’ll be ready for them!”

“Yes, indeed, for we’ll have Mr. Harold Townsend playing for us,” said Gordon. “By the way, Dick, we’d better put him in center field, don’t you think?”

“Certainly.”

“That’s all r-r-right!” exploded Fudge. “P-p-put him there! I’m going to p-p-p-play in the infield next s-s-s-summer! I’m g-g-going——”

But Fudge’s remarks were drowned by the sudden croaking of the horn as the blue runabout approached the Brents’ cottage.

“There’s Morris on the porch,” said Dick, adding another dismal warning.

“Yes, and—am I mistaken, or is that—— My sight isn’t what it used to be, Fudge. Look and tell me if that is Louise on the steps.”

“Dry up!” muttered Dick, turning the car toward the curb and throwing out the clutch.

Morris and Louise came down the walk. “Some driving, that, Dick,” Morris applauded.

“Oh, I told him what to do!” said Gordon modestly.

“Good morning, Mister Manager,” greeted Louise. “Good morning, Mister Captain. Good morning, Mister——” She paused, at a loss.

“Mister Historian,” supplied Gordon. “Fudge is writing a beautiful story about the game, aren’t you, Fudge? He’s going to call it——”

“C-c-cut it out!” growled Fudge.

“Please tell me, Fudge,” begged Louise. “What are you going to call it?”

Fudge scowled, grinned, and relented.

“I’m g-g-going to c-c-c-call it,” he said, “‘The Lucky Seventh.’”

THE END