The Lucky Seventh

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“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; Merrick, 1b; Wayland, l. f.; Tappen, r. f.; Robey, ss.; White, c.; Shaw, c. f.; Haley, p.

“We’ll try it that way,” said Gordon, “and see how it goes. Maybe we’d better put Jack after me, though. What do you think?”

“We had it that way, and you thought we’d better change it,” answered Dick patiently.

“I know, but – but I guess he ought to follow me, Dick.”

“Look here,” said Dick, with a smile, “who’s manager here?”

“You are,” replied Gordon, a trifle sheepishly.

“All right. I just wanted to know.”

“Then – you think – ”

“I think the batting order is going to stay just as it is!”

They reached the field shortly after half-past two, and found a handful of spectators from the hotel and cottages already seated in the shade of the little row of trees behind the third-base line. The Point team was not in evidence, and Gordon quickly distributed his players over the diamond and started warming up. Five minutes later the rival team appeared by ones and twos, and Caspar Billings sought Dick where he was watching the performance of his charges. When Gordon came in from first base, Dick introduced the rival captains and they shook hands. Other introductions followed, but several of the Point fellows were already known to the Clearfield members. Clearfield gave up the diamond to her opponents at ten minutes to three, and watched their practice. The Point team was not in agreement, it appeared, as to a uniform. Every player wore togs of some sort, but at least a half-dozen schools were represented, and there were stockings of about every color in the solar spectrum in evidence. The umpire was named Vokes, and was a college man who was serving as a clerk at the hotel. Gordon decided that while Mr. Vokes’ sympathies might be with Rutter’s Point he was not the sort to let them affect his decisions. Also, Gordon reflected, unless he was very much mistaken, Vokes knew baseball from A to Z. As it turned out, Gordon was not mistaken, and Mr. Vokes’ umpiring was perhaps the most perfect feature of that far from perfect contest.

Clearfield, as the visiting team, went to bat first. Dick, who had been given the Point batting list by a youth who was to score for the home team, was relieved to find that Mason was not set down as a pitcher. Dick didn’t know a thing about Mason, but he somehow had got the impression that Mason was something a bit unusual. Evidently he had not arrived in time for to-day’s game. The pitcher whom the Point presented was named Porter. He looked capable and wore a Lawrenceville cap with what Dick took to be the second team insignia over the visor.

The Point team averaged perhaps a year and a half more than the visiting nine, and was almost entirely composed of players from well-known preparatory schools. As, however, they had never performed together before as a team, save in one or two desultory practice games with a nine made up of hotel employees, Dick had hopes of taking their measure to-day.

Some seventy or eighty onlookers were gathered together on the grass behind the third base line, prepared to root for the Pointers, when Porter delivered the first ball to Harry Bryan. It was a pretty hot afternoon, for what breeze there was came from the landward side of the sun-smitten field. Two settees had been placed on the first-base side of the plate for the accommodation of the visitors, and here Dick and the others sat in the full glare of the afternoon sun, Dick perspiring over his score book and the rest watching interestedly the behavior of the rival pitcher. The field was fairly level about the infield, but further out it rolled a good deal and was covered with rough, bunchy grass.

Porter disposed of Harry Bryan without trouble, and Will Scott took his place at the plate. Will beat out a slow grounder to shortstop and went to second on Gordon’s bunt down third base line. But Gordon was out at first and Curtis Wayland let the third strike get by him.

Rutter’s Point led off with a clean two-base hit by Caspar Billings and followed it with a neat sacrifice bunt that placed the captain on third. But he died there a few minutes later, for Tom Haley struck out Morris Brent easily and made the next man pop up a fly to Pete Robey.

The second inning passed without a score, but in the first of the third, after Tom Haley had struck out, Harry Bryan drove a long fly into right field and reached second when the fielder misjudged it. Will Scott walked and Gordon hit clean past third, Harry scoring the first run and leaving third and second occupied. Way went out, second to first. Jack Tappen put himself in a hole and then emerged brilliantly with a smash that was too hot for the pitcher. Will scored and Jack reached first safely. With Gordon on third, Jack tried a steal. To his surprise the Point catcher slammed the ball down to shortstop and Jack was caught a yard away from base. Gordon scored too late.

But with a lead of two runs things looked bright for Clearfield. The Point again failed to cross the platter, although Loring Townsend got as far as second. Tom’s shoots were too much for the home team. Neither side scored in the fourth. When the first half of the fifth began Pete Robey was up, and Pete, contrary to expectations, delivered a scratch hit and reached the first bag. Lanny flied out to left fielder and Pete reached second ahead of the throw-in. Fudge went out on strikes and, with Tom Haley up, the inning seemed over. But Tom made his one hit of the game, a Texas Leaguer that fell safely behind first baseman, and Pete legged it for the plate and arose from the dust triumphant with a tally. Tom got to second on the throw to the plate, but Harry was out, third baseman to first.

So far Clearfield had played a clean game in the field, but in the last of the fifth luck deserted her. A hard smash down the first base line put a runner on second. A slow hit to Will Scott should have been an easy out, but Will booted the ball and the runner was safe. The next man went out on a foul to Gordon, but the following batsman cracked a liner between Peter and Harry and the Point scored its first run. With a man on third, Lanny declined to throw to second and the runner on first worked an easy steal. Then a batsman found one of Tom’s straight ones and sent it into short center. Fudge made a fine running catch, but the best he could do was to field the ball to Harry and Harry’s throw to the plate was too late to keep the Point from tying the score. Tom settled down then and struck out the next batter and the inning was over, with the score three to two.

The spectators warmed up then and there was plenty of noise during the rest of the game. The sixth inning was uneventful, although both sides got men on bases. The Point pitcher was by no means remarkable, and, as Gordon complained, his deliveries would have been easy for Clearfield had the latter’s batsmen been in any sort of condition. As it was, though, they found him puzzling when hits meant runs and by the end of the sixth he had seven strike-outs to his credit. It was during the last half of that inning that a small youth detached himself from the group of spectators across the field and walked around to the Clearfield bench and seated himself beside Dick. He was a good-looking youngster, as brown as a berry, with a pair of big and rather impudent gray eyes.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” responded Dick, glancing up from his score. “How are you to-day, Harold?”

“Fine and dandy,” replied that youth easily. “Keeping score?”

“Yes,” answered Dick, crediting Harry Bryan with an assist and Gordon with a put-out and penciling the mystic characters “2-1 1” in the square opposite Pink Northrop’s name. “Enjoying the game, Harold?”

Harold Townsend yawned. “I guess so. We’re going to beat you fellows.”

“Think so?” asked Dick amiably.

“Sure thing. Our pitcher’s just getting good now. Bede Porter never begins to pitch till the middle of the game. He will have you fellows eating out of his hand pretty soon.”

“Well, he’s pitched a pretty good game so far. Hello!” Dick was gazing in surprise at the boy beside him. “What have you done to your hair?”

Harold grinned. “Had it clipped. Mother’s so angry she can’t see straight. She said I wasn’t to, but I went down to the barber shop this morning before breakfast. Gee, it’s fine and cool!”

“Hardly the right thing to do, though, was it?”

“Oh, she’ll get over it. Other fellows have their heads clipped in summer, don’t they?”

Dick evaded the question. “How are you getting on with your lessons?” he asked. “Going to be all ready for me Monday morning?”

“I guess so,” replied Harold without enthusiasm. “Who’s the fellow catching for your team, Lovering?”

“Lansing White.”

“Gee, that’s a good name for him, White. He’s a regular tow-head, isn’t he?”

“Is he? He’s a fine chap, though.”

“He don’t catch as well as Billy Houghton. Look at the way Gil Chase stole on him last inning. Say, you keep score dandy, don’t you? Isn’t it hard?”

“Not very, when you’re used to it. Would you like to learn how?”

“No, I can do it well enough. It’s too much trouble, anyhow. I’d rather play. My brother’s the best player on our team.”