The Lucky Seventh. Barbour Ralph Henry

Mr. Captain.”

      “Good-bye, Mr. Manager. I’m not captain, though.”

      “You will be,” laughed Dick. “You always are, you know!”

      CHAPTER III

      A RICH MAN’S SON

      Gordon had doubts of finding Morris Brent at home when, shortly after nine o’clock the next morning, he walked up the neat artificial-stone path to the front door of Brentwood. But the maid who responded to his ring assured him that Master Morris was in, and led the way to the gray-and-gold reception room. He decided to take no chances with the spindle-legged, silk-brocaded chairs, and took refuge in front of the mantel, from which place he viewed the gray satin wall panels and dainty luxuries of the apartment with surprise. He didn’t have to wait long, however, for he had only just reached the conclusion that the room was pretty but uncomfortable when footsteps sounded quickly in the hall and a boy a year older than he appeared in the doorway.

      “Hello, Gordon! How are you? Say, what did they put you in here for? This room gives me the creeps, doesn’t it you? Come on out on the piazza.”

      Gordon followed his host across the hall, through a warm-toned, luxurious but decidedly comfortable library and out of a French door onto a wide porch that was screened and curtained. There were many bright rugs and gayly cushioned easy-chairs here; and tables with blossoming plants and books and magazines on them. From the porch one looked across a carefully kept lawn to where a symmetrically clipped hedge bordered Louise Street. Mr. Brent owned not only the block on which his estate was located, but some eight or nine adjoining blocks besides, his property running from his back line across Troutman, Lafayette, Main, and Common Streets to the river, including, two blocks north, the plot of land which for many years the High School had used as an athletic field. Mr. Brent had laid out the section himself and had named the two cross streets after his son and daughter, Morris and Louise.

      Morris was a good-looking youth, with a self-confident air and a somewhat dissatisfied expression. He was tall, carried himself well, dressed rather more expensively than his companions in high school, and was never quite able to forget or allow others to forget that he was Jonathan Brent’s son and heir. But, in spite of that, he was not unpopular, and if there was any snobbishness about him it was unconscious. In fact, there were one or two of his acquaintances in Clearfield to whom he went out of his way to ingratiate himself. Gordon was one and Dick was another. But Gordon had never cared to respond more than half-heartedly to Morris’ advances, while Dick’s attitude we already know.

      Morris pulled forward the most comfortable chair for his guest, repeated that he was glad to see him, and for several minutes gave Gordon no chance to state his errand. When he did, however, Morris was as much surprised as Dick had been.

      “Dad hasn’t mentioned it to me,” he said, with a frown. “That’s too bad, isn’t it? I don’t see why he needs to cut up that land just now. What’ll we do, Gordon, for a place to play?”

      “Dick said he supposed we’d have to go across the river. That would make it pretty far from school, though. But I don’t know of any place in town, do you?”

      Morris shook his head, and Gordon went on:

      “What I wanted to see you about was to ask if you thought your father would have any objection to our using the field until they began to build on it. I don’t think they’ve done anything there yet. I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind asking your father, Morris.”

      Morris hesitated a moment. “I’ll ask him,” he said, at last, “but he and I – well, we aren’t on very good terms just now. Honestly, I think it would be better if you asked him yourself, Gordon. I’m afraid he’d say no to me just to – to be nasty. You see, we had a sort of row about an automobile. He kind of promised last Christmas that he’d get me a runabout this Spring, and when I asked about it he put me off; and so I” – Morris grinned – “I went ahead and got Stacey to order one for me. It came yesterday, and I told dad and he got as mad as a hatter about it. Says I can’t have it now. I’m going to, though. I’ve got some money in the bank, and Stacey says he’ll wait for the rest of it. It’s only six hundred dollars, anyway.”

      “Too bad!” murmured Gordon, not very enthusiastically. “Maybe he will change his mind, though.”

      “Not he! He isn’t made that way. What are you going to do at the field? Play ball?”

      Gordon told about the letter from Caspar Billings and the formation of the ball club. “I suppose,” he ended, “you’ll play with the Point fellows?”

      Morris shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose so. I haven’t heard anything about it yet. Caspar’s a friend of mine, though. We don’t move out to the Point until the seventeenth this summer. Dad’s full of business and as grouchy as the dickens. Sis and I have been trying to get mother to spunk up and insist on moving right away, but she won’t. Who’s on your team, Gordon?”

      Gordon told him. Morris criticised several of his selections and was infinitely amused at the idea of Fudge Shaw playing. Gordon had an uneasy feeling that Morris perhaps resented not being asked to join. But if Morris held any resentment, he didn’t show it.

      “We ought to have some good games,” he said finally and approvingly. “I dare say Caspar will want me to play on his team. You know him, don’t you?”

      Gordon was doubtful. “I think I remember him,” he said, “but I’m not sure. What does he look like?”

      “Oh, rather a good-looking chap – big, dark hair, plays tennis a lot and is pretty good at it. He lives in a cottage near the hotel, the second in the row at the left. He’s a dandy chap, Billings. I don’t see, though, where he’s going to get enough fellows at the Point to make up a nine, unless there are more there this year than usual. Perhaps he’s got some fellows staying with him. He goes to St. George’s, you know, and last year he brought a couple of friends home with him for a while.”

      “Dick went over to the Point this morning to see about coaching a boy who is going to Rifle Point in the Fall,” said Gordon. “He’s going to look up Billings and tell him we’ll play him a week from Saturday.”

      “Could Dick do that? Coach, I mean.”

      “I guess so. You know he’s about the smartest fellow in his class at school. He wants to earn some money, and there aren’t many things he can do. I hope he gets the job.”

      “Yes. I like Dick. He’s terribly white, isn’t he? Gee, if I had a bum hip like his and had to live on crutches, I’d – I’d – ” But words failed him. He shook his head. “He’s so awfully cheerful. Who is the kid he’s going to coach?”

      “I’ve forgotten the name. He told me. Something like Prentiss, I think.”

      Morris shook his head again. “Don’t know them. They must be new. When I get over there, Gordon, I’ll see if I can’t drum up some trade for Dick. I know about everyone there.” He paused, and then added morosely, with a wry smile: “It might be a mighty good scheme if I had him coach me a bit. I’ve got to take my college exams next year, and I know blamed well I won’t pass them.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’ve got another year yet. Do you have to go? Stay and play a couple of sets of tennis with me. You’ve never tried our court, have you?”

      “I’d like to, but I want to get this business settled. I guess I’d better go and see your father about the field. I’d like to play, though, some time,” he added, as he saw Morris’ face fall. “It looks like a bully court.”

      “It is. It’s a dandy. Fast as lightning. I haven’t played much myself this year, and I’m all out of trim. Sis and I had a couple of sets the other day, and she pretty nearly licked me.”

      “I hope your sister is well,” murmured Gordon. “And Mrs. Brent.”

      “Yes, thanks. Sis ought to be around somewhere. Wait till I see.”

      He got up and passed into the library, and Gordon heard him calling his sister at the stairway. He came back in a moment. “She’s coming down,”