The Lucky Seventh. Barbour Ralph Henry

denting the floor with those hob-nailed shoes of yours. I saw Mr. Brent this morning, and asked him if we could use the field as long as it wasn’t wanted for anything else, and he said we could. So I propose that if the Point plays us a return game we play on our own grounds. Now, about practice. You fellows know we’ve got to get together and have a good lot of real work before we run up against those Point fellows. So I say let’s have practice every afternoon next week at four-thirty. Maybe after next week every other day will do, but we don’t want to let those silk-sox chaps beat us, and so we’ve got to practice hard. Will all you fellows agree to come to practice every afternoon? That doesn’t mean Tom, because he’s got a lot of work to do, and, besides, we don’t need him so much. He will come as often as he can. But the rest of us ought to get out every day.”

      “That’s right,” agreed Jack Tappen. “If we’re going into this thing, let’s go into it with both feet. There’s no reason I can see why we shouldn’t have as good a baseball team as there is in this part of the state. We all know the game pretty well – ”

      “Oh, you right-fielder!” exclaimed Fudge.

      “ – And most of us have played together this Spring. And with Gordon for captain we ought to just everlastingly wipe up the county!”

      Loud applause greeted this enthusiastic statement, and Fudge began his tattoo again, but was cautioned by a well-aimed pillow which, narrowly avoiding a vase on a side table, eclipsed his joyous countenance for an instant.

      “I guess,” said Lanny, “that we can all get out and practice; can’t we, fellows? In fact, Gordie, it might be a good plan to have it understood that any fellow not turning up, without a real, genuine excuse, is to pay a fine.”

      “How much?” demanded Fudge anxiously.

      “Half a dollar,” suggested Will.

      “A quarter,” said Jack.

      “A quarter’s enough, I guess,” said Dick. “How about it? Everyone agree?”

      “Who’s going to decide whether the excuse is a good one?” inquired Fudge.

      “Dick,” said Gordon.

      Fudge sighed with relief. “All right. Dick’s a friend of mine.”

      “Then Wednesday at four-thirty, fellows,” said Gordon, “and bring your bats. By the way, there’s one thing we’ve forgotten: We’ll have to buy balls. Suppose we all chip in a half to start with?”

      That was agreed to, and the meeting was served with lemonade and cakes and adjourned, everyone departing save Dick, Lanny, and Fudge. These, with Gordon, went out to the porch and took possession of the front steps. There was a fine big moon riding in the sky, and, since Clearfield was economical and did not illuminate the streets in the residence districts when the moon was on duty, it had no competition. The leafy shadows of the big elm fell across the porch, blue-black, trembling as a tiny breeze moved the branches above. Dick leaned against a pillar and laid his crutches between his knees, and the others grouped about him. Perhaps the refreshments had worked a somnolent effect on them, or perhaps the great lopsided moon stared them into silence. At all events, nothing was said for a minute or two, even Fudge, usually an extremely chatty youth, having for once no observations to offer. It was Gordon who finally broke the stillness.

      “Some moon,” he said dreamily.

      “Great!” agreed Lanny. “You can see the man in it plainly to-night.”

      “Supposing,” said Fudge thoughtfully, “supposing you were terribly big, miles and miles high, and you had a frightfully huge bat, couldn’t you get a d-d-dandy swipe at it!”

      “You could make a home run, Fudge!” laughed Lanny. “Only you’d have to hit pretty quick. Why, if you were tall enough to reach the moon, it would be going past you faster than one of Tom’s straight ones, Fudge!”

      “Quite a bit faster,” agreed Gordon. “Still, it would be ‘in the groove,’ and if you took a good swing and got your eye on it you could everlastingly bust up the game!”

      “I think,” replied Fudge, who had literary yearnings, “I’ll write a story about a giant who did that.”

      “Well, there are some pretty good hitters among the ‘Giants,’” commented Dick gravely. Fudge snorted.

      “You know wh-wh-what I mean!” he said severely.

      “Of course he does,” agreed Lanny. “Dick, you oughtn’t to poke fun at Fudge’s great thoughts. Fudge is a budding genius, Fudge is, and if you’re not careful you’ll discourage him. Remember his story about the fellow who won the mile race in two minutes and forty-one seconds, Dick? That was a peach of a – ”

      “I didn’t!” declared Fudge passionately. “The p-p-printer made a mistake! I’ve told you that a th-th-th-thousand t-t-times! I wrote it – ”

      “Don’t spoil it,” begged Dick. “It was a much better story the way The Purple printed it. Any fellow might run the mile in four-something, but to do it under three shows real ability, Fudge. Besides, what’s a minute or two in a story?”

      “Aw, cu-cu-cut it out!” grumbled Fudge. “You f-f-fellows m-m-m-m – ”

      “You’ll never do it, Fudge,” said Gordon sympathetically. “I’ve noticed that if you don’t make it the first two or three times you – ”

      “ – M-make me tired!” concluded Fudge breathlessly but triumphantly.

      “Snappy work!” approved Lanny. “If at first you don’t succeed – ”

      “T-t-try, try again,” assisted Gordon. Fudge muttered something both unintelligible and uncomplimentary, and Gordon turned to Dick: “How did you get on with Mrs. Thingamabob at the Point, Dick?” he asked. “What’s the kid like?”

      “All right. The name is Townsend. They’re at the hotel. The boy is thirteen and he’s – he’s a bit spoiled, I guess. There’s an older brother, too, a fellow about seventeen. He confided to me that I’d have a beast of a time with the youngster. His name – the brother’s – is Loring Townsend. Anybody know him?”

      There was no response, and Dick continued:

      “He seemed rather a nice chap, big brother did. As for the kid – his name is Harold, by the way – ”

      “Fancy names, what?” said Gordon. “Loring and Harold.”

      “No fancier than your own,” commented Fudge, still a trifle disgruntled. “Gordon! Gee, that’s a sweet name for a grown-up fellow!”

      “Not as sweet as Fudge, though,” answered Gordon.

      “That’s not my n-n-name!”

      “There, you’re getting him excited again,” said Lanny soothingly. “Move out of the moonlight, Fudge. It’s affecting your disposition. What about the kid, Dick? Is he the one you’re going to tutor?”

      “Yes; he’s entered for Rifle Point in the Autumn, and he’s way behind on two or three things. The worst of it is that he doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about catching up. I guess I’ll have my work cut out for me. The big brother told me that I was to take no nonsense from young Harold, and that he’d back me up, but – I don’t know. I guess Mrs. Townsend wouldn’t approve of harsh measures. She’s trying her best to spoil the kid, I’d say. I’m to go over five mornings a week, beginning Monday.”

      “I’m glad I don’t have to do it,” commented Gordon. “I’ll bet the kid is a young terror, Dick.”

      Dick smiled. “He is – something of the sort. But I guess he and I will get on all right after a while. And if he’s got it in him to learn, he will learn,” Dick added grimly. “That is, unless his mother – ”

      “She’s bound to,” said Lanny. “They all do. Inside of a week she’ll be telling you that you’re working her darling too hard.”

      “How do you know so much about it?” challenged Fudge. “Anyone