The Lucky Seventh Part 8

CHAPTER V

d.i.c.k VISITS THE POINT

On Wednesday the Clearfield Baseball Club reported for practice. There was a full attendance, with the exception of Tom Haley. Gordon confined the hour's work to fielding, however, and Tom's absence was not felt.

Fudge had purchased a brand-new High School uniform and Pete Robey had been lucky enough to borrow one from a boy who had played on the team several years before. As the shirts and caps held only the letter "C,"

there was nothing misrepresentative about the gray uniforms. Of course, the fact that the C was purple and that the stockings were of the same royal hue might lead one to mistake the team for the High School nine; but Gordon had consulted the princ.i.p.al, Mr. Grayson, in the matter, and Mr. Grayson had given it as his opinion that, so long as they did not pretend to be the High School team, there could be no harm in wearing their school uniforms.

Most of the fellows had not played since the final game with Springdale, nearly a month before, and were consequently rather out of practice.

Muscles were stiff, and that first day's work only produced soreness.

But by Sat.u.r.day the fellows were pegging the ball around with their old-time ginger and running and sliding with their accustomed agility.

Tom pitched to the batters on Friday, and the result proved that batting practice was far from being a waste of time. Even Gordon, who had headed the batting list that Spring, found that his eye was bad and that he could connect with Tom's easy offerings scarcely better than the tail-enders.

Fudge plunged into the business with heart and soul, determined to make himself not only a useful member of the outfield but a regular Ty Cobb or Home-Run Baker at the bat. I regret to have to state that for some time Fudge's fielding was not at all spectacular and that he never-or at least never that summer-threatened to dispute Mr. Cobb's supremacy with the stick. But they didn't expect great things from Fudge; and as time went on he developed a very clever judgment in the matter of fly b.a.l.l.s and even became able to throw with some accuracy to the infield.

Meanwhile, d.i.c.k had entered into correspondence with some half dozen baseball teams in not too distant towns, and already a game had been scheduled with Lesterville, who, to d.i.c.k's surprise and satisfaction, offered to pay Clearfield's expenses if it would visit Lesterville.

Manager Lovering promptly agreed and the date of the contest was fixed for the second Sat.u.r.day following the Rutter's Point game. On Friday morning d.i.c.k and Caspar Billings again met and completed arrangements.

Caspar, a boy of d.i.c.k's own age, took a great liking to the Clearfield manager, and insisted on his staying to luncheon with him on that occasion, and it was on the Billings' veranda, within a stone's throw of the waves, that the two talked it all over.

Caspar was a fine-looking youth, rather large but well conditioned, with dark hair and eyes, a ready smile, and a jovial laugh. He lived in New York, but had been spending his summers at the Point for several years.

d.i.c.k met Caspar's mother and two older sisters at luncheon, but Mr.

Billings was not present, and d.i.c.k gathered that he remained in New York save for an occasional week-end. When Caspar explained that d.i.c.k was tutoring Harold Townsend, Mrs. Billings shook her head pessimistically.

"I'm afraid," she said, "you'll find him rather difficult. He isn't exactly what I'd call a nice-dispositioned boy."

"Come, mother, don't discourage Lovering at the start," laughed Caspar.

"We all know that the kid's horribly spoiled, but then Lovering isn't going to be a governess to him!"

"I don't want to discourage him, dear, but I thought it only right he should know that-well, if he isn't very successful, it won't be altogether his fault. Mrs. Townsend is a dear woman, but I can't admire the way she has brought up that boy."

"His brother has already warned me," replied d.i.c.k, with a smile. "I'm prepared for the worst. So far, Harold has behaved very well. He doesn't like to study much, but he hasn't-well, lain down in the shafts yet."

"He will, though," laughed Caspar. "And if you don't keep a tight rein he will bust the shafts! That brother of his is a nice chap, though. By the way, he's going to play first base for us, Lovering."

"Who is your pitcher?" asked d.i.c.k.

"I-we aren't quite sure. We expect it will be Mason, but he hasn't come yet. If he doesn't show up we'll have to find some one else. You know Morris Brent, don't you? He's on the team, too. Then there's Pink Northrop and Jim House and Gilbert Chase and Charlie Leary and-let's see; oh, yes, Billy Houghton. And Mason, if he gets here in time. How many's that? Never mind. I dare say I've forgotten one or two. I guess we'll average a year or so older than you chaps, but you have been playing together, and I guess that will equalize things. That field over behind the hotel isn't the best in the world, but it's not bad in the infield."

"What position do you play?" asked d.i.c.k, when they were back on the veranda.

"Third usually. I'm not particular. I'm not much of a player, but I get a lot of fun out of it. I've tried two years running for the team at school and haven't made it yet."

"What school do you go to?"

"St. George's. We turn out some pretty fair ball teams there. I'm going to try again next Spring. It's my last year, and if I don't make it then I'm a goner."

"I suppose you're going to college, though?"

"No; my father doesn't want me to. Says he needs me with him in the office. I don't mind-very much. Of course, I'd like to go; 'most every fellow I know at school is going. Maybe father will change his mind before Spring. What about you, Lovering?"

"College?" d.i.c.k shook his head. "I'd like it mighty well, too, but it costs too much. Funny how fellows who can go don't care about it.

There's Morris Brent. His father's crazy to have him go to college. He tells Morris he can have his pick of them all. Morris doesn't want to go a bit; and he won't, I guess, if he doesn't brace up."

"Exams, you mean?"

d.i.c.k nodded. "Morris is always in trouble with his studies."

"His father's a bit of a Tartar, isn't he?" asked Caspar. "I've only met him once or twice, but he seemed sort of cross-grained."

"I don't know. I know he and Morris are always at outs about one thing or another. Just now, I hear, it's an automobile. Morris wants one, and his father says he can't have it. Do you know him very well?"

"Not very. We've seen each other quite a little for several summers, but we aren't awfully chummy. I don't quite--" Caspar paused, with a puzzled frown. "If he'd forget that his father has a lot of money, he'd get on better with fellows here. I like his sister, though. She's an awfully nice, jolly kid. And his mother's mighty nice, too."

"Yes, so I've heard. I don't know them. Well, I must get along. We will be over here in time to begin the game at three on Sat.u.r.day, Billings.

I'll talk to Gordon about the umpire, but I'm pretty sure the chap you speak of will be satisfactory to us. Thanks for being so kind. Will you say good-bye to your mother and sisters, please?"

"That's all right," replied Caspar warmly. "Hope you'll come around often, Lovering. See you Wednesday, anyway." He watched d.i.c.k's deft manipulation of his crutches anxiously. Finally: "I say, it's a long walk to the trolley. Let me take you over, won't you? We have a sort of a horse and cart here, and it won't take a minute to hitch up."

"No, thanks; I like to walk," replied d.i.c.k, 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!"

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k had told Mrs. Billings, the boy had behaved very decently, but d.i.c.k knew quite well that it was princ.i.p.ally 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 d.i.c.k to keep the upper hand very long. Then, as d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k had managed to imbue him. The money meant a good deal to d.i.c.k, 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 ident.i.ty of the lone figure in the blue car, but d.i.c.k was pretty sure that the daring driver was Morris Brent. If so, he had, then, overruled his father in the matter, thought d.i.c.k. 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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.s at his present reckless speed, slowed down and was lost to sight from the car.

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 Sat.u.r.day night in a.s.sembly 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 d.i.c.k. "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?" d.i.c.k 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?"