Youll wish you hadnt invited me after the first dance, replied the visitor grimly. But Ill come if you want me to some time. Good-bye.
On his wheel once more, and spinning down the shadow-dappled street, he thought, not without a little natural envy, how fine it must be to have as much money as the Brents. Morris had spoken of buying a six-hundred-dollar automobile in much the same way as Gordon might have announced his intention of purchasing a new suit of clothes! And yet, on reflection, Morris didnt seem really happy and contented, and never had. He always appeared to have a quarrel with someone or something. Sometimes it was the teachers at High School, who were imposing on him; once it had been the baseball coach, Mr. Farrel, who, according to Morris, was keeping him off the team for spite, and now it was with his father. It would seem, then, that the possession of much wealth didnt always bring contentment. There was Dick Levering, who was not only poor but a cripple as well, and who was absolutely the most cheerful and contented fellow of all Gordons acquaintances. It was a bit puzzling, Gordon thought, as he whirled into E Street and headed toward the business section of town.
Mr. Jonathan Brents office was in the Clearfield Trust Companys Building, opposite the common. Gordon left his wheel against the curb and mounted the flight of marble stairs. A clerk took his name doubtfully and indicated a chair for him to sit in while he waited Mr. Brents pleasure. As it happened, although the mill president was a very busy man, Gordon didnt have to wait long. Almost at once a buzzer sounded, the clerk disappeared, returned, and conducted Gordon through a door whose ground-glass pane was marked Private.
Mr. Brents office looked out across E Street into the elm-shaded greenery of the common. An electric fan made a soft and pleasant whirring from the top of the big desk which, until Gordon had crossed the room, hid Mr. Brent from view. A chair was set at the end of the desk and into this, not very confidently, Gordon lowered himself while Mr. Brent, without looking up, ran his eye over a letter in his hand.
Jonathan Brent was a small man, small and narrow, with a lean and wrinkled face, shrewd but not unkindly, and a pair of gimlet-like, blue-gray eyes. His face was clean-shaven and the grizzled brown hair had retreated until the top of his head was as bald and shining as the white-enameled newel-post at the foot of the Merricks stairway. His mouth was thin and set in a firm, straight line, a line that never altered as, presently, he laid down the paper in his hand and raised his gaze to Gordons.
Well, what do you want, my boy? he asked, in a quick but not unpleasant voice.
I came to see you about the athletic field, Mr. Brent, responded Gordon. I heard yesterday that you intend to cut it up for building lots, sir.
Quite right. What of it?
Well, sir, you see weve been using it for baseball, and some of us are getting up a nine to play this summer, and I wondered if youd let us use it until you got ready to to build on it.
Oh! I see. Whats your name? Herrick?
Merrick, sir; Gordon Merrick.
Ellis Merricks boy?
Yes, sir.
I know your father. Are you in the High School?
Yes, sir.
Know my boy?
Yes, sir. I I went to see him this morning. I thought maybe he would ask you for me, but he
Gordon floundered, and a tiny smile moved the corners of Mr. Brents straight lips.
He didnt care to, eh? Well, Merrick, youre welcome to use the field as long as you dont interfere with the engineers or workmen. I believe theyre going to survey there for the street in a week or so.
Thank you, Mr. Brent.
All right. I dare say you boys are going to miss that playground.
Yes, sir, we are. It its been a fine place for us.
Yes. Sorry I cant let you have the use of it longer, but I need the ground. I suppose you can find another field without much trouble.
I think so, agreed Gordon doubtfully.
You and Morris friends?
Yes, sir. That is, we we know each other pretty well.
Only pretty well, eh? Whats the matter? Dont you like him?
Why, yes, sir, but but we dont see each other much.
Doesnt he like you?
I think so. He seems to.
Did he say anything to you about an automobile, Merrick?
Yes, sir, he mentioned it. Gordon began to wish himself away.
Ever drive one of the things?
No, sir.
Like to?
Yes, sir, I guess so. I think it would be fun to to have one.
Why doesnt your father get you one?
I dont think he could afford it, and, besides
Yes? Besides?
I guess he wouldnt think I was was old enough to run it.
How old are you?
Fifteen, sir.
Morris is sixteen. Think your father would let you have one if you were a year older and he could afford it?
Gordon shook his head. I dont believe so, Mr. Brent.
I dont, either. Well, help yourself to the field, Merrick. Glad to have met you. Good day.
CHAPTER IV
THE TEAM ELECTS ITS CAPTAIN
There was a full attendance at the organization meeting which assembled in the Merricks front parlor that evening. Besides Gordon himself, Dick Lovering, Fudge Shaw, Harry Bryan, who had won his fathers consent, and Tom Haley, all of whom we have met, there was Lansing White, otherwise known as Lanny, Jack Tappen, Pete Robey, Will Scott, and Curtis Wayland. Curtis and Will were inseparable companions. Damon and Pythias would have been excellent, if hackneyed, nicknames for the pair. Dick had once remarked in his quiet way, when the two chums had appeared arm in arm on the ball field: Where theres a Will theres a Way. Thereafter Curtis was called Way, and Dicks pun was handed over to an appreciative public in the Caught-in-the-Corridor column of The Purple, the High School monthly. Way and Will were both of an age, which was sixteen, both of the same height to a fraction of an inch, and, perhaps by reason of having been together ever since they were in kindergarten, were so much alike in general appearance, manners, and speech that they were always mistaken for brothers and not infrequently for twins. Way was a little heavier in build than Will, and had dark brown hair, whereas Wills was light. For the rest they were much the same, with brown eyes, short noses, and round, freckled faces. Good, healthy, jolly, normal boys both.
Pete Robey was fifteen, a lank, dark-eyed fellow, rather diffident and quiet. Jack Tappen was only fourteen, but he was big for his years. He was not at all diffident. In fact, Jack had a pretty good opinion of himself. He was a clever ball player, and, for that matter, did many things about as well as the older fellows with whom he associated.
Lansing White, or Lanny, as he was always called, was fifteen. Every one who knew him would have assured you earnestly that Lansing White was destined for great things. Perhaps they were right. At all events, he had the fine faculty of making friends on the instant and holding them. There wasnt a kinder-hearted fellow in school, nor one more thoughtful of others. If a ballot had been taken for the most popular student, Lanny would have won, hands-down, over many a fellow far more prominent in school affairs. He caught for the school nine, played a fine game at left halfback on the football team, and regularly won his five points in each of the sprints at the track meetings with Springdale High School.
In appearance he was rather striking by reason of his hair, which was as near the color of ripe flax as hair ever gets, and his eyes which were so dark a brown that they looked black. The contrast between light hair and dark eyes was rather startling. He was always a little too lean, his parents thought, but his leanness was quite healthy and was due, probably, to the fact that he was always in training for something.
The nine members of the Clearfield Ball Club sat around the parlor, occupying every available chair and couch, and discussed the project exhaustively and with enthusiasm. They all agreed that it was the bounden duty of someone to humble the pride of those Rutters Point chaps, to whom they had long been in the habit of referring as the Silk Stocking Brigade; and they didnt see but what the duty could be performed by them as well as by any others. Jack Tappen thought they could attend to it a little better than any others, and so declared. That point agreed on, they discussed ways and means. Everyone there except Fudge and Pete Robey had a High School uniform which it would, they decided, be quite permissible to wear. Fudge declared that he would buy a uniform, and Pete was sure he could borrow one. Gordons announcement that Dick had been tendered and had accepted the position of manager met with acclaim, and Will and Way, in the same breath, demanded a speech. Dick declined to address the meeting, contenting himself with reminding the turbulent pair that as manager he had the power to fine them for misconduct. At which Will and Way, pretending to be much alarmed, subsided. It was agreed that every member was to pay his own car-fares when the team journeyed from home, and that the managers expenses were to be provided for by an assessment on each of one-ninth of the necessary amount. Dick claimed the floor, there to state that it would probably not be necessary for the others to provide his expenses, and that in any case he would pay his own way unless the team journeyed a long distance.
The name of the team was decided on the Clearfield Baseball Club. Harry Bryan was in favor of something with more snap to it, something like the Clearfield Pirates or the Clearfield Giants, but he was defeated. Dick, who had taken the proceedings in hand, then announced that the election of a captain was in order, and Tom Haley, Fudge, and Jack Tappen nominated Gordon in unison. The others signified approval noisily. Gordon, however, insisted on being heard.
You fellows dont have to make me captain, he protested, just because I started the thing going. It wasnt my idea, anyhow; it was Bert Cables. Ill be captain if you really want me, but I think some of the rest of you would be better, and I nominate Tom.
Nominate all you like, grunted Tom Haley. I decline.
I nominate Lanny, said Will Scott.
Second the nomination! piped up Way.
Much obliged, fellows, said Lanny, but Id rather not. Lets make Gordon captain and not be scared out of it. All in favor make a lot of noise!
There was a lot of noise, a very great deal of noise, and Dick laughingly declared Gordon elected. Speech! Speech! shouted the irrepressible Fudge, beating a tattoo on the hardwood floor with his heels.
Shut up, Fudge! And stop 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 wasnt 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 weve got to get together and have a good lot of real work before we run up against those Point fellows. So I say lets have practice every afternoon next week at four-thirty. Maybe after next week every other day will do, but we dont want to let those silk-sox chaps beat us, and so weve got to practice hard. Will all you fellows agree to come to practice every afternoon? That doesnt mean Tom, because hes got a lot of work to do, and, besides, we dont need him so much. He will come as often as he can. But the rest of us ought to get out every day.
Thats right, agreed Jack Tappen. If were going into this thing, lets go into it with both feet. Theres no reason I can see why we shouldnt 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; cant 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 quarters enough, I guess, said Dick. How about it? Everyone agree?
Whos going to decide whether the excuse is a good one? inquired Fudge.
Dick, said Gordon.
Fudge sighed with relief. All right. Dicks a friend of mine.
Then Wednesday at four-thirty, fellows, said Gordon, and bring your bats. By the way, theres one thing weve forgotten: Well 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, couldnt you get a d-d-dandy swipe at it!
You could make a home run, Fudge! laughed Lanny. Only youd 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 Toms 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, Ill 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 oughtnt to poke fun at Fudges great thoughts. Fudge is a budding genius, Fudge is, and if youre not careful youll 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