The Lucky Seventh Part 20

"Now, look here," interrupted Gordon sternly, "don't you start that too!

I've had a lot of it from your mother and Louise and Mr. Brent, and if you begin I'll beat it out of here!"

"All right," laughed Morris, "only-well, thanks, Gordon!" A twinge of pain brought a momentary scowl to his face. "I was mighty glad you didn't get banged up too. It was a wonder you didn't."

"Oh, I'm like a cat; I light on my feet. What happened, anyhow?"

"I don't know-quite. The first thing I knew the wheel spun around almost out of my hands and we were smas.h.i.+ng against that fence. I suppose there was something in the road I didn't see. I made a grab for the emergency brake and tried to set it. Then I got a leg over the side of the car and-and that's all I remember. How badly is the car smashed, Gordon?"

"The right front wheel has most of the spokes out of it, and the axle is bent on that side. And there are some dents in the running board and radiator and one lamp's done for. I don't believe, though, it will cost you much to get it fixed up again almost as good as new. I suppose you'll have to get rid of it, though, won't you?"

Morris grinned. "Rather! And I'll have to pay for it, too!"

"Your father says--"

"I know; but Stacey has my note for the rest of the money, and I don't propose to be a squealer, Gordon. I'll get the money somehow. If dad won't give it to me, maybe my mother will. I'll get it somewhere. I'm not going to have Stacey telling it around that I don't keep my word or pay my debts. I wish I'd let the blamed thing alone; but I didn't, and so there's no use talking about that now."

"What-what are you going to do with it?" asked Gordon.

"Get Stacey to sell it for me, I guess. I haven't talked to dad about it yet. He only got home from New York yesterday. I suppose he will be mad when I tell him I want to pay the rest of the money."

"I ought to see him, too," said Gordon uneasily, "and tell him what Mr.

Stacey said. Is-is he at home to-day?"

"Yes, but you'd better wait a while. He always takes a nap Sunday afternoons. I guess I'll let you tell him about Stacey before I tackle him."

"How much would you sell the car for?" asked Gordon presently.

"Anything I could get, I guess. Of course, it's never been used but a week; the speedometer shows only two hundred and eighty miles, I think; but I suppose it's just as much second-hand as if it had been run a whole year. I should think Stacey might get three hundred for it, though."

Gordon looked disappointed. "Oh!" he murmured. "Well, I suppose it is worth all of that. Only, I was thinking--"

"What?" asked Morris.

"It-it sounds sort of cheeky," replied Gordon, after a moment's hesitation, "and you might not think much of the idea, but what I-what we were considering is this, Morris." He drew the chair closer to the bed, with a glance at the half-open door, and lowered his voice.

An hour or so later Gordon left Brentwood well satisfied. Mr. Brent had only smiled at Mr. Stacey's ultimatum, thanked Gordon for the trouble he had taken, and approved of the rescue and temporary disposal of the automobile. "We'll let it stay where it is for the present," he said, "and I'll have a talk with Morris about it some day. If Stacey doesn't want to take it back, I guess we can get the junkman to haul it away."

"I think Morris has a-a scheme, sir, that would be pretty fine,"

returned Gordon. "That is, if-if you were willing."

"A scheme? What sort of a scheme, Merrick?"

"I'd rather he told you about it, sir."

"Humph! I don't think much of Morris' schemes as a rule," replied Mr.

Brent grimly. "However, I'll hear what he has to say."

On Tuesday placards in the shop windows made the following announcement:

BASEBALL!

Clearfield vs. Rutter's Point, HIGH SCHOOL FIELD, Sat.u.r.day at 3 P. M.

Admission: 25 Cents.

Also on that morning the Clearfield _Reporter_ obligingly called the public's attention to the game and predicted a close and exciting contest. The notice in the newspaper cost the club nothing, but the printed announcements took just a dollar and sixty-five cents from the exchequer, and caused Fudge, whose portion of the expense amounted to eighteen and one-third cents, a deal of gloom.

"n.o.body's going to pay real money to see a lot of kids play ball," said Fudge. "So what's the good of spending all that on notices? Gee, we could have bought a new ball with that money!"

One or two others thought as Fudge did, but most of the team were optimistic, and Tim Turner was created ticket seller and gateman, and was to receive fifty cents for his services. Fudge declared that if Tim sold enough admissions to pay himself his wages he'd be "m-m-m-mighty lucky!" But as events proved Fudge was unnecessarily pessimistic.

Meanwhile, on Monday, Jack Tappen had fulfilled his agreement to find a subst.i.tute, and Danny Sh.o.r.es was duly "signed up" for Sat.u.r.day's game with the Point. Danny, who proved to be a long and lanky youth of sixteen or seventeen years, showed up for practice on Wednesday and made a good impression in right field and at the bat. Unfortunately, Wednesday was the only day he could get off, and, as Jack a.s.sured d.i.c.k, it took a lot of wire-pulling to secure that concession from Danny's boss at the plating works. However, Danny played ball more or less every lunch-hour behind the factory, and so was by no means out of practice.

Jack's demeanor was amusing that week. He tried to look chastened and sad, but it was easy to see that he took it as a personal compliment, that suspension, and was vastly proud of it. Jack appeared to reason that if he hadn't been an extraordinarily valuable member of the team d.i.c.k would not have taken the trouble to discipline him! Jack was as busy as a hive of bees, and was so generous with advice that d.i.c.k and Gordon found him something of a nuisance.

"I wish he was playing ball instead of sitting on the bench," confided Gordon, in comic despair. "Next time, d.i.c.k, throw him in the river, but don't suspend him. He's as pleased as Punch with himself!"

Of course, the others tried their best to have their fun with Jack, but the attempt was not very successful. Jack seemed to consider that a signal honor had been done him, and, while he professed to be chagrined and ashamed of his position, he was secretly well contented and was enjoying it all greatly. As d.i.c.k said, one could have stood that well enough if Jack hadn't tried to run the team!

But Jack Tappen was not the only cross that d.i.c.k had to bear just then.

As a tutor d.i.c.k was having his troubles, too. Harold Townsend had at last, to use Caspar Billings' expression, "laid down in the shafts." Not only that, but he was "kicking over the traces" as well. d.i.c.k was pretty nearly at his wits' end. The pupil's first slight awe of his teacher had soon worn off, and now he was frankly mutinous. He no longer made pretense of studying the lessons d.i.c.k laid out for him, only grinned exasperatingly when taken to task, and, in short, openly defied authority. d.i.c.k worried for two reasons: In the first place, he disliked to be beaten. In the second place, he felt that he had no right to take money from Harold's mother when he was not earning it. And he wanted the money and needed it. Harold apparently realized that any appeal to his mother by d.i.c.k would be useless. And d.i.c.k was pretty certain of as much himself. Nevertheless, on Thursday of that week he decided that the time had come for an understanding. Loring, Harold's older brother, had threatened all sorts of dire punishment if that youth didn't behave, but the threats had not impressed Harold much. Perhaps he knew that Loring wouldn't carry them out. On Thursday the lesson had been the merest farce, and Harold's behavior had for once almost caused d.i.c.k to lose command of a usually well-governed temper. At last:

"I shall have to talk to your mother, Harold," he said. "This kind of thing can't go on. You're wasting your time and mine--"

"Aw, you get paid, don't you?" asked Harold, with a scowl.

"I get paid for teaching, not for loafing," responded d.i.c.k sharply. "I shall want to see you when I come back. So don't go off, please."

"I shall if I want to. You don't own me, Lovering. Besides, study time's up, anyway."

d.i.c.k, disdaining to answer, set off to find Mrs. Townsend. The conference took place on a corner of the hotel veranda. Mrs. Townsend was a sweet-voiced, pretty woman, with a tired air. At first she seemed to resent d.i.c.k's charge against her boy. Then she grew pathetic, and bewailed the fact of her husband's death.

"If he had lived," she sighed, "Harold would have been a different boy.

I've never been able to do anything with him. He needs a stronger hand, I fear. Perhaps-that is, possibly-er-it would have been better to have found someone-someone a little older to take him in hand. Of course, I don't mean to suggest that you haven't done excellently, Mr.

Lovering, for I'm quite sure you have; but, of course, as you are so little older than Harold, he may feel-er-you see what I mean, don't you?"

"Yes'm, but I don't think that's the trouble. Harold doesn't want to study, doesn't seem to see the necessity of learning and won't. If I had full authority over him--"

"Oh, but you have! I thought that was understood."

"Oh, for two hours, perhaps, Mrs. Townsend; but what I mean is that if I-well, if you'd just back me up, I'm sure I could accomplish something."

"Please explain. I don't think I understand."

"Why, it's like this," replied d.i.c.k desperately: "He knows now that if he doesn't want to learn his lessons he doesn't have to. So he doesn't do any work. If-if you'd make him understand that he _does_ have to, Mrs. Townsend, that if he doesn't he will be-punished--"

"Oh, but I've never punished Harold!" she protested. "I don't believe in punishment; that is, other than verbal. A high-spirited boy such as he is-er--"

"Yes'm, I know, but you want him to go to Rifle Point, and he will never get there if he doesn't take some interest in his lessons and do some work. See here, please." d.i.c.k had provided himself with a Rifle Point School catalogue, and now he went over for Mrs. Townsend's benefit the list of studies required for entrance. Mrs. Townsend listened with a puzzled, tired frown on her pretty forehead.

"And you think he isn't far enough advanced, Mr. Lovering, to enter this Fall?"