“Oh, I’ll get it fixed so you can run her to-morrow. It’ll take an hour or two to get down to the shop, do the work and get back. You couldn’t use the car to-day anyway, so I’ll leave it until evening. I do want to see that game, fellows.” Tom swallowed his disappointment and assented. “And I wish you’d attend to ordering the new part,” he said. “I wouldn’t know how, I guess.” “All right. I’ll get a letter off to-night. Hold on, though; hadn’t we better telegraph for it? We might save a couple of days that way.” The boys agreed that that would be wise and Jimmy dropped the broken pinion into his pocket. “You fellows going to the game?” he asked. “You’d better. That fellow O’Brien who is going to pitch for the mill team is a wonder. He used to pitch for Waterbury.” Tom hesitated, looking doubtfully at Willard. “I――I suppose we might as well,” he said finally. “I wish this hadn’t happened on Saturday, though. There’s always a lot of travel on Saturday.” “Well, it can’t be helped, Tom,” comforted Willard. “We might as well make the best of it. And I, for one, would like mighty well to see the game. I guess a holiday won’t do us any harm, Tom.” “N-no, but we’re losing a lot of money,” Tom mourned. “Oh, never mind. Let’s forget it and see the game. Come on.” It wasn’t so easy for Tom to forget it, however, and all the way out to the field he was quiet and depressed. Willard and Jimmy Brennan talked baseball with enthusiasm, Jimmy being a “fan” of the deepest dye. They reached the entrance quite early and while Willard was searching for a mislaid half-dollar near the ticket window some of the members of the high school team passed. Among them was George Connors, a big, good-looking, dark-complexioned chap of eighteen, who was Audelsville’s catcher. Willard and Tom both spoke to George as he passed, but all they received in return was a scowl, and Tom turned inquiringly to his friend. “What’s the matter with George Connors?” he asked. “He looked as though he wanted to bite me.” “Me, too,” answered Willard. “I guess he’s down on us on account of his father. I suppose his dad’s been calling us names for interfering with his business, Tom.” “Oh, that’s it?” he nodded understandingly. “I didn’t think about that. Yes, I dare say we’re in wrong with the whole Connors family, Will.” He followed Willard and Jimmy Brennan through the gate and found a seat with them on the left field bleachers. “I was thinking, coming out here, Will,” he continued as he pulled his hat down over his eyes and prepared for hot weather, “that we might do pretty well bringing folks out to these games. We could make two or three trips without missing any trains.” “I don’t believe many of these folks would pay a quarter to ride out,” Willard objected. “We might take them both ways for a quarter,” answered Tom. “You see if we’re out here we’ve got to go back anyway, and we might as well take passengers. Suppose we try it the next time there’s a game?”