The front of the store, to the left as you entered, was devoted to the sporting goods. The department was only about two years old, but already it had thrice outgrown its limit, until now it occupied fully a third of the store’s space. There were racks of golf clubs, shelves filled with enticing boxes, handsome show-cases over which a red-blooded boy could hang entranced for a long time, polished counters holding things cunningly displayed, and, between window and cases, an oak-topped desk, at which a boy of about Sam’s age was busily writing. He was a capable-looking fellow, with much red-brown hair and a pair of frank and honest blue eyes and a nice smile. And the smile appeared the minute he glanced up from the letter he was writing and glimpsed Sam over the top of the desk. “Hello!” he said, jumping up. “Haven’t seen you since they made you captain, Sam. How are you?” “All right,” said Sam, viewing him, with his quizzical smile, across the bat-rack. “Say, Tom, I want to buy a mitt. How much do I have to pay?” “Oh, we never tell you that till we’ve shown you the goods,” laughed Tom Pollock. “What you want is one of these, Sam. It’s just like your old one, I think, and you can’t beat it at any price. We’ve got them for more money, but----” “This is all right, thanks.” Sam thrust a hand into the black leather mitt and thumped it experimentally with his right fist. “How much, Tom?” “Well, you get the team discount, Sam.” Tom tore a piece of paper from a pad and figured on it. Then he pushed it toward Sam, and Sam read the result, hesitated momentarily, and then nodded. “All right,” he said, “I’ll take it. You needn’t do it up.” “Going to wear it home?” asked Tom, with a laugh. “By the way, Morris was talking the other day about getting the Blues together again this summer. You’ll play if we do, won’t you?” “I guess so. I don’t know yet. I’m looking for a job, Tom. Know anyone who wants to hire a strong, willing chap like me?” Tom smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t, Sam.” “I went over to see Harper at the mills yesterday and got a sort of half promise of a job in the packing-room later. I’m not crazy about that, though. Maybe I’m lazy, but they sure do work you hard over there. I worked in the stock-room one summer and nearly passed out! And hot!” “Must be,” Tom agreed. “Wish I did know of something, Sam, but----” He paused and glanced toward his desk. Then, “By Jove!” he muttered. “I wonder--Look here, Sam, mind going away from home?” “How far? Where to?” “Indian Lake.” “Where’s that?” “Up toward Mendon. About a hundred and twenty miles north of here.” “What’s up there? Say, it isn’t peddling books, is it? I tried that one time and nearly starved to death. Sold four sets of Murray’s Compendium of Universal History and cleared just eleven dollars and eighty cents in a month!”