It was nearly six o’clock when the team and its still enthusiastic supporters reached Amesville, and Tom, declining Sidney’s invitation to dinner, went on downtown and alighted at a corner near the hardware store. His train to Derry would not leave until a few minutes before eight and he had two hours to get rid of. He might have returned to the boarding-house, but he was in no mood to meet the tableful of people and have to recite the fortunes of the day. He would, he decided, go into a lunch room later and get a bite to eat. He wasn’t hungry, anyway. His head still felt heavy, although the splitting ache had gone. As he passed the store he glanced in. It was Saturday and so it would not close until nine o’clock. The front of the store was empty, but Joe Gillig was busy with a customer farther on. Tom turned back and went in. As well stay there as anywhere for an hour or so. He hoped, though, that Mr. Cummings had left. Joe nodded to him as he entered, and Tom passed around to the back of his counter amongst the sporting goods department were handed over his attention, for all letters or orders concerning the sporting-goods department were handed over to Tom, who, with the occasional assistance of Miss Miller’s typewriter, managed replies to such as required them. To-night the mail contained several orders, one from a small baseball club which wanted nine uniforms, three bats and a catcher’s mask, and several circulars and catalogues. Tom pinned together the letter from the baseball club and the accompanying measurements and laid it aside for attention on Monday. Then he glanced idly through a summer catalogue of a dealer in athletic goods and, while he was still turning its pages, the lone customer went out and Joe Gillig sauntered down the aisle. Joe had grown considerably older since the day when he had shown Tom around the store, less because of the lapse of time than of a sense of responsibility, for Joe was engaged to be married and the happy event was due to take place in the autumn. Joe’s red moustache was now wonderfully luxuriant, and Tom, who liked to twit Joe about it, pretended to believe that the latter touched it up with the red ink every day. “How did the game come out, Tom?” asked Joe, seating himself on the edge of the counter. “We won, ten to nine.” “Fine! Anyone would think to look at you, though, that you’d been whipped to a froth. What’s the matter?” “Nothing. I’m tired. I missed the special car and the next one was late and I had to walk about a mile. And then----” “Joe, did I leave my umbrella in the office? Just have a look, will you?” And Mr. Cummings who had hurried in, glanced suspiciously at the clouds piling up behind the steeple of the church farther down the street. Then his eyes fell on Tom, and, “Hello!” he said. “I didn’t know you were here, Tom. I just heard about the game.” Mr. Cummings paused and eyed Tom doubtfully. “Glad we won,” he added. “Yes, sir.”