So Tom chose to limit his vacation to one week. He went out to Derry one Saturday evening and remained until Tuesday. By that time he began to miss the town and so he moved back. The next morning he dropped in at the store, talked baseball with Mr. Cummings and hobnobbed awhile with Joe, and then went out to loiter rather aimlessly along the street. While he was studying the enticing placards outside the Empire Theatre and wondering whether to invest a dime and witness the moving pictures inside, someone slapped him on the shoulder and he glanced around to find Thornton Brooks grinning at him. Thorny Brooks had graduated from high school in the spring and was a big, fine-looking chap of eighteen. He had played with the Blues as pitcher, and Tom had become fairly well acquainted with him. “Going in?” asked Thorny. Tom looked undecided. “Come on! It’s my treat. They’ve got some dandy pictures this week. I’ve seen ’em once, but I can stand ’em again.” So Tom allowed the older boy to pull him up to the window and finally through the turnstile. They found seats in the back of the house, and Tom had his first glimpse of moving pictures. They seemed very wonderful to him and when, presently, a film showing a game of baseball at the Polo Grounds in New York was thrown on the screen he almost got out of his seat in his eagerness. Thorny, with the superior knowledge of one to whom moving pictures are an old story and who has seen the present programme before, explained to his companion in whispers. “That’s Lewis at bat,” said Thorny. “Now watch. See him swing at that? Plain as day, isn’t it? There’s a hit. Watch him streak to first! That’s Murray fielding the ball in to second. That was a peach of a base-hit, eh? I don’t know who this chap is. He’s a big one, though. One ball! A foul! He’s got it! No, he hasn’t either! Look at the crowd in the stands, Tom. Now watch the fellow on first. There he goes!” “He’s out!” exclaimed Tom in a hoarse and agitated whisper as the runner slid into second and the shortstop swung at him with the ball in hand. “No, sir!” said Thorny triumphantly. “He’s safe! See that? That was some steal, eh? A close decision, though. I wonder who that umpire on bases is? I’d hate to be in his shoes, wouldn’t you?” Tom agreed that he would, keeping meanwhile his eyes glued to the quivering drama before him. The batsman popped up a high foul, the New York catcher got under it, the batsman walked toward the bench in disgust, and the picture faded. Others followed, however, and Tom enjoyed them all hugely. It was long after noon when the boys emerged from the little theatre, bathed in perspiration. On the way back toward the centre of town Thorny said: “We play the Red Sox this afternoon over by the railroad. Coming over to see it?” “Yes,” Tom answered. “We got licked Monday, didn’t we?” Thorny shrugged his broad shoulders in disgust.