Mr. Wright grunted and Mr. Cummings winked jovially at Tom. Then, to their surprise, Mr. Wright added, “I s’pose it is.” Mr. Cummings laughed. “It surely is,” he declared. “Tom, suppose you and I go and see a game this afternoon. I guess we won’t be needed here.” “They don’t play to-day, sir.” “Don’t they!” Mr. Cummings was palpably disappointed. “Thought I saw a lot of the boys going out toward the field awhile ago in playing togs.” “They have practice every afternoon, sir.” “Oh, that’s it! Well, what’s the matter with going out there and seeing them practice?” “I’d like to very much,” answered Tom, “if I’m not needed in here.” And he looked doubtfully across at Mr. Wright. The junior partner sniffed. “Guess we can do without you to-day,” he said almost graciously. “Don’t see what _you_ want to go tagging off to a ball game for, Joseph.” Mr. Cummings laughed again. “Just to keep Tom out of mischief,” he said. “Get your hat, Tom. Joe, if Mr. Wyman comes in about those locks, you tell him we got word to-day from the folks in Philadelphia and they’re on the way. Ought to be here by Saturday, sure. Come on, Tom.” They caught a car outside and Mr. Cummings pushed Tom into a rear seat. He chuckled as he selected a cigar from his case and lighted it. “Guess we did that pretty well,” he said. “If I had a bag of peanuts I’d feel as if I was going to the circus!” He seemed in real holiday mood. Of course they talked baseball until they left the car to walk the intervening block to the athletic field. “I suppose they don’t charge us anything to-day, Tom,” he said questioningly as they came in sight of the grounds. “No, sir.” “Too bad; I feel just like spending money! How do we get in?” Tom led the way to the gate and they went inside. A handful of boys were lolling on the seats of the grandstand, looking on, while on the diamond the first team and the scrubs were engaged in a game. Tom saw Sidney on the bench and waved to him. By the time they had found seats in a shady portion of the stand, Sidney had joined them. “Hello, Tom! How do you do, Mr. Cummings? Is this a holiday?” “It is for us, Morris,” chuckled Mr. Cummings. “Tom and I sort of sneaked off. Are you playing?” “Yes, sir, but I don’t bat for awhile yet,” replied Sidney, taking a seat beside them. “Then suppose you tell us what’s going on. Who’s that at bat now?” “That’s Sam Craig. He’s our catcher. We’re having a practice game with the scrub team, sir. The tall chap at the end of the bench is Frank Warner, our captain. And that’s Mr. Talbot standing behind him. He’s our coach, you know.” “Good, is he?” “Yes, sir, one of the best. Everyone likes him. Craig has fanned. That’s Pete Farrar coming up now. He’s our best pitcher.” “Then I suppose he can’t hit,” said Mr. Cummings. “Not very well. Nor,” added Sidney smilingly, “pitch much, either. He’s the best we have, though.”