“I know. I guess he will let me. He ought to.” Harry observed the yellow slips in his hand somberly. “I’ve been working pretty hard, I tell you.” “I should think,” suggested the irrepressible Fudge, “that if you worked late to-night you could sand enough sugar to last the week out!” “Say, they’re not going to let you play, are they, Fudge?” “How could they do without me?” “It’ll be a peach of a nine!” jeered Harry. He was only a year older than Fudge, but pretended to regard that youth with amused toleration, and so caused Fudge deep annoyance at times. “Well, we’ve got eight good ones,” responded Fudge sweetly. “If we could only find a fellow to play second base, we’d be all right.” “It’s a wonder they don’t put you there.” “Oh, I was offered the position, bu-but I didn’t want it. I prefer the outfield. There’s more re-re-responsibility there.” “You’re a wonder!” said Harry. “What would you do if a ball came your way? Hold your mouth open and try to swallow it?” “You wa-wait and see! If I co-co-couldn’t catch a b-b-ball better th-th-than you——” “Calm yourself, Fudge! You’re off your trolley again! I’ll be around to-morrow night, Gordon. Now I’ll have to get busy. Watch Fudge as he goes out, will you? Last time he was in he got away with three or four pounds of prunes.” “I took three of the old th-th-th-things,” said Fudge bitterly, “and they n-n-nearly killed me!” They left Harry surrounded by baskets, frowning over the order slips in his hand, and made their way back to the sidewalk and their wheels. As it was almost noon, Gordon decided not to risk his father’s displeasure by seeing any more of the fellows before dinner, and he and Fudge pedaled home, Fudge still sputtering about those prunes. At a little after four that afternoon Gordon was back at Dick’s to report success. All the members of the Clearfield Ball Club had agreed to play and to attend the organization meeting the next evening—all, that is, save Harry Bryan, who was to telephone later. “Now, Dickums, if you’ll write to Billings and tell him——” “If _I’ll_ write!” Gordon laughed. “Of course; you’re the manager, aren’t you?” “Humph! So I have to attend to the correspondence too, do I? It seems to me that you ought to write that letter. Bert sent it to you, and you’re captain, and——” “Well, that’s what I thought,” responded Gordon cheerfully, “until I got to thinking it over. Then I remembered that you were manager, and, of course, managers always attend to arranging contests; and there you are. Just tell him we’ll play his team on Wednesday the sixteenth, Dickums, at the Point.” “All right. I might call on him and tell him about it, though, for I’m going over to the Point in the morning.” “You are? What for?”