All this in spite of the fact that from every indication there would be no field to play on! Mr. Potter was at Dick’s at a quarter past seven that morning. He was filled with dismay and wrath, and some of the things he said about Mr. Jonathan Brent would not look at all nice in print! At seven-thirty-five he hurried away to find Mr. Brent. At a few minutes before nine he was back again, literally frothing at the mouth. “Say!” he almost shouted in response to Dick’s anxious query. “Say! He didn’t say a thing! He let me talk my head off, that is all he did! I told him that public opinion would be against him if he allowed that field to be demolished before the game, that Clearfield would be up in arms, that the _Reporter_ would deal editorially with the matter and not mince its words!” Mr. Potter faltered then. “What did he say to that?” asked Dick. “He must have said something!” “He said,” replied the newspaper man subduedly, “that he controlled three-fifths of the stock of the _Reporter_ and he guessed the paper wouldn’t be too hard on him!” Dick grinned. “Does he?” Mr. Potter nodded sheepishly. “Yes, but I’d forgotten it. After that I had to—well, I had to tone down a bit. I asked him if it wouldn’t be possible to delay work on the field until after Saturday. I told him about all the advertising that had been done and how everyone was looking forward to the game and all that, you know.” “Yes? And he wouldn’t agree?” “He said, ‘Young man, get out!’ Just that and not another word!” “Then I guess it’s all off,” said Dick regretfully. “It’s too bad. Of course, we might play the game at the Point——” “We couldn’t get the crowd over there. No, sir, it’s got to be played here. You’re certain there isn’t another field anywhere?” “Absolutely certain.” “Then there’s just one thing to be done. It’s a last resort and it doesn’t promise well, but I’ll try it.” “What?” asked Dick. Mr. Potter sank his voice. “See the contractor,” he said, “and buy him off. For a hundred dollars——” “A hundred dollars!” exclaimed his hearer. “Where’d we get it?” “Pshaw, we’ll clear up two hundred easy if we can pull the game off!” “Well,” replied Dick doubtfully, “but even so I don’t believe Mullin would dare to do it.” “Supposing, though, his men went on strike?” suggested the other with a wink. “He couldn’t help himself then, could he?” “N-no, but—I don’t like it, Mr. Potter. It’s pretty under-hand, it seems to me. After all, we don’t _have_ to play that game, and——” “Don’t have to! You bet you have to! Look at that cup! Look at all the printing we’ve done; posters, score-cards, tickets! Look at——” But words failed him and he seized his hat from the table. “Here, I’ve got to get busy! That Irishman may be plowing up the field right now! See you later, Lovering!” And Mr. Potter dashed off again.