“Ha, ha!” said Lanny weakly. Fudge giggled. Gordon had a fit of coughing. Morris became intensely interested in the stars seen through the vines. “You’d make a peach of a chauffeur, Dick,” laughed Gordon finally. “Why?” “Why—er—just because,” replied Gordon flatly. “Say, I’ve got to be going home, fellows. You coming my way?” The others displayed a most uncomplimentary enthusiasm for departure, and after they had clicked the little gate behind them Dick could hear them talking in low and excited tones as they passed up the street. He shook his head as he moved his crutches toward the doorway. “Either they’re all crazy,” he murmured, “or they’re trying to work some sort of a game on me. I wonder what it is.” But he didn’t wonder long, for the morrow’s lessons awaited him upstairs and when he had finished with them he was too tired and sleepy to wonder about anything. Clearfield and Logan played only six innings the next forenoon. The visitors arrived nearly twenty minutes late and the game dragged. There was a lot of hitting and each team seemed determined to make more errors than its opponent. Curtis Wayland and the rival pitcher were pretty evenly matched and it was only because Clearfield, in spite of her endeavors, failed to tally as many errors as Logan that the home team stood three runs ahead when the contest was called to allow the visitors to snatch some dinner before going over to the Point. Dick couldn’t derive much satisfaction from that game, and was inclined to be downcast until, just before supper time, Harold telephoned over to him that the Point team had won by only two runs. After that Dick cheered up and saw things more brightly. And then, scarcely two minutes later, came Gordon with his news. “We’ve got the field, Dick!” he cried from the sidewalk even before he reached the gate. “Mr. Brent is going to give it to the school! It isn’t going to be cut up!” “Give it to the school!” echoed Dick amazedly. “Yes! Isn’t that fine and dandy?” Gordon sprawled into a chair on the porch and fanned himself vigorously with his straw hat. “He’s having a deed made out and just as soon as Mr. Grayson comes back it will be ours. Morris is giving it.” “Morris! How can he give it?” “Well, I mean Mr. Brent is giving it in Morris’s name. It’s to be called Brent Field. And he almost as much as promised to build us a big new grandstand some day! Isn’t he—isn’t he a corker?” “But—but what—how——”