If that Saturday had been manufactured to Mr. Potter’s order it couldn’t have been finer. There was a bright blue sky overhead and not a cloud bigger than a handkerchief to be seen. A westerly breeze, bearing the first hint of Autumn, cooled the ardor of the sun. Clearfield had a gala look as soon as the shades at the store windows were drawn in the morning. Touches of purple appeared everywhere. By ten o’clock the downtown streets began to show the incursion of visitors from the neighboring villages and even from the country and the stores reaped a small harvest. At noon Common Street in the vicinity of the field was well lined with sidewalk vendors of peanuts and popcorn, lemonade and soft drinks, while in a vacant lot near-by a hustling gentleman with a blue-black mustache and a yellow corduroy coat had set up a merry-go-round whose strident organ ground out a repertory of four tunes monotonously from forenoon to midnight. Small boys with purple pennants bearing white C’s importuned passers to show their patriotism at the expense of a quarter of a dollar and other small boys flaunted copies of the morning _Reporter_. “Line-up of to-day’s game! Here you are! _Reporter!_ Only two cents!” The reserved seat tickets on sale at Howland’s gave out at eleven o’clock, and at twelve, after a hasty conference over the telephone with Dick, Mr. Potter had a load of lumber and four carpenters at the field erecting sixty extra seats. At one, even before the last nail had been driven, the drug store reported that they had again sold out. “Sell fifty more,” telephoned Mr. Potter, “and mark them ‘Bench!’” Then he hurried to Odd Fellows’ Hall with a moving-van and transferred ten settees from there to the ball grounds and placed them in a double row all along the third base line. After that he threw up his hands. Shortly before noon a blue runabout, with its brass glistening radiantly and its newly varnished surface reflecting back the sunlight, stopped in front of the carriage gate at the field and honked its horn. After which Gordon, who rode beside the operator, jumped to the ground, climbed the fence and unbarred the gates from inside. Then Morris drove in, Gordon dropped the bar back in place and climbed into the car again and the blue runabout ambled across the white foul line and stopped a few feet from the home plate, with its glistening radiator pointed at the grandstand. “That’s my last ride in her,” said Morris regretfully as he got out. “Oh, I don’t know,” said Gordon. “He may give you a lift some time.” Morris smiled. “I meant the last time I’d run her,” he amended. “Gee, but I kind of hate to give her up, Gordon.” “She’s a nice little car,” replied the other, “even if she did try to break your neck for you. And she certainly looks dandy. And she runs as well as ever, doesn’t she?”