But Fudge’s remarks were drowned by the sudden croaking of the horn as the blue runabout approached the Brents’ cottage. “There’s Morris on the porch,” said Dick, adding another dismal warning. “Yes, and—am I mistaken, or is that—— My sight isn’t what it used to be, Fudge. Look and tell me if that is Louise on the steps.” “Dry up!” muttered Dick, turning the car toward the curb and throwing out the clutch. Morris and Louise came down the walk. “Some driving, that, Dick,” Morris applauded. “Oh, I told him what to do!” said Gordon modestly. “Good morning, Mister Manager,” greeted Louise. “Good morning, Mister Captain. Good morning, Mister——” She paused, at a loss. “Mister Historian,” supplied Gordon. “Fudge is writing a beautiful story about the game, aren’t you, Fudge? He’s going to call it——” “C-c-cut it out!” growled Fudge. “Please tell me, Fudge,” begged Louise. “What _are_ you going to call it?” Fudge scowled, grinned, and relented. “I’m g-g-going to c-c-c-call it,” he said, “‘The Lucky Seventh.’” THE END End of Project Gutenberg's The Lucky Seventh, by Ralph Henry Barbour