That was agreed to, and the meeting was served with lemonade and cakes and adjourned, everyone departing save Dick, Lanny, and Fudge. These, with Gordon, went out to the porch and took possession of the front steps. There was a fine big moon riding in the sky, and, since Clearfield was economical and did not illuminate the streets in the residence districts when the moon was on duty, it had no competition. The leafy shadows of the big elm fell across the porch, blue-black, trembling as a tiny breeze moved the branches above. Dick leaned against a pillar and laid his crutches between his knees, and the others grouped about him. Perhaps the refreshments had worked a somnolent effect on them, or perhaps the great lopsided moon stared them into silence. At all events, nothing was said for a minute or two, even Fudge, usually an extremely chatty youth, having for once no observations to offer. It was Gordon who finally broke the stillness. “Some moon,” he said dreamily. “Great!” agreed Lanny. “You can see the man in it plainly to-night.” “Supposing,” said Fudge thoughtfully, “supposing you were terribly big, miles and miles high, and you had a frightfully huge bat, couldn’t you get a d-d-dandy swipe at it!” “You could make a home run, Fudge!” laughed Lanny. “Only you’d have to hit pretty quick. Why, if you were tall enough to reach the moon, it would be going past you faster than one of Tom’s straight ones, Fudge!” “Quite a bit faster,” agreed Gordon. “Still, it would be ‘in the groove,’ and if you took a good swing and got your eye on it you could everlastingly bust up the game!” “I think,” replied Fudge, who had literary yearnings, “I’ll write a story about a giant who did that.” “Well, there are some pretty good hitters among the ‘Giants,’” commented Dick gravely. Fudge snorted. “You know wh-wh-what I mean!” he said severely. “Of course he does,” agreed Lanny. “Dick, you oughtn’t to poke fun at Fudge’s great thoughts. Fudge is a budding genius, Fudge is, and if you’re not careful you’ll discourage him. Remember his story about the fellow who won the mile race in two minutes and forty-one seconds, Dick? That was a peach of a——” “I didn’t!” declared Fudge passionately. “The p-p-printer made a mistake! I’ve told you that a th-th-th-thousand t-t-times! I wrote it——” “Don’t spoil it,” begged Dick. “It was a much better story the way _The Purple_ printed it. Any fellow might run the mile in four-something, but to do it under three shows real ability, Fudge. Besides, what’s a minute or two in a story?” “Aw, cu-cu-cut it out!” grumbled Fudge. “You f-f-fellows m-m-m-m——” “You’ll never do it, Fudge,” said Gordon sympathetically. “I’ve noticed that if you don’t make it the first two or three times you——” “——M-make me tired!” concluded Fudge breathlessly but triumphantly. “Snappy work!” approved Lanny. “If at first you don’t succeed——”