So far Clearfield had played a clean game in the field, but in the last of the fifth luck deserted her. A hard smash down the first base line put a runner on second. A slow hit to Will Scott should have been an easy out, but Will booted the ball and the runner was safe. The next man went out on a foul to Gordon, but the following batsman cracked a liner between Peter and Harry and the Point scored its first run. With a man on third, Lanny declined to throw to second and the runner on first worked an easy steal. Then a batsman found one of Tom’s straight ones and sent it into short center. Fudge made a fine running catch, but the best he could do was to field the ball to Harry and Harry’s throw to the plate was too late to keep the Point from tying the score. Tom settled down then and struck out the next batter and the inning was over, with the score three to two. The spectators warmed up then and there was plenty of noise during the rest of the game. The sixth inning was uneventful, although both sides got men on bases. The Point pitcher was by no means remarkable, and, as Gordon complained, his deliveries would have been easy for Clearfield had the latter’s batsmen been in any sort of condition. As it was, though, they found him puzzling when hits meant runs and by the end of the sixth he had seven strike-outs to his credit. It was during the last half of that inning that a small youth detached himself from the group of spectators across the field and walked around to the Clearfield bench and seated himself beside Dick. He was a good-looking youngster, as brown as a berry, with a pair of big and rather impudent gray eyes. “Hello,” he said. “Hello,” responded Dick, glancing up from his score. “How are you to-day, Harold?” “Fine and dandy,” replied that youth easily. “Keeping score?” “Yes,” answered Dick, crediting Harry Bryan with an assist and Gordon with a put-out and penciling the mystic characters “2-1 1” in the square opposite Pink Northrop’s name. “Enjoying the game, Harold?” Harold Townsend yawned. “I guess so. We’re going to beat you fellows.” “Think so?” asked Dick amiably. “Sure thing. Our pitcher’s just getting good now. Bede Porter never begins to pitch till the middle of the game. He will have you fellows eating out of his hand pretty soon.” “Well, he’s pitched a pretty good game so far. Hello!” Dick was gazing in surprise at the boy beside him. “What have you done to your hair?” Harold grinned. “Had it clipped. Mother’s so angry she can’t see straight. She said I wasn’t to, but I went down to the barber shop this morning before breakfast. Gee, it’s fine and cool!” “Hardly the right thing to do, though, was it?” “Oh, she’ll get over it. Other fellows have their heads clipped in summer, don’t they?” Dick evaded the question. “How are you getting on with your lessons?” he asked. “Going to be all ready for me Monday morning?”