Encouraged, Rutter’s Point set about getting the third out, and Porter settled down to deceive Harry Bryan. But Harry, realizing that in all probability this would be his last time at bat, and seeing what a fine opportunity was presented him to write his name on the annals of fame, was cautious and watchful. Porter worked a low ball over for a strike, followed it with a ball wide of the plate, coaxed him with a slow one that failed to entice Harry or please the umpire and then tried to sneak a fast one across in the groove. But Harry saw it coming, laid all his strength along that slender piece of ash he held and swung! And when the excitement was over three more runs had been piled on to Clearfield’s score and Harry was seated, breathless but happy, on third, having lined out a two-base hit into deep center and taken third on the throw to the plate. That ended it, however, for Will Scott popped a foul into first baseman’s hands. With the score ten to four against them the Rutter’s Point team was discouraged and beaten. It tried half-heartedly to get a man around in the last of the eighth and managed to stop Clearfield in the first of the ninth, although some poor base-running on the part of the visitors did more than any efforts of the home team to save the plate in that inning. And in the last half of the ninth the Point actually got a runner as far as third. But there he stayed while the next two batsmen fell before Tom’s slants and a third sent up a short fly that settled comfortably into Pete Robey’s hands and brought the game to an end. Clearfield cheered Rutter’s Point, in the intoxication of the moment using the regular High School slogan, and Rutter’s Point cheered Clearfield and bats were gathered up and the two teams started off the field. They came together at the corner of the hotel and Caspar called to Dick: “We’d like to try you again, Lovering, some time.” And Dick answered: “Glad to play you, Billings. We’ll talk it over soon.” Morris Brent laid a hand on Gordon’s arm and pulled him aside. “Say, Gordon, I’ve got my car here. Come on back with me, won’t you? I’ll get you home quicker than the trolley will do it.” “Why, much obliged,” murmured Gordon, “but——” “Oh, come on! I want you to see how dandy it runs.” “I’m not insured,” laughed Gordon, trying to pull away from the other’s detaining hand. “Oh, pshaw! I won’t dump you out. I’ll run as slow as you like. Come on.” “Well, all right,” agreed Gordon without enthusiasm. “Oh, Dick! I’m going back with Morris. I’ll see you this evening.” Morris led the way toward the pier, where the Clearfield road joined the shore avenue, and Gordon saw the blue runabout standing at the side of the road. It was a very attractive little car, in spite of the layer of gray dust which sullied the shining varnish. “Isn’t she a peach?” demanded Morris. “And go! Say, I went nearly forty miles an hour in her the other day!”