“Oh!” Gordon pulled another sheet of paper from the envelope and read its contents. “‘Mr. Bert Cable, Captain Clearfield High School Baseball Club, Dear Sir: A lot of us fellows at the Point are getting up a ball team and we want games. Will you play us? We’ll play on our own field or on yours, just as you say. Any date after July 10th will suit us, Wednesdays or Saturdays preferred. Our fellows will average about the same as your team, I guess. Please let me hear from you, and if there are any other teams around Clearfield we could play with I wish you’d let me know and send managers’ addresses. Very truly, Caspar Billings, Captain, Rutter’s Point Baseball Association.’” “Caspar Billings,” mused Dick. “Which one of the Silk Stocking Brigade is he, Gordon?” Gordon smiled. “I don’t remember him particularly. He’s a sort of chum of Morris Brent, though.” “That all you can say for him?” asked Dick. “I suppose Morris will play with the Pointers?” “I guess so. He won’t be much of a help, though. He plays ball like—like a turtle!” “Morris says,” replied Dick with his slow smile, “that he can play a lot better than most of you fellows and that if Bert and Tom Haley and some of the others weren’t down on him he’d have made the team last spring.” “Guff! He can’t catch a ball. He’s not a bad sort, Morris, if his dad _does_ own the town, but he’s no Ty Cobb! Well, what do you think about getting up a team, Dickums?” “Why not? You’ve got plenty of fellows. Most of the school team are still around, aren’t they?” “All except Bert and Warner Jones and Joe Browne.” “Where’s Warner?” “I don’t know. Gone away with his folks somewhere for the summer. Wish my folks would do that.” “Well, get out your pencil, Gordie, and let’s make up the team. Haley, pitch, and Lanny, catcher——” “I’ll play first and Harry Bryan second——” “How about Will Scott?” “Third. Then for shortstop——” “Jack Tappen?” “N-no, he’d better play in the outfield. I’ll put him down for right. I guess Pete Robey’s the chap for short. That leaves us Way for left field and I guess Fudge will do for center. He can’t hit much, but he can pull down a fly.” “There you are, then. What will you call the nine? You can’t be the High School team, I suppose.” “N-no, we’ll have to find a name. The Clearfield—what, Dickums?” “Rovers?” “Sounds like a troupe of trained dogs,” laughed Gordon. “We might call ourselves the Purple Sox, only it’s sort of hard to say.” “Shorten it,” suggested Dick. “Call yourselves the ‘Purps.’” “That’s worse than the Rovers! Why not just the Clearfield Ball Club?” “Why not? That’s settled. Now you want a manager——” “Got one.” “You have? Who?” “You.” “Me!” “Surest thing you know. That’s partly why I came. To tell you. You see, I thought you’d want to know it.” “Very thoughtful of you,” Dick laughed. “But will you tell me how I can manage a ball team, you idiot?”