He was a well-built, athletic youth of fifteen years, with a pleasant, clean-cut face, dark brown eyes and hair and a well-tanned skin. He looked very much alive and rather enthusiastic, just the sort of a boy, in short, to undertake and carry through successfully such an enterprise as the formation of the Clearfield Baseball Club. Fudge was waiting for him around the corner, and they set off together in search of Tom Haley. Tom lived in what folks called the East End, which was that section of the town near the railroad largely inhabited by workers in the mills and factories. Tom’s father was a foreman in the sewing-machine works, and the family occupied a tiny story-and-a-half cottage so close to the railroad tracks that it shook whenever the trains passed. Fortunately they found Tom at home, very busily engaged repairing the front steps, surrounded by carpenter’s tools and three junior members of the Haley family. He rescued the chisel from Tille, aged four, deprived the baby of a handful of nails, told George, aged six, to stop sawing the chair leg, and greeted his visitors. Tom was sixteen, big, broad-shouldered and raw-boned, with an angular face and high cheek-bones liberally speckled with freckles. At present he was minus coat and vest and wore a pair of blue overalls. “You kids get in the house now,” he instructed the suddenly silent trio of youngsters, “and tell your mother to keep you in there, too. You’ve bothered me enough. Shoo, the whole lot of you!” They went, with many backward glances, and Tom cleared a space on the edge of the unrailed porch for Gordon and Fudge. “Say, it’s some warm, isn’t it? What you fellows up to to-day? Going to the pond?” “No, we’re calling on you,” replied Fudge. “Much obliged. What’s the game?” “Baseball,” said Gordon. “We’re getting up a team to play the Rutter’s Point fellows and we want you to join, Tom.” “I don’t mind, if there isn’t much practice. There’s a lot to be done around the house here this summer. We’re going to shingle next week, and after that we’ll paint. Who’s on the team?” Gordon explained all about it, read Bert Cable’s letter and Caspar Billings’ and told Tom the line-up of the nine as he had planned it. “Sounds all right,” said Tom. “When are you going to start?” “Right away. If you’ll pitch for us we’ll be all right. I’ll answer Billings’ letter and tell him we’ll meet him a week from Wednesday. That’ll give us a whole week for practicing.” “All right, I’m with you, only don’t expect me to practice much, Gordon. I’m pretty busy. I’ll come out a couple of times, though; say—let me see—say Friday and Monday. Going to use the school field?” “Yes. I don’t suppose anyone will object?” “Don’t see why they should. You’d better see Mr. Grayson, though.” “I will. No, that will be up to Dick. He’s going to be manager.” “Dick Lovering?” asked Tom, in surprise. “Well, I don’t see why not. He can get around all right. Have you asked him?”