“Who has the better ball team, Clearfield or Rutter’s Point? That’s the question that is agitating both this community and the summer colony at the end of the trolley. And, if present plans carry, it is a question that will soon be settled definitely, and, we hope, to the satisfaction of Clearfield. Negotiations are to be opened to-day between representatives of the two teams looking to a third and deciding contest to be played on the High School field some time between now and the end of the month. Each nine has won one game and each nine claims to be a little better than the other. Over at the Point they are so certain that they have the champion bunch of players that they’re willing to do most anything to secure another game with Clearfield. At this end of the line there is an equally strong conviction to the effect that our own aggregation has more than a shade on the Point team. That’s the way it stands now, but the _Reporter_ hopes to be able to announce in another day or two that the managers and backers of the rival teams have met and agreed on a deciding game. In which case we predict that those who are fortunate enough to witness the final battle will see a struggle they won’t forget in a long time. Watch for developments!” Besides that highly-colored effusion there was a short editorial inside in which the writer extolled athletics in general and baseball in particular. In twenty lines the writer alluded to Greek athletes, Roman games, Christopher Mathewson, Tyrus Cobb, the American Eagle, the Spirit of Fair Play and Clearfield. The style of the two productions was so much alike that Dick and Gordon decided that Mr. Potter was responsible for both. “I hope,” said Dick, “that Caspar won’t see this until I’ve prepared him for it. He will think we’ve gone crazy!” As it happened, however, Caspar Billings was much too busy playing tennis that morning to read the _Clearfield Reporter_, and when Dick met him he knew nothing of Mr. Potter’s activities. But five minutes later he had found the paper and was chuckling enjoyably over the story. “It’s great!” he declared. “That fellow ought to be working in New York. He’s lost in Clearfield. Say, we’ll have more fun than a picnic out of this, Lovering. What sort of a prize did he say?” “A cup or a phonograph or—or something like that.” “Me for a phonograph!” laughed Caspar. “Now, when can we play? Of course, we’ll go over to your field. Have to, anyway. How about two weeks from Saturday?” “That’s the day I was going to suggest,” replied Dick. “That’s all right for us. We had a game scheduled with a nine from the Ocean House at Traskville, but they telephoned the other day that they couldn’t make up a team. That gives What’s-his-name, your newspaper friend, a fortnight to work up the excitement. And I’ll bet you he will do it!”