“‘Middleton,’” corrected Fudge. “Yep, I guess it’ll be that. I told that fellow Potter about it and he said if I’d let him take it he’d see about getting it published in the _Reporter_. He’s a sort of an editor, you know. But I guess the _Reporter_ isn’t much of a paper, and a writer who’s just starting out has to be careful not to cheapen himself, you see.” “Will he pay you for it?” asked Perry. “He didn’t say. I don’t suppose so. Lots of folks don’t get paid for their first things, though. Look at――look at Scott; and――and Thackeray, and――lots of ’em! You don’t suppose they got paid at first, do you?” “Didn’t they?” asked Perry in some surprise. “Oh, maybe Thackeray got a few dollars,” hedged Fudge, “but what was that? Look what he used to get for his novels afterwards!” Perry obligingly appeared deeply impressed, although he secretly wondered what Thackeray _did_ get afterwards. However, he forebore to ask, which was just as well, I fancy. Instead, tiring of Fudge’s literary affairs, he observed: “Well, I hope they print it for you, anyway. And maybe they’ll take another one and pay for that. Say, aren’t you going out for baseball, Fudge?” “Oh, I’m going out, I guess, but it won’t do any good. I don’t intend to sit around on the bench half the spring and then get fired. The only place I’d stand any chance of is the outfield, and I suppose I don’t hit well enough to make it. You going to try?” Perry shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I can’t play much. Warner Jones told me the other day that if I’d come out he’d give me a good chance. I suppose he thinks I can play baseball because I was on the Eleven.” “Well, gee, if you could get to first you’d steal all the other bases, I’ll bet,” said Fudge admiringly. “You sure can run, Perry!” “Y-yes, and that makes me think that maybe I could do something on the Track Team. What do you think, Fudge?” “Bully scheme! Go out for the sprints! Ever try the hundred?” “No, I’ve never run on the track at all. How fast ought I to run the hundred yards, Fudge, to have a show?” “Oh, anything under eleven seconds would do, I suppose. Maybe ten and four-fifths. Know what you can do it in?” “No, I never ran it. I’d like to try, though.” “Why don’t you? Say, I’ve got a stop-watch in the house. You wait here and I’ll get it and we’ll go over to the track and――――” “Pshaw, I couldn’t run in these clothes!” “Well, you can take your coat and vest off, can’t you? And put on a pair of sneakers? Of course, you can’t run as fast, but you can show what you can do. Perry, I’ll just bet you anything you’ve got the making of a fine little sprinter! You wait here; I won’t be a minute.” “But it’s Sunday, Fudge, and the field will be locked, and――and you’ve got your lessons――――” “They can wait,” replied Fudge, dropping to the ground and making off toward the side door. “We’ll try the two-twenty, too, Perry!”