“All right. That’s good enough for me,” agreed Chester cheerfully. “If it does go, it’ll go hard; I’ll say that for it!” After the others had gone, bidding him good night rather soberly on the porch, Dick took himself to bed. But sleep didn’t come readily to-night. There was too much to think of. He wondered over and over if he had done wisely here or well there, wondered for the hundredth time if his plans, his methods, his strategies were to be crowned with success. He wondered whether the team was really as good as it had seemed to him yesterday, even this afternoon. There were moments, as, tossing back and forth on his pillow, he heard eleven and twelve o’clock strike, when it seemed to him that nothing but certain defeat impended, that there was not the smallest chance in the world for a Clearfield victory! That wasn’t a pleasant vigil that Dick kept up there under the roof that night. Some time after twelve he fell asleep, but only to turn and mutter for a long while after as his tired mind evolved dream after dream in all of which misfortune pursued him relentlessly. When he awoke the world was gray and cold, with a foretaste of snow in the air, and he found nothing in the outlook to inspirit him. But a cold bath set sluggish blood to tingling again and a cup of steaming-hot coffee brought back courage and determination. While he was looking through the papers the telephone bell rang and he found Manager Cotner on the line, irritated of voice. Springdale had just telephoned over for thirty-five more seats and they didn’t have that many unless they could get the workmen out there to put up some temporary ones. The matter was really outside Dick’s jurisdiction, but George was so perplexed that Dick gave his mind to the problem for a moment. “There wouldn’t be time before two-fifteen to get seats up, George,” he answered after an instant’s reflection. “Call up Mr. Grayson and see if he will let you have half a dozen rows of chairs from assembly hall. I think he will if you tell him your fix. You can put them along the front of the Springdale section.” That was but the beginning of the telephone’s activity. Chester called up next, and after him George Cotner again. George was now in a condition of sputtering wrath. The Springdale manager had just telephoned that Wonson, the man who was to have umpired the game, couldn’t officiate, owing to illness, and could Clearfield find some one to take his place. Springdale would be satisfied with anyone selected. “Get right after Mr. Cochran, George. Try the Y.M.C.A. first. If he’s not there run around to his house on D Street; the white house near the corner of Lafayette. I think he will do it. How about the seats?” “They’re all right. I’m trying to get hold of Stuart now. Sorry to bother you so much, Dick. Good-by.” After that until late afternoon Dick had no chance to be gloomy. He was much too busy.