crossed the field, "I've got to see that meet, fellows!"
"Of course," agreed Fudge. "Mr. Brent will let you off, won't he?"
"It isn't Mr. Brent who has the say so," replied the other with a smile. "It's my pocketbook, Fudge."
"Oh! But I thought you were making a heap of money now, sir. You went and took that other room and—and all."
"That's why I'm still poor, Four-Fingered Pete. Earning an honest living is hard work. Sometimes I think I'll go back to train-robbery."
"Aren't you ever going to forget that?" wailed Fudge.
Baseball was now well into mid-season. Seven games had been played, of which two had been lost, one tied and the rest won. A Second Team, captained by Sprague McCoy, was putting the regulars on their mettle three afternoons a week and was playing an occasional contest of its own with an outside nine. Dick Lovering was fairly well satisfied with his charges, although it was too early to predict what was to happen in the final game with Springdale, nearly a month distant. The pitching staff was gradually coming around into
shape now that warm weather had arrived. Tom
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