“Beg pardon, Dave,” said that youth, as he attacked the last ball with the fire shovel.

“But what—what are you doing, you idiot?” shrieked Dave.

“Why, you see, I could only find seven old ones, Dave, and I had to have lots more than that.” Then he explained about Carl Gray, and Paddy forgot the skating carnival, for laughing at Dave’s dismay at sight of his new balls. But the latter was soon won round to what Wayne called a proper view of it, and consented to pay ten cents apiece to have the fifteen balls remolded, and Wayne took himself off with his pockets bulging out as though each had the toothache. In the next hour he paid innumerable calls on his acquaintances—he was surprised to find how many he had—and at five o’clock returned to Bradley with a list which ran thus:

There were as many more entries on the list, and Gray was delighted and full of gratitude to Wayne. When he saw some of the fifteen balls that Wayne produced from his overcoat pockets he examined them curiously.

“These eight are awfully queer-looking balls,” he said. “Look as though they’d been kicked about in a coal bin.”

“Oh, you can’t tell what Dave may have been doing with them,” Wayne answered. “I dare say he’s been trying to burn them in the grate. But don’t you care; take ’em along and fix ’em up, and if they’re harder to do than the others, why, charge fifteen cents for them.”

“They won’t be,” said Gray, laughing. “There isn’t much wrong with them, and a coat of paint will do for several. And I’ll take the list around to-morrow and get the balls. I think I can fix that club of Greene’s; perhaps I could find others to mend. Really, Gordon, I’m awfully much ob——”

“Get out of here!” shrieked Wayne savagely. Gray got out, but in the hall he stopped.