“We’re going to use a heavy cardboard stock,” explained Mr. Potter, “and we’ll strike off a hundred of ’em. We’re going to charge you just what the stock and the labor cost us and no more.”
“What about the score-cards?” asked Dick.
“Won’t cost you a cent. I’ve got about a dozen advertisements and those will pay for the cards. Another thing we’re going to do is to run an ad of the game on Thursday, Friday and Saturday of next week.”
“That’s very kind,” murmured Dick. “You really think folks will pay seventy-five cents for seats? Wouldn’t it be better to make the prices fifty cents and a quarter?”
“I don’t think so, Lovering. We want ’em to understand that what they’re going to see is a real game of ball. They’ll pay the price all right. That reminds me of another thing. How would it do for you fellows to get hold of a crackerjack pitcher for this game? You could get one for thirty dollars or so. There’s Lafferty, of Providence, for instance. I dare say he’d twirl for you for twenty-five and his expenses. He’s a corker, too! I’ve seen him work.”
“I guess not,” replied Dick. “I think we’ll stick to home talent. It seems a bit fairer.”
“Well, just as you say. This fellow Mason, though, is pretty good, and everyone would like to see the home team win that game. Better think it over. If you change your mind you let me know and I’ll attend to the matter for you. I suppose you chaps are keeping up practice pretty well?”
“Yes, we practice every day except when there’s a game.”
“That’s the ticket! You play Lesterville next Saturday, don’t you? Well, I’ll give a good write-up of the game on Monday. Got to keep the excitement going.”
When the newspaper man had gone Dick went out to the porch and sank into his favorite chair beside the little table. He was tired and the day was a scorching hot one. There had been a solid three hours that morning with Harold Townsend and, although Harold had done his share without a whimper, it had been pretty hard for teacher as well as pupil. Dick closed his eyes and frowned in the green shadow of the vines. Was Harold going to make it? There were times when Dick was sure that he would, but also there were moments, usually when, as to-day, he was fagged out, when he had his doubts. If Harold could remember what he had learned when the time came he would undoubtedly get through, but there was always the danger that he wouldn’t. Dick sighed. At least, though, he reflected, his frown fading, he was doing his honest best for the boy. And—and here the frown quite disappeared—he had made a nice lot of money that was greatly needed. He would, he told himself, have enough by the middle of the month, when Harold went off to Rifle Point to put the summer’s work to the test, to pay for a new heater for the house. That was the most necessary improvement of the many that were needed. For the last two or three years the old furnace, never satisfactory, had quite failed to keep them comfortable in cold weather. Dick was wondering how much the hardware man would allow him for it when the gate clicked and Gordon and Morris Brent came up the path.