“Of course. I understand. You needn’t thank me. Thank Merrick.”
The players went back to their places, Lesterville to the diamond to finish her warming up, and Clearfield to the bench. Gordon was left practically alone with Mr. Brent, even Dick deserting him. From beyond the fence came the angry bellow of the contractor’s orders. “Leave the team here, Jerry,” he was saying. “We’ll be back Monday, an’ I’d like to see the man that’ll be stoppin’ me then!”
“Wouldn’t you like to see the game, Mr. Brent, now that you’re here?” asked Gordon at last. He ought to be with his team-mates, but he didn’t want to walk away and leave Mr. Brent standing alone there by the gate. The latter, who had been looking curiously at the renewed activity of the Lesterville players, now glanced at his watch, grunted and nodded.
“I might as well stay awhile,” he replied. “Where do you pay?”
“You needn’t pay, sir. We’re glad to have you see the game.”
“I prefer to pay,” was the reply as Mr. Brent followed Gordon toward the stand. “Here, son!” He had caught sight of Tim Turner at the ticket gate and walked across to him. “What’s the price?”
“T-Twenty-five cents, sir,” stammered Tim.
Mr. Brent found two dimes and a nickel among his change, handed them to the awed Tim and went on. “Where’s Morris?” he asked. “I’ll sit with him a few minutes.”
Gordon didn’t know where Morris was, but he called to Dick and Dick pointed him out. Then Gordon piloted Mr. Brent up the stand and by dint of much moving and shoving a place was made for him and Gordon, muttering his thanks again and getting a non-committal nod from Mr. Brent, took himself off.
“I’m so glad, papa,” said Louise gratefully. “It would have been horrid if they couldn’t have played the game, wouldn’t it?”