“Oh, only about from here to the corner and back.”
“Well, I don’t see much sense in it, but if you want to do it I haven’t any objection. It doesn’t seem as if much could happen to you just running to G Street and back!”
The Doctor chuckled. “It might be good practice when it comes to running errands, mother. Maybe he’ll be able to get to the grocery and back the same afternoon!”
“Well,” laughed Perry, “you see, dad, when you’re running on the track you don’t meet fellows who want you to stop and play marbles with them!”
CHAPTER IV
THE ODE TO SPRING
With the advent of that first warm spring-like weather the High School athletic activities began in earnest. During March the baseball candidates had practiced to some extent indoors and occasionally on the field, but not a great deal had been accomplished. The “cage” in the basement of the school building was neither large nor light, while cold weather, with rain and wet ground, had made outdoor work far from satisfactory. Of the Baseball Team, Clearfield had high hopes this spring. There was a wealth of material left from the successful Nine of the previous spring, including two first-class pitchers, while the captain, Warner Jones, was a good leader as well as a brainy player. Then too, and in the judgment of the school this promised undoubted success, the coaching had been placed in the hands of Dick Lovering. Dick had proven his ability as a baseball coach the summer before and had subsequently piloted the football team to victory in the fall, thus winning an admiration and gratitude almost embarrassing to him.
Dick, who had to swing about on crutches where other fellows went on two good legs, came out of school Monday afternoon in company with Lansing White and crossed over to Linden Street where a small blue runabout car stood at the curb. Dick was tall, with dark hair and eyes. Without being especially handsome, his rather lean face was attractive and he had a smile that won friends on the instant. Dick was seventeen and a senior. Lansing, or Lanny, White was a year younger, and a good deal of a contrast to his companion. Lanny fairly radiated health and strength and high spirits. You’re not to conclude that Dick suggested ill-health or that he was low-spirited, for that would be far from the mark. There was possibly no more cheerful boy in Clearfield than Richard Lovering, in spite of his infirmity. But Lanny, with his flaxen hair and dark eyes—a combination as odd as it was attractive—and his sun-browned skin and his slimly muscular figure, looked the athlete he was, every inch of him. Lanny was a “three-letter man” at the High School; had captained the football team, caught on the nine and was a sprinter of ability. And, which was no small attainment, he possessed more friends than any other fellow in school. Lanny couldn’t help making friends; he appeared to do it without conscious effort; there had never been on his part any seeking for popularity.
Lanny cranked the car and seated himself beside Dick. Fully half the students were journeying toward the field, either to take part in practice or to watch it, and the two boys in the runabout answered many hails until they had distanced the pedestrians.
“This,” said Lanny, as they circumspectly crossed the car-tracks and turned into Main Street, “is just the sort of weather the doctor ordered. If it keeps up we’ll really get started.”