“There wouldn’t be time before two-fifteen to get seats up, George,” he answered after an instant’s reflection. “Call up Mr. Grayson and see if he will let you have half a dozen rows of chairs from assembly hall. I think he will if you tell him your fix. You can put them along the front of the Springdale section.”
That was but the beginning of the telephone’s activity. Chester called up next, and after him George Cotner again. George was now in a condition of sputtering wrath. The Springdale manager had just telephoned that Wonson, the man who was to have umpired the game, couldn’t officiate, owing to illness, and could Clearfield find some one to take his place. Springdale would be satisfied with anyone selected.
“Get right after Mr. Cochran, George. Try the Y.M.C.A. first. If he’s not there run around to his house on D Street; the white house near the corner of Lafayette. I think he will do it. How about the seats?”
“They’re all right. I’m trying to get hold of Stuart now. Sorry to bother you so much, Dick. Good-by.”
After that until late afternoon Dick had no chance to be gloomy. He was much too busy.
The team and substitutes gathered at twelve o’clock at the Mansion, the smaller and quieter of Clearfield’s two hotels, and had their luncheon. Dick presided and did his best to keep the fellows steady. On the whole there was little indication of nervousness and the meal passed off quite cheerily. At one they adjourned to the upstairs parlor, where, behind closed doors, Dick put them through a final examination in signals. By that time the town showed the presence of the invader. Blue banners and arm-bands and megaphones were in evidence on the streets and the cars coming up Pine Street from the station were well filled. Manager Cotner joined the team, breathless and tired, just before they were ready to start for the field.
“I’ve just had an awful experience,” he gasped as he sank into a chair. “Mr. Grayson telephoned to me for an extra pair of tickets and wanted to pay for them! What are we coming to?”
“Did you let him?” laughed Bert Cable.
“No, but the experience quite unnerved me. Cochran’s going to umpire for us, fellows. The Springdale chap’s got tonsilitis or laryngitis or bronchitis or—or——”
“Coldfeetitis,” suggested Lanny. “Cochran’s all right, I guess. What’s the time, Dick?”