"You certainly won't catch me missing that game."
Bert did not wish to miss it, either. The fate of the freshmen nine loomed in his imagination as of more importance than the success or failure of the school team. For to the school team he was a nobody, not even an unlikely substitute; while to the freshman nine he was a vital, necessary and stimulating cog. There was talk in the school that the game might settle the Class League Championship. Bert began to dream of a secondbaseman who forever stood over his bag and tagged out daring runners.
His constant hope was that, when the game came, he would find the afternoon free. But the luck that had sponsored him all season deserted him that day. A crowd was gathering on the athletic field even as classes were dismissed. He raced from the school to the store. There were no packages waiting on the far end of the counter. His heart grew light.
"Anything for me?" he called. It was merely a perfunctory question, a part of each afternoon's procedure.
"That you, Bert?" Mr. Quinby came from behind a partition at the rear of the store. "There's a suit of clothes to go to Mrs. Busher's. You know the place, on Fairmount Avenue."
Bert's face fell. Fairmount Avenue was some distance from the field. "Couldn't I deliver it before supper? We have a game to-day. . . ."
