, and time was added unto difficulty before the Games in
Gardens were satisfactorily arranged.

Had it been possible to consult Miss Bailey, all would have been plain
and simple sailing. She was the First Reader's home port, but she was
now blockaded for her own benefit. The suggestions of Patrick's big
brother were overwhelming and technical. And Isaac Borrachsohn, through
constant questionings, grew at once so extravagant and so hazy in his
recollections as to be practically useless. Patrick's mother, when
applied to for a morning's use of her yard, was curt and kind.

"Use it if ye will," said she, "but don't clutter it, an' don't fall out
of me pear tree."

It was at about the time of the densest discouragement that Miss Bailey,
all unknowing, came to their relief. She brought to Room 18 and passed
about among the First Readers a copy of an illustrated "Weekly"
containing pictures of the later and more important contest than that
which Isaac had witnessed. And Ignatius Aloysius Diamentstein, by that
time admitted to the track team, appropriated it at the lunch hour, and
thereafter it served as "The Complete Guide to Games in Gardens."

The day was set. A Saturday morning in late May. The guests in ordinary
were invited. In other words the feminine First Readers had been told
that they would be admitted to Patrick Brennan's yard at ten o'clock on
that May morning, on condition that each would bring a flag and say
nothing to the uninvited boys. The free-for-all spirit was not endorsed
by Patrick, and the contestants were only seven, picked and chosen, be
it said, with a nice adjustment to Patrick's own prowess, for "I ain't
goin' to be licked in me own yard," had been his steadfast determination
throughout.

Nathan Spiderwitz was given to inspirations always inconvenient and
distressing. He experienced one at this eleventh hour when all the
arrangements were completed, and it remained only to invite the guest of
honor.

"Who gives the prizes?" he demanded, as he and Patrick were
superintending the construction of a grand stand made of soap-boxes and
a broken sofa. "Where is the prizes, and who gives 'em?" he repeated.

"Mind your own business," was Patrick's useful answer. It showed a bold
front and left time for thought.

"Who gives 'em?" insisted Nathan.

"Don't _you_ worry 'bout prizes," muttered Patrick darkly, "they ain't
none of _your_ business. You got a swell chanst to git any prizes in my
yard. Not