Christmas morning the boy slept late, for his parents did not call him.  When, at last, Dick did appear in the dining room he found some pleasing gifts from his father and mother.  When he had sufficiently examined them, Mrs. Prescott smiled as she said: 

“Now, step into the parlor, Richard, and you’ll find something that came for you this morning.”

“But, first of all, mother, I’ve something for you and Dad.”

Dick went back into his room, bringing out, with some pride, a silver-plated teapot on a tray of the same material.  It wasn’t much, but it was the finest gift he had ever been able to make his parents.  He came in for a good deal of thanks and other words of appreciation.

“But you’re forgetting the package in the parlor,” persisted Mrs. Prescott presently.

Dick nodded, and hurried in, thinking to himself: 

“The worsted slippers from the girls, I suppose.”

To his surprise the boy found Dave Darrin sitting in the room, while, on a chair near by rested a rather bulky package.

After exchanging “Merry Christmas” greetings with Darrin, Dick turned to look at the package.  To it was tied a card, which read: 

“From Laura Bentley and Isabelle Meade, with kindest Christmas greetings.”

“That doesn’t look like slippers, Dave,” murmured Dick, as he pulled away the cord that bound the package.

“I’ll bet you’re getting a duplicate of what came to me,” Darrin answered.

“What was that?”

“I’m not going to tell you until I see yours.”

Dick quickly had the wrapper off, unfolding something woolleny.

“That’s it!” cried Dave, jubilantly.  “I thought so.  Mine was the same, except that Belle’s name was ahead of Laura’s on the card.”

Dick felt almost dazed for an instant.  Then a quick rush of color came to his face.

The object that he held was a bulky, substantial, woven “sweater.”  Across the front of it had been worked, in cross-stitch, the initials, “G.H.S.”

“Gridley High School!  Did you get one just like this, Dave?”

“Yes.”

“But we can’t wear ’em,” muttered Dick.  “The initials are allowed only to the students who have made some school team, or who have captured some major athletic event.  We’ve never done either.”

“That’s just the point of the gift, I reckon,” beamed Darrin.

“Oh, I see,” cried Dick.  “These sweaters are our orders to go ahead and make the baseball nine.”

“That’s just it,” declared Dave.

“Well, it’s mighty fine of the girls,” murmured Dick, gratefully.  “Are you—–­going to accept yours, Dave?”

“Accept?” retorted Dave.  “Why, it would be rank not to.”

“Of course,” Prescott agreed..  “But you know what acceptance carries with it?  Now, we’ve got to make the nine, whether or not.  We pledge ourselves to that in accepting these fine gifts.”