TO PASTURES NEW
The next morning Hervey went hunting for Chesty McCullen. He explored
the neighborhood of Chesty’s wretched home and was finally driven to
make inquiry at the very portals. He had never been squeamish about the
character of his companions nor the scenes into which his casual
acquaintanceships led him. But he could not fail to notice the squalid
environment which was so different from that of his own home. He never
thought of anything he did in the light of a good turn (that would be to
pay a tribute to the Scouts), but he was going to show Chesty McCullen a
good time and “blow him to soda,” because Chesty had been the unhappy
victim of scout bungling.
But Chesty was not to be found. His poor, scrawny mother, busy with the
washings that she took in and exhaling an odor of soap suds, told Hervey
that he had gone away early, she didn’t know where. She thought he might
have gone to bring home a “washing”, but she corrected this supposition
on seeing his ramshackle cart in the yard. Hervey himself had often seen
this outlandish vehicle on its two wobbly wheels. It was so inseparable
from its maker and owner that it even looked strange standing in the
cluttered back yard quite apart from its motive power. Hervey had never
seen it at home before; poor Chesty was always pushing it around town
with “washings” or miscellaneous kindling wood piled into it.
He went away disappointed, not knowing what to do. He had (in his own
view) outlawed himself from the Scouts, and on the other hand he could
not venture forth on any adventurous escapade. He knew that for a while
he had better walk the straight and narrow path, and not get into any
kind of trouble. His stepfather had been considerate with him, but just
the same he sensed a certain something in Mr. Walton’s demeanor which
boded ill for any bizarre and illicit enterprises. It seemed to him that
his stepfather had resolved to let this little matter of the fire-alarm
dare pass and to concentrate his anger and action on the next venture.
There was something ominous in his very leniency, which Hervey had not
failed accurately to construe.
That morning he occupied a place on the swinging crane of a steam shovel
that was relentlessly digging an excavation for a new building on the
business thoroughfare. He continued so enthroned, a picturesque figure
it must be admitted, until the boss of the job came along, overruling
the good-hearted workmen and ordering Hervey from those delightful
precincts of dirt and disorder. Ejections of this sort were nothing new
to Hervey.
At luncheon Mr. Walton was so casual and friendly in his talk that the
boy more than ever conceived himself to be on probation. There were no
threats, no warnings. But somehow he felt that his next transgression
would be followed by vigorous consequences. This seemed to be in the
home atmosphere.
In the afternoon he wandered forth and was lucky in seeing a special bus
parked near the station. Along the side of it was a canvas sign that
read:
FARRELTON BASEBALL TEAM
JUNIOR BUSINESS MEN’S ASSOCIATION
He lost no time in making inquiries of the waiting driver and, on
learning that the young business men’s team was to play the Hanniford
team at Farrelton Junction grounds, he asked if he might join the
imposing caravan.
“Guess they’ll have a full load, sonny,” said the driver. “The band’s
going and a lot of the merchants.”
“Well, my father’s a merchant,” said Hervey.
“Anybody from your father’s place playing?”
It was suggestive that the rather old-fashioned establishment of
conservative Mr. Walton was not represented on this gala occasion. The
team was made up of young men who were clerks in the Farrelton stores
and the band also was part of this young business men’s organization.
They were having a half holiday to beat the Hanniford team. Wistful boys
stood gazing at the special bus; some, no doubt, would hike to Farrelton
Junction. Hervey alone sought acceptance into this merry adult company.
“Don’t I know Mr. Holmes? Don’t I get ice cream in his store?” he
demanded. “Do you bet he won’t let me get in? Do you dare me to get in
now?”
“Come ahead in,” called a burly young fellow in the bus. He was
resplendent in a gray baseball suit with F.B.T. on it. “Come on, _I_
dare you to.”
In went Hervey and down into a seat and the burly young fellow’s arm was
around his shoulder.
“Do you take it back?” Hervey demanded.
“What?”
“The dare; do you take it back?”
“Where did you come by that hat?” the ball player asked. “So you want to
root for the J.B.M.A. huh? All right, youngster.”
You see how it was with Hervey? Other boys, standing enviously outside,
could only stare aghast. Then one ventured to try Hervey’s method and
failed utterly. And there you are.
Soon the bus was crowded with ball players, business men, and the band.
Hervey was the only boy. It started off with a deafening Sousa march
leaving the stay-at-homes cheering.
In the mellow evening of that same day the bus returned bringing a load
somewhat less exuberant, for Hanniford beat the Farrelton team eleven to
one.
That one, however, was a home run. And it is with this home run that we
are now concerned.