Ralph Fairbanks had "woke up," had seen a great light, had formed a
mighty resolution all in a minute, and was off like a flash.
As he bolted through the doorway it seemed as if wings impelled him.
He realized what a good mother he had, and how much she had done for
him.
Following that was one overwhelming conclusion: to prove how he
appreciated the fact.
"Yes," he said, as he hurried along, "I'd be a sneak to let my mother
slave while I went sliding easy through life. If I've done it so far,
it was because I never guessed there wasn't something left from father's
estate to support us, and never stopped to think that there mightn't be.
She's hidden everything from me, in her kind, good way. Well, I'll pay
her back. I see the nail I'm to hit on the head, and I'll drive it home
before I'm twenty-four hours older!"
Gasper Farrington had opened a gate on the highway of Ralph Fairbanks'
tranquil existence, and, though he never meant it, had aroused the boy's
soul to a sudden conception of duty. And Ralph had seen the path
beyond, clear and distinct.
It seemed to him as if with one wave of his hand he had swept aside all
the fervid dreams of boyhood, formed a resolution, set his mark, and was
started in that very minute on a brand-new life.
Ralph did not slacken his gait until he reached a square easily
identified as a much used ball grounds.
Over in one corner was a flat, rambling structure. It had once been
somebody's home, had fallen into decay and vacancy. The club had rented
it for a nominal sum, fixed it up a bit, and this was headquarters.
Over the door hung the purple pennant of the club, bearing in its center
a broad, large "C." In the doorway sat Ned Talcott, an ambitious
back-stop, who spent most of his time about the place, never tired of
the baseball atmosphere.
He looked curiously at Ralph's flustered appearance, but the latter
nodded silently, passed inside, and then called out:
"Come in here, Ned--I want to see you."
Ned was by his side in a jiffy. An enthusiast, he fairly worshiped his
expert whole-souled captain, and counted it an honor to do anything for
him.
"None of the crowd here, I see," remarked Ralph. "Got your uniform yet,
Ned?"
"Why, no," answered Ned. "I've got the cloth picked out, and it's all
right. Father's away, though, and as we won't need the suits for show
till the new series begin next week, I didn't hurry."
"We're about of a size," went on Ralph, looking his companion over.
"And resemblance stops right there, eh?" chuckled Ned.
"I was thinking," pursued Ralph with business-like terseness, as he
unfastened the door of his locker. "Maybe we could strike a trade? I
want to sell."
He drew out his baseball uniform, tastily reposing in a big pasteboard
box just as he had brought it from the tailor that morning.
"I've been thinking maybe I could strike a deal with some one to take
this off my hands," he added.
"Eh!" ejaculated Ned, in a bewildered way.
"Yes, you see it's brand-new, whole outfit complete, haven't even put it
on yet."
"You'll look nobby in it when you do have it on!"
Ralph said nothing on this score, compressing his lips a trifle.
"It cost me eight dollars," he continued, after a moment's silence.
"Yes, I know that's the regular price."
"It fits you, or, with very slight alteration, can be made to. I wish
you'd try it on, Ned, and give me five dollars for it."
"Why, I don't understand, Ralph?" faltered Ned, completely puzzled.
Ralph winced. He realized that there would be a general commotion when
he told the rest of the club what he was now vaguely intimating to Ned
Talcott.
Ralph did not flatter himself a particle when he comprehended that every
member of the nine was his friend, champion and admirer, and that a
general protest would go up from the ranks when he announced his
intentions.
"Is it a bargain?" he asked, smiling quizzically at Ned's puzzled face.
"See here, I'd better out with it. I shan't need the uniform, Ned,
because I've got to resign from the club."
"Oh, never!" vociferated Ned, starting back in dismay. "Say, now----"
"Yes, say that again, Ralph Fairbanks!" broke in a challenging voice.
Ralph was shaken a trifle by the unexpected interruption. His lips set
even a little firmer, however, as he turned and faced his trusty first
baseman, Will Cheever, and in his train four other members of the club.
"It's true," said Ralph seriously, "just as it is sudden and sure. I've
got to drop athletics as a sport, fellows--for a time, anyhow--and I've
got to do it right away."
"You're dreaming!" scoffed Cheever, bustling up in his inimitable,
push-ahead way, and pulling Ralph playfully about. "Resign? Huh! On
the last test game--with the pennant almost ours? Gag him!"
"Why," drawled a tone of pathetic alarm, "it would be rank treachery,
you know!"
"Hello, are you awake?" jeered Will, turning on the last speaker.
Ralph looked at him too, and through some wayward perversity of his
nature his face grew more determined than ever. His eyes flashed
quickly, and he regarded the speaker with disfavor, but he kept silence.
"You won't do it, you know!" blundered the newcomer, making his way
forward. "It would queer the whole kit. What have we been working for?
To get the bulge, and run the circuit. Why, I've just counted on it!"
Grif Farrington, for that was the speaker's name, expressed the
intensest sense of personal injury as he spoke.
He was the nephew of Gasper Farrington, although he did not resemble his
uncle in any striking particular as to form or feature. Both were of
the same genus, however, for the crabbed capitalist was universally
designated "a shark" by his neighbors.
Grif was a fat, overgrown fellow, with big saucer eyes and flabby cheeks
and chin. "Bullhead" some of the boys had dubbed him. But they often
found that what they mistook for stupidity was in reality indolence, and
that in any deal where his own selfish concern was involved Grif managed
to come out the winner.
As Ralph did not speak, Grif grew even more voluble.
"I say, it would be rank treachery!" he declared. "And a shame to treat
a club so. If we lose this game we're ditched for only scrub home
games. Win it, and we are the champion visiting club all over the
county. That's what we have been working for. Are you going to spoil
it? Haven't I put up like a man when the club was behind. See here,
Ralph Fairbanks, I'll give you--I'll make it five dollars if you'll keep
in for just this afternoon's game."
"Shut up, you chump!" warned Will Cheever, slipping between the boor and
Ralph, whose color was rising dangerously fast.
Will pushed aside Grif's pocketbook, linked an arm in that of Ralph, and
led him from the building, winking encouragingly to his mates.
He came back to the group in about a quarter of an hour, but alone.
"Fixed it?" inquired half a dozen eager voices.
"Yes, I've fixed it," said Cheever, though none too cordially. "He's
going to leave us, fellows, and it's too bad! He'll play the game this
afternoon, but that's the last."
"What's up?" put in Grif Farrington, in his usual coarsely inquisitive
way.
"You was nearly up--or down!" snapped Cheever tartly. "You nearly
spoiled things for us. Money isn't everything, if you have got lots of
it, and haven't the sense to know that it's an insult to offer to buy
what Ralph Fairbanks would give to his friends for nothing, or not at
all!"
When the game was called at two o'clock, Ralph was on hand.
He was the object of more than ordinary interest to his own and the
opposition club that afternoon. The word had gone the rounds that he
had practically resigned from service, and the fact caused great
speculation. His nearest friends detected a certain serious change in
him that puzzled them. They knew him well enough to discern that
something of unusual weight lay upon his mind.
According to enthusiastic little Tom Travers, Ralph Fairbanks was "just
splendid!" that afternoon. Whatever Ralph had on his mind, he did not
allow it to interfere with the work on hand.
Ralph was the heaviest batter of the club, and on this particular
occasion he conducted himself brilliantly, and the pennant was the
property of the Criterions long before the fifth inning was completed.
The club was in ecstasies, and Grif Farrington, who had money and time
for spending it, wore a grin of placid self-satisfaction on his flat,
fat face.
"Whoop!" yelled Will Cheever, as the ninth inning went out in a blaze of
baseball glory.
Will posed to give Ralph, bat in hand, a royal "last one." It was
Ralph's farewell to the beloved diamond field. He poised the bat and
caught the ball with a masterly stroke that had something cannon-like in
its execution.
Crack! he sent it flying obliquely, and felt as if with that final
stroke he had driven baseball with all its lovely attributes dear out of
his life.
Smash! the ball grazed the high brick wall around the old unused factory
to the left, struck an upper window, shattered a pane to atoms, and
disappeared.
"Lost ball!" jeered little Tom Travers.
No one went after it. The fence surrounding the factory bore two signs
that deterred--one was "Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted," and the other
announced that it was "For Rent, by the owner, Gasper Farrington."
Ralph made a grimace, and a mental note of later mending the breakage
for which he was responsible.
Will Cheever caught him up as he was heading for home.
"See here, Ralph," he remarked, "if you wasn't so abominably
close-mouthed----"
"About what?" challenged Ralph, pleasantly serious. "Why, there's no
mystery about my resigning. I had to do it."
"Why?"
"I've got to go to work. My mother needs the money, and I'm old
enough."
"What you going to work at?" inquired Will, with real interest.
"Railroading,--if I can get it to do."