During the next few days William found plenty of work to do at the
Emporium, and in the intervals of leisure he consulted gravely with
Walter Wadsworth on the methods to be followed to attain success as a
pedlar of refreshments in the stands of a baseball park. He did not,
however, neglect his morning lessons with "Chuck" Epstein in Tommy
Watson's auctioneering rooms. There is this to be added too, that
neither Epstein nor Tommy questioned him as to the loss of his position
with Whimple. They had laughed with the latter over the causes
therefor, but as William did not mention it himself, they carefully
avoided opening up the question, knowing from their experience with him
that, in his own way, and at a time of his choosing, the lad would talk
of it.
William was, however, a puzzle to Wadsworth, though he had been
acquainted with him so long. In the intimacy of their relationship at
the Emporium, Wadsworth found himself constantly amazed at the lad's
shrewdness, at his vocabulary of slang, the readiness with which he
could turn from the sheerest of jibing and fun-making to the recital of
a bit of "Bill Shakespeare," or a scene from the plays of other
authors. "Where on earth do you get it all from?" he asked William one
afternoon when the lad, with real dramatic fire, had recited "Henry's
oration to his men before Agincourt." You, dear reader, know it, of
course.
"Outer books," William said, all slang and smiles again. "Say, Walter,
it beats the band and the good stuff some of them guys had in their
think-tanks, and it fits in, a lot of it, like they were toddlin'
around Toronto to-day."
"It certainly does--some of it," said Walter. "I wonder if they ever
played baseball in those days?"
"Not so far as I can make out," answered William. "Half their time
they were fighting, and the other half making love: that is, most of
'em. Our friend Bill Shakespeare and a few others were writing plays
and acting them too."
Walter stood at the door for a minute and watched William as the latter
walked away from the Emporium that evening, and to himself he said,
"He's a corker that one; but there's a heap of boy in him. If there
wasn't, that stuff he's carrying around in his brain would soon drive
him to the daffy house."
The great day arrived at last, and William, keen for business and a new
experience, reported early at the baseball grounds, where Walter
Wadsworth supplied him and a dozen other boys with uniforms of white
cotton. The caps bore in letters of gold an appeal to buy a certain
baking powder, and on the back of the coats, in black letters, was an
announcement regarding the charms of a particular brand of chewing
tobacco.
"It's a shame," said William with sarcasm, "that there ain't any
reading on the pants."
"Yes, it is too bad," answered Walter, solemnly, "but you can never get
everything you want in this world. I get the caps and the suits free
for the advertising they have on 'em; they're not so bad, it might be
worse."
"It might be," answered William, "but not much," as he departed for his
section of the grand stand with a basket hanging from his neck and a
small megaphone attached to one wrist with a strap. In the stand,
William's courage deserted him for a few minutes: the crowd was large
and included many ladies. The lad was uncomfortable; his voice seemed
to have deserted him utterly. All the fine things he had meant to say
were for the moment forgotten. It was not until a woman had purchased
a bag of peanuts, and a man a cigar, that William became convinced that
his goods were wanted, and that restored some of his usual confidence.
He began to call out his wares and found that sales were easily made,
though not so rapidly as he had hoped. But as the game progressed, his
courage steadily rose. The Toronto team was playing that of Buffalo,
an ancient and honorable enemy, and the game, in its initial stages,
was very close. With the score one to one in the third innings,
William found that his voice had come back, and he began to use it with
all his power and most of his courage.
"Peanuts, popcorn, chewing gum, candy, cigars, and tobacco," he shouted
as he walked along the aisles: "here's where you get 'em at the lowest
prices and finest qual-ity."
The responses were becoming readier, but not fast enough, and William
began to use the megaphone. Taking a stand in front of the lowest seat
and addressing the crowd impartially he asked, "Did all you folks leave
your money at home, or ain't you never had any?" Some of the people
laughed, and the emboldened William went on, "Ladies, what's the good
of a ball game without peanuts or chewing gum? I've got a lot of both
to sell," and that resulted in a goodly number of sales. Then he tried
again. "There's lots of fellows here with girls, and it's a shame the
way they're letting the girls suffer for a little candy, or chewing
gum, or peanuts. Make the fellows loosen up, girls!" The crowd
laughed, and William tried in vain to respond to the demands for his
wares from all quarters. His basket was soon emptied, and in a little
while he had disposed of his second load. He sold others, but when the
game had advanced to the sixth innings, with the score still one all,
he found the people almost unresponsive to his appeals, and, returning
to Walter's little store under the grand stand, changed into his street
clothes and rushed back to see the finish of the game, his first
venture as a pedlar having netted him the sum of fifty cents.
The game had reached its critical stage, "the fatal seventh innings,"
when William again made his appearance known. The crowd was painfully
silent, for the Buffaloes, with only one man out, had men on the first
and second bases, and the heaviest hitter of their team at the bat.
The batsman spat on his hands, wiped them off in the dust around the
home plate, and set himself firmly for a swing. The Toronto pitcher
having almost succeeded in tying himself into a bow knot suddenly
unloosened, and sent in a swift drop ball, and even as it sped the
voice of William, well modulated through the megaphone, but quite
distinct, cried out, "Strike one." Strike it was, the batter missing
the sphere by several feet, and following the miss there came in
stentorian tones from the umpire the words, "Strike one."
"Why did you call it a strike before?" yelled the batsman.
"Never opened my mouth," retorted the umpire, and the crowd laughed.
The batsman again set himself for a swing, and the pitcher once more
tried to make a human knot; again the ball shot, this time straight and
true for the plate, and as it did, William, with a volume of agonised
pleading in his voice, yelled, "Mind your head." Instinctively the
batter ducked and, of course, missed the ball, while the umpire
dispassionately cried, "Strike two." The batter grieved loudly and
bitterly. He accused the umpire of having eyes like a codfish, and of
being stampeded by "some guy in the stand." He declared him to be
incompetent to the verge of insanity, and wondered, in a voice that
could be heard all over the field, how he had kept out of the asylum so
long. His team mates supported him loyally, and incidentally demanded
of the Toronto team's manager that William, whom they had discovered as
the source of the heavy batter's discomfort, be instantly removed from
the grounds and kept therefrom until the game was over, while the
impatient, but delighted crowd, cried at intervals, "play ball," "put
'em off," "give the game to the Torontos."
The manager of the Torontos disclaimed all or any responsibility for
William. "Nay, nay, Pauline," he said gently, when the Buffalo manager
repeated his request, "if the boy annoys you, put him out yourself, or
ask the police to do it."
"You know what'd happen if I tackled that boy," answered the Buffalo
man heatedly: "why, that crowd would eat me."
"Not in your present condition," retorted the Toronto man affably,
"you're too hot."
The Buffalonian appealed to a police constable, but that worthy shook
his head. "There's only me and a sergeant here," he said, "and we
ain't over anxious to start a riot." The sergeant strolled up and was
consulted.
"It can't be done," he said sagely, "there isn't a section under the
law or the regulations governing the force that'd justify me putting
the kid out. He ain't hurting anybody anyway."
"But he's putting our man on the pork," cried the Buffalonian
disgustedly; "how in the name of Uncle Sam is the team to go on playing
with that kind of a racket!"
"It's nothing to the racket there'll be if you don't go on with the
game," said the sergeant quietly, as he walked back to the stand. And
the game went on. The batter was struck out on the next ball, and the
crowd shrieked its delight, the innings closing without a score.
When the eighth innings started, William, all swagger and confidence,
started on a new tack. "Fans and fan-esses," he said, addressing the
crowd through the megaphone, "why don't you root? Make a noise like
you meant it. The Torontos have simply gotter win this game; they need
it, but you gotter help 'em. Now then, every-body--ROOT," and "root"
they did, arduously, continuously, joyously. The din was terrific,
ear-splitting, and weird. Everybody had a different idea as to the
best methods of rooting, and even the fanesses made noises of sorts.
Nobody thereafter heard what the umpire said, they gathered his
decisions only by the result of the various plays, and when, in the
ninth and last innings, the Torontos batted out the winning run, one
prolonged wild "root" spread the glad tidings to all and sundry outside
the gates for many blocks around.
William, with a final yell through the megaphone, hurried back to
Walter Wadsworth's stand, and there ran into Whimple and Simmons, who
were pledging each other in glasses of lemonade. The boy paused
irresolutely.
"William," said Whimple, who was also rather embarrassed, "was it fair?"
William smiled. "Well, Mister Whimple," he said, "when that bunch was
here once last season for a series of five games, my Pa took their
stuff from the station up to the hotel in one of his express wagons,
and I was with him, so, of course, I helped to lift the stuff off the
wagon, and when I'm through the same manager what they have this year
slips something into my hand and I thought it was a dime, and he says
to me, 'I hate to give a Canuck anything,' he says, 'but you are a
bright chap, only don't spend it all at once,' and when he goes into
the hotel I opens up my hand, and there's one of them dinky little
American cents. You bet I was mad, but my Pa says to me, 'It's mostly
a long street that don't have cross streets, William,' he says, 'so,
keep your hair on.' I did, and I guess me and that Buffalo man are
quits now."