BIG TOM MAKES AN OFFER
He spent the afternoon, after his return to “Carhurst,” in planting his
garden and had the seeds all in by the time June came. He displayed
the result proudly. Every row was marked with a little stick on which
was perched the empty seed packet like a white nightcap. June admired
flatteringly and then, for so it always happens, criticised.
“Seems to me like you ought to put them rows ’tother way roun’, Mas’
Wayne, ’cause the sun goin’ to shine this yere way. Back home they
always set the rows with the sun.”
“That’s so, June,” acknowledged Wayne. “I forgot that.” But he was in
far too fine spirits to be worried by a little thing like that. He said
he reckoned they’d grow just the same, and June agreed with him, but a
trifle doubtfully. Then June questioned whether the planting had been
done at the right time of the moon, and Wayne lost patience and told
him to get busy and help carry stones for a border. They had to fairly
dig for those stones and it was almost twilight by the time they had
the bed neatly edged. Then June washed up and set about his culinary
duties, leaving Wayne outside to admire his handiwork from various
angles and try to picture mentally the appearance of that bed three
months later.
Wayne had brought home a slice of ham as a special delicacy and June
fried it to a turn, after cutting it in three pieces to fit the
diminutive pan, and made coffee, and cut bread, and opened a can of
peaches, and, in brief, prepared a banquet fit for Luculus--or two very
healthy and hungry boys, one of whom had been on short rations for a
week! Afterward, by the light of a swinging lantern which had taken the
place of the candles with which they had at first tried to illumine
their abode, Wayne read from the newspapers that June picked up at the
hotel and brought home with him. June had a weakness for such things
as robberies, murders, fires, shipwrecks, and similar sensations,
while Wayne always looked for the baseball news first. So, to be quite
fair, he alternated, reading first, perhaps, the story of a Texas bank
robbery and following with an interesting rumour regarding the trade
of Catcher Moffet to the Pirates by the Braves. Toward the last of the
news budget, especially if the robberies and train wrecks and such
gave out, June usually fell asleep and snored unflatteringly, and Wayne
finished his perusal in silence. But tonight the latter early exhausted
the papers and the boys fell to a discussion of Wayne’s new job and to
laying plans for the future.
“Of course,” said Wayne, “if I get eight dollars a week it won’t be
long before we can go on to New York.” He made the observation without
apparent enthusiasm, however. For the past fortnight New York had
slipped out of their conversation. June nodded, opened his mouth,
closed it again without speaking and once more nodded. “It doesn’t
cost us more than three dollars a week to live and so we’d have twenty
dollars saved up in no time at all,” Wayne added.
“That’s so,” agreed the other. “Reckon New York’s a mighty fine city,
ain’ it?”
“Wonderful, June.”
“Uh-huh. Bigger’n Medfield consid’able?”
“Medfield! Why, New York’s a thousand times bigger than Medfield, you
silly!”
“Say it is?” June digested that in silence for a moment. Then: “Must be
a powerful big ol’ place, Mas’ Wayne,” he said dolorously. “Ain’ you
afraid we’d get lost or somethin’. There was a feller I know got lost
in Atlanta one time an’ he didn’ find hisself for days an’ days, no
sir! An’ I ’spects New York’s a heap bigger’n Atlanta, ain’ it?”
“Lots bigger. Atlanta’s just a village compared to New York.”
“Uh-huh.” June remained silent this time for many minutes, and Wayne
too seemed engrossed in thought. Finally, though, June said: “Mas’
Wayne, what we-all got to go to New York for, sir? Why don’t we stay
jus’ where we is? We’s both of us got jobs here, an’ goodness only
knows what’s goin’ to happen to us in that big ol’ place! Why don’t we
stay put, Mas’ Wayne?”
“Well,” answered the other slowly, “we started for New York, June, you
know.”
“Yes, sir, we surely done started for it, but we don’t have to get
where we started for, does we? Ol’ Eph Jennings, he started for the
circus one day but he fotched up in the calaboose, Mas’ Wayne. Startin’
an’ stoppin’s mighty different things, I reckon. Let’s us stay right
here a little while longer, please, sir.”
“All right, June. I--I guess I’d rather, anyway,” answered Wayne.
The next morning he started at his new work, rather doubtful as to his
ability to perform it satisfactorily but determined to try his very
hardest. There were two reasons for that, one the necessity of earning
money and the other a strong desire to please Jim Mason and prove that
he had made no mistake in his choice of a helper. By evening of that
first day, however, Wayne knew that the work was not beyond him, and he
went home at dusk happy in the knowledge. Perhaps someone who had the
interests of the boy less at heart might have made that first day in
the freight house far from simple for him, for, of course, the duties
were new and strange, but Jim was patient and explained everything
clearly and in detail. Wayne found that his mathematical ability was
more than enough to cope with such simple problems as fell to him. Most
of that morning was occupied in filing away an accumulation of papers
that had got far ahead of Jim during the time he had had no assistant.
There were waybills to check after that, and once Wayne had to go
up and down the yard on a vain search for a mislaid flat car loaded
with two tractor engines. Jim, relieved of much of the clerical work,
was busy outside most of the day, but he and Wayne ate their lunches
together in the little office, Jim sharing the can of coffee he had
brought.
As the days went on Wayne’s tasks multiplied. He went errands to the
main office down the track a block, he tacked waycards to freight cars,
became an adept with lead seals and pincers, learned how to coax open
a door that had “frozen,” became friends with most of the workers and
truckmen--not a difficult task since the story of his timely rescue of
little Terry Mason had gone the rounds and even got in the _Medfield
Evening Star_, although Wayne didn’t learn of that until later and
never read the account of his heroism--and got on very famously for
a new hand. And he liked his work, which is always half the battle.
Jim began to trust him with bigger things when he had been there a
fortnight, and Wayne proved worthy of the trust. Perhaps the things
weren’t so vastly important, after all, but they seemed so to Wayne;
to Jim, too, for that matter, for Jim was extremely conscientious and
took his work seriously. After a few days Wayne got to walking across
the tracks and up the line a ways to the Golden Star Lunch. He was
always sure of a welcome there, and sometimes, when the wagon wasn’t
very full, he and “Mister Denny” had long and serious conversations on
a variety of subjects. Denny had a fair education, was an omnivorous
reader, a good listener and held views of his own. Moreover, he could
put his views into words. They were sometimes unusual, but Wayne had a
feeling that it was a heap better to have opinions and be able to state
them, even if they were queer, than to merely agree with everyone else.
There was one subject that never failed them as a conversational
topic, and that was baseball. Denny was a “thirty-third degree fan”
if ever there was one. Besides that he had some practical knowledge
of the game, for he had played it from the time he was four feet high
until he had bought the lunch-wagon and set up in business. Wayne’s
command of baseball history and percentages was nothing like Denny’s,
but he followed the news closely and there were some rare discussions
at times in the Golden Star. Many of the freight handlers and truck
drivers patronised Denny’s café and Wayne was surprised to find how
much they knew of the national pastime and how intelligently they could
talk of it. Quite frequently the lunch-wagon shook with the ardour of
debate, for there were deep and hearty voices in the company. But a
time shortly came when Wayne didn’t loiter in the Golden Star after his
lunch was eaten, for he had found by then a better way to spend the
remaining time.
He had been in the freight house about a fortnight and May had come
to the world, bringing ardent sunshine and soft breezes. Green leaves
were unfolding and the meadows were verdant. It was sometimes a task in
those first warm days to move, and the trucks that rolled incessantly
from cars to platform and from platform to freight house moved more
slowly. One noontime Wayne felt too languorous to walk even as far as
Denny’s, and so he bought two sandwiches and some apples from a man who
came around with a basket and joined the throng on the shaded platform
where the trucks stood. After a while one of the younger fellows pulled
a baseball from his pocket and soon a half-dozen were throwing and
catching in the wide cobble-paved road behind the sheds. Wayne watched
lazily and interestedly until a wild throw sent the ball rolling under
a truck to his feet. He jumped down and rescued it and threw it back,
choosing the man farthest distant and speeding the ball to him so hard
and true that shouts of commendation rewarded him.
“Come on out here, kid, and take a hand,” called one of the players,
and Wayne, glad enough to do it, responded, forgetting that a quarter
of an hour ago he had felt too lazy to walk two blocks. There was lots
of fun to be had, for many of the players, Wayne amongst them, had not
handled a ball since the summer before and the “hot ones” made them
wince and yell, something that always brought laughter from the rest.
Soon a dozen or so were at it and the ball passed from one to another,
up and down the road. Occasionally a fly would go up and a mad scramble
ensue in which hats fell off and the ball, as like as not, escaped
them all. Wayne thoroughly enjoyed that half-hour and resolved to buy a
baseball on his way home so that he and June could pass.
A few days later someone produced a bran-new bat and the fun increased.
At the end of a week or so they were playing “scrub” every noon-hour,
and by common consent the truckmen left their vehicles at the far end
of the platform so that there would be more room for playing. Even
so the diamond was pretty narrow and the distance from first base to
third was ludicrously short. A ball hit to right or left performed
strange antics, bounding from wall or platform and landing almost
anywhere in infield or out. Freight handlers, truckmen, clerks from the
main office, switchmen, even “Big Tom” Maynard, who ran the Limited
and laid over in Medfield twice a week, took part. And there was a
slim, good-looking youth named Pattern who worked in the office of
the coal company several blocks away and who could pitch a ball so
that you couldn’t see it until it had passed you. With the exception
of Pattern and possibly a truckman named Donovan, who had once played
semi-professional ball on some team in New Jersey, Wayne was the star
of the gatherings. He never failed of a hit save when Pattern was in
the points, and even then was the only one who could come near to
meeting that youth’s offerings, and fielded remarkably. So, at least,
the less adept considered. “Big Tom,” who by virtue of having the best
run on the road was accorded unusual respect, told Wayne he was wasting
his time. It was a noon when a sudden shower had driven them to the
shelter of the overhang.
“If I had a wing like you’ve got, kid, I’d be training for the Big
League. I surely would. You’re a natural-born ball player, son. I know
a fellow up in Lebanon who’ll be glad to give you a try-out if you say
the word.”
“I reckon I’d better stick to what I’m sure of,” laughed Wayne. “I
reckon I wouldn’t last very long up there.”
“Sure you would,” said Big Tom earnestly. “And look at the money you’d
be getting! They wouldn’t pay you a cent under twenty dollars, kid!”
“But I’m getting thirty-five here, Mr. Maynard.”
“You’re what? Thirty-five a week?”
“No,” stammered Wayne, “thirty-five a month.”
“What you talking about then? Twenty a week’s what they’d pay you up in
Lebanon. Maybe a lot more. Tell you what I’ll do, kid; I’ll tell this
fellow about you the next time I see him, eh?”
But Wayne shook his head. “Thanks, but I reckon I’ll stick here,” he
answered.
Big Tom told him he was making a mistake and appealed for confirmation
to Pattern who had joined them. Pattern laughed. “Twenty dollars, you
say? What sort of a team is it, Maynard?”
“It’s a corking good team, that’s what sort----”
“I mean is it professional? Or semi or what?”
“Why, I guess it’s a professional team. Sure it is. They play in the
Central City League.”
“I see. Well, I’d advise this fellow to keep out of it then. He’d be
wasting his time with a bunch of pikers like that.” Pattern turned
from Big Tom’s indignant countenance to Wayne. “When you think you’d
like to play ball for a living, you tackle the manager of a real team.
Tell him you want a try-out. He will give it to you if he’s any good.
If he isn’t you don’t want to join him. These two-by-twice ball teams
don’t get you anything but a lot of hard work and you can stay in one
of them until you’re gray-headed without doing any better for yourself.
I played with one of them one summer and I know something about them.
When you aim, aim high. It pays.”
“I wasn’t thinking of aiming at all,” said Wayne. “I don’t reckon I
could play baseball good enough for a real team.”
“Maybe you could and maybe you couldn’t,” replied Pattern. “Anyway,
don’t throw up a good job on the off-chance of becoming a Ty Cobb or a
Baker.”
Big Tom took himself off, disgruntled and grumbling, and Pattern swung
himself to the platform at Wayne’s side. “How old are you?” he asked,
and raised his eyebrows when Wayne told him seventeen. “I’d have
thought you were eighteen, anyway,” he said. “Played much?”
“I played four years at home,” answered Wayne, “on my school team. And
one summer with a team we got up in our town.”
“That all? Well, some fellows are like that. Sort of born with the
baseball knack. Comes naturally to them. My roommate in college was
that sort. He didn’t have to learn, you might say. He was the shiftiest
shortstop I ever saw outside professional teams. You sort of remind me
of him the way you handle the ball.”
“Do they really pay as much as twenty dollars a week?” asked Wayne. “I
mean just for fielders. Of course I know that pitchers and star batters
get lots of money, but I always thought most of it was just--just on
paper.”
“There are all sorts of salaries. You get somewhere near what you’re
worth, as a general thing. Twenty a week is poor pay for a good
fielder, my boy, even in the bushes. Thirty-five’s more like it.”
“Thirty-five dollars a week!” exclaimed Wayne. “Why, that’s more than
two hundred a month!”