“A GENTLEMAN TO SEE MR. SLOAN”
There was a Fourth of July entertainment at the Y. M. C. A. that
evening, and Wayne and June stayed in town for supper and afterward
walked around to the Association building through the warm summer
night. June still talked about that ninth inning. “Mas’ Wayne, that
was surely one fine ol’ innin’,” he declared for the tenth time.
“Lawsy-y-y, but I certainly was scared, yes, sir! When that yere Mister
Brewster grab a bat an’ walk up to that yere plate I didn’ look for
nothin’ but jus’ disappointment. But he delivered the goods, didn’ he?
He certainly did! But I was mortal ’fraid you wasn’ goin’ get home
before that ol’ ball!” June chuckled. “You surely did run _some_, Mas’
Wayne!”
They found most of the other players present when they reached the
building and when it was time to adjourn to the hall they flocked in
together, June accompanying them protestingly, and received a round of
applause as they went to their seats. The entertainment was enjoyable
but didn’t last long, and when it was over an impromptu reception took
place in the big lounging-room and everyone flocked around and said
nice things about the team and the game was played over again several
times. It was difficult to decide who the real hero of the contest
was, since so many had performed. Pete Chase came in for a good share
of praise; for five strike-outs, three assists, and no errors was
considered a fine record against as strong a team as the Toonaltas.
The five passes that he had issued were easily pardoned since none had
resulted in a score. In hitting, Toonalta stood seven for a total of
ten bases and Chenango nine for a total of eleven.
Brewster was lauded for his rescue hit, Jim Wheelock for his steady
playing on base and at bat, Collins for a brilliant defence of left
field and a timely two-base wallop, Hoffman for his heady catching, and
Despaigne for his work at short. Even Billy White came in for a share
of the compliments, for Billy had worked Ellis for a pass in the last
inning and subsequently landed the tying run. But when all was said
Wayne was really the star. He had fielded without an error, having
three assists and two put-outs to his credit, had made three hits for a
total of four bases in four appearances at the plate, and had tallied
the winning run. In the batting line Jim Wheelock was his nearest
competitor, Jim having two hits to his credit. In fielding Wayne had no
competitor that day. Many kind things were said about him, and Arthur
Pattern’s prediction that Wayne would make himself heard some day as
a baseman was concurred in by all. Perhaps the Chenangos and their
admirers were a bit too lavish with their praise that evening, but
they felt exceptionally good over the victory and may be pardoned for
indulging in what our English cousins would call “swank.”
In the middle of the session of mutual admiration word came from the
office that a gentleman was inquiring for Wayne, and Wayne wondered
who it could be and decided that Jim Mason had at last accepted his
oft-repeated invitation to the Association. But it wasn’t Jim who
awaited him. The caller was a somewhat thick-set man of forty with
a much wrinkled face from which a pair of shrewd, light-blue eyes
peered forth from under heavy brows. He wore a suit of gray plaid,
the coat a trifle tight across the big chest, a pair of wonderfully
brilliant tan shoes, a heavy gold chain across his waistcoat, and a
big diamond ring on one hand, and carried a soft straw hat adorned
with a black-and-yellow scarf. Wayne didn’t observe all these details
at first, for he was much too busy speculating as to the man’s
errand, reflecting, as he crossed to meet him, that the letter to his
stepfather had reached him well over a week ago, allowing plenty of
time for him to set the law on his track. But the visitor didn’t quite
look the part of Authority, for he had a genial smile and a ready
expression of polite apology.
“This Mr. Sloan?” he asked as Wayne reached him. Wayne acknowledged
the fact. “My name’s Farrel, Chris Farrel. Maybe you’ve heard the
name.” He held out the ringed hand and Wayne took it, shaking his head.
“No? Well, I was before your time. I’m with the Harrisvilles, of the
Tri-State League.”
“Oh, baseball?” asked Wayne.
“Sure! Say, isn’t there a place we can sit down a minute? I’ve got a
proposition I’d like to make you, Mr. Sloan.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Wayne. “I reckon we can find a corner in the
game-room. There’s a crowd in the big room.” He led the way to a couch
in a corner that was sufficiently removed from the few groups of chess
and domino players. “You’re a ball player?” he asked as the caller
cautiously lowered himself into place and dropped his hat to the floor
beside him.
“Do I look it?” inquired the other, with a chuckle. “Say, I weigh two
hundred and eight right now. I’d make a hit, wouldn’t I, chasing
around the gravel? No, I haven’t played for six years. I’m interested
in the Badgers now. Own a little stock and do a bit of scouting for
’em.”
“The Badgers?”
“Yes, that’s what they call the Harrisville team. John K. Badger, the
Southern Pennsylvania Coal Company man, is the owner: him and Steve
Milburn and me. Him owning ninety per cent, and me and Steve dividing
the rest.” Mr. Farrel chuckled again. “Ever see our team play, Mr.
Sloan?”
“No, sir, I haven’t been up North very long.”
“So a fellow was telling me. Said Georgia was your home, I think. Well,
they grow peaches down there. Ty Cobb, for instance. Guess you’ve heard
of him, haven’t you?”
“Yes, a good many times, Mr. Farrel.”
“Yup, he’s some player, Tyrus is. Well, say, we’ve got a pretty good
little team over our way. Copped the pennant two years running and
finished third last season. Had hard luck last season. Weak in the box,
too. This year, though, we’re going nicely. Got a twelve-game lead
right now and mean to hold it. There won’t be anyone else in it by the
last of August. That’s a cinch.”
“I hope so, I’m sure,” murmured Wayne politely.
“We can’t miss it. We’ve got the pitchers and the fielders and the
hitters. Ever hear of Nick Crane?” Wayne shook his head. “Thought
maybe you had. Well, Nick’s with us this year. Got him sewed up for
three seasons. And, say, that kid can certainly pitch! You ought to
have seen him in the game with Damascus last Thursday. Not a hit off
him until the eighth, and not a man got beyond second. Then we’ve got
Herring--played with Syracuse two years ago--Nye, Cotton, Wainwright,
and young Joe Casey. Six mighty good lads. And we’ve got a hitting
team, too. Give me a good bunch of pitchers and five men who can hit
the pill and I’ll guarantee to finish first two years out of three. We
don’t go in for stars much. Can’t afford them, to be honest. What we
try to get is a nice, well-rounded team. Do you get me?”
“Yes, I think so,” responded Wayne. “But--but I’m afraid I don’t see
what this has got to do with me, Mr. Farrel.”
“Well, I was coming to that. Takes me some time to get moving, I’m so
heavy, you see. Here’s the story.” Mr. Farrel lifted one ponderous
leg over the other and dropped his voice to a confidential and husky
rumble. “I’ve got a pal lives here. Maybe you know him. H. M. Breen,
of the Sterling Spool Company. No? Well, him and me has been pals for
a long time, and his daughter was married last night and I came over
for the shindig. Today him and me went out and saw you fellows play
ball. And, say, we saw a good game, too. I don’t mean it was so blamed
scientific--those Toonalta guys made a lot of fool moves: they ought to
have sewn that game up in the eighth--but it was fast and interesting.
Well, I was just passing the time, you understand, Mr. Sloan. Wasn’t
looking for any finds or nothing. Just enjoying a day off. Get me? But
’long about the fourth inning I began to sit up and take notice of the
fellow playing second for the Medfield bunch. ‘He ain’t so poor,’ says
I. ‘He’s got a nice way of handling himself, he has, and he sure can
biff the ball. Course, he needs training, but it looks to me like he
had the goods.’ Well, I watched him close and I saw him dip in on a
nice double play and push the pellet around for three hits, one of ’em
a clean two-bagger, an’ I says to myself, ‘Chris, why don’t you look
the young gentleman up and have a talk with him?’ I says, ‘Maybe he’d
think well of a chance to get in good company and learn how to play
real ball.’ So I inquired around and found you hung out up here a good
deal and here I am.” Mr. Farrel smiled jovially, produced a cigar from
a pocket, viewed it and replaced it with a sigh.
“That’s very kind of you,” stammered Wayne. “Do you mean that--that
you’ll give me a position on your team?”
“Sure! That is, if you pan out like I think you will. That’s up to you,
Mr. Sloan. You see, you’re young yet: can’t be more than eighteen, eh?”
Wayne shook his head again. There was, he felt, no necessity of being
more specific. “Well, I’ve seen fellows play rattling ball at eighteen
and be no good at all when they were twenty. Seemed like they just
outgrew it. I ain’t saying that’s your way. But it don’t do to promise
too much just at first. And then again, Steve’s the man that has the
last word. He’s manager, you see, and what Steve says goes. All I can
do is send you up to him and tell him to give you a try-out. If he
likes you he’ll treat you fair. If he don’t like you, why, there’s no
harm done, is there?”
“How long would he be finding out?” asked Wayne doubtfully. “You see,
sir, I wouldn’t want to lose my job here and then get turned down.”
“Two or three days. Say three, just to be on the safe side. You get
your boss to let you off for that long, beat it over to Harrisville
tomorrow night and report to Steve Thursday morning. If he says nothing
doing you’ll be back here Saturday. It’s only a two-hour run on the
train. How does that strike you?”
“I don’t know,” replied Wayne. “If--if the manager liked me well enough
to keep me would I play second?”
“Maybe you would or maybe he’d put you somewhere else. Maybe you’d have
to wait around awhile for a position. Our infield’s pretty good as it
is and you ain’t had the experience you need, you see. But Steve will
treat you right, take it from me.”
“If I didn’t get on the team, though, would I get paid?”
“Sure! Once you put your name to the contract you get paid every month
regularly whether you play or just sit on the bench. That’s soft, ain’t
it?”
“I suppose it is, but I’d rather play, Mr. Farrel. How much--that
is--what would I get?”
“Salary? Oh, you and Steve would have to fix that up. He’s no piker,
though. He’ll do the fair-and-square by you. Don’t you worry about
that.”
“Well, but, how much do you suppose?”
“I don’t want to quote any figures, Mr. Sloan. That ain’t in my job.
All I do is scout. When I see a likely looking chap I say just what I’m
saying to you. ‘Go and report to Steve Milburn,’ I says. ‘He’ll talk
salary with you when you’ve shown him what you can do.’ More than that
I ain’t got the right to say, Mr. Sloan. But we pay good salaries as
salaries go on the minors, and, what’s more, we _pay_ ’em! You don’t
get promises and an order on the grocer. Old John K. is right there
every month with the coin. He don’t waste his money, John K. don’t, but
he pays his bills. Now what do you say, Mr. Sloan?”
“Well, I’m much obliged to you and----”
“Wait a minute! Tell you what I’ll do. I believe in you. I believe
you’ll make good. Get me? So I’ll hand you over a ten-dollar bill right
now. That’ll pay your expenses both ways. If you make good you can pay
it back to me. If you don’t, forget it. That’s fair, ain’t it?”
“Yes, sir, but I don’t know whether I want to--to do it. If I was sure
of a chance to play and knew what I’d earn----”
“You’re sure of a chance to play the very minute you show you can play.
And whatever you get for a salary will be three or four times what they
pay you in the freight house, at least.”
It occurred to Wayne that Mr. Farrel had managed to learn quite a few
particulars about him in the short space of four hours! Secretly he was
overjoyed by the prospect of joining a real baseball team and earning
money, but something whispered caution, and so, after a minute’s
deliberation, he said: “I’ll think it over, Mr. Farrel, and let you
know tomorrow if you’ll tell me where I can find you.”
“That’s all right,” answered the other heartily enough, but there was
a look on his face suggesting that he would have been better pleased
had Wayne closed with the offer then and there. “I’ll be at the Union
House until noon tomorrow. You think it over and let me know by twelve
o’clock. I was going down to Philadelphia tonight, but I thought maybe
I wouldn’t be around here again for a while and it mightn’t do me or
you any harm if we had a little chat. Get me? But, say, Mr. Sloan, you
take my advice and don’t talk much about this business. And don’t let
anyone con you into signing a contract. A lot of these baseball scouts
are regular thieves. That sounds like talking down my own business,
don’t it? Well, there’s scouts and scouts, and some of ’em’ll sign you
up hard and fast before you know what’s happened. And when you go to
look over your contract you’re getting the core and the club’s got the
apple. See me before you talk to anyone else, will you? Just give me an
option on your services until tomorrow noon, eh?”
“Why, yes, sir. I don’t expect anyone else will be after me, though.”
“No, I guess not. I’m only playing it safe. You see, I’ve taken
some trouble to talk with you about this, and missed an appointment
in Philadelphia this evening, and it’s only fair for me to get the
first chance, ain’t it? You see that yourself, I guess. Well, I’ll
be moving. Don’t forget to come around by twelve tomorrow. Ask for
Chris Farrel--F, a, r, r, e, l--in Room 28. I’ll be looking for you.
Good-night, Mr. Sloan. Much obliged to you. Don’t trouble. I know the
way out. S’long!”
Mr. Chris Farrel, with a big, black cigar in a corner of his mouth at
last, and searching for matches with an anxious hand, nodded and passed
out, leaving Wayne a prey to excitement and incredulity.