OFF TO HARRISVILLE
At a quarter to six the next afternoon Wayne sat in a red plush seat
in the Harrisville train and watched the outskirts of Medfield drop
behind. He had his ticket to Harrisville and return in his pocket and
nearly eighteen dollars folded away in his old leather coin purse. His
luggage reposed beside him in a small brown paper parcel, for he was
travelling in light marching order. For some reason, June had failed
to show up at the station to say good-bye, and Wayne was a little bit
resentful. He thought June might have found the time to see him off.
It had been a busy day. Rather to his surprise, he had awakened with
the question fully decided. He would go to Harrisville and talk with
the manager of the baseball team. Whether he stayed or not would depend
on whether he made good and what salary was offered him. He would
not, he told himself firmly, accept less than a hundred dollars a
month. The talk with Chris Farrel had been fairly satisfactory. Arthur
Pattern had failed to elicit any definite promise of engagement from
the scout, but he had made Mr. Farrel agree to supplement the letter
of introduction which Wayne was to deliver with another, to be posted
then and there, presenting Wayne’s qualifications and advising his
employment. After that Wayne had accepted the ten dollars, shaken hands
with Mr. Farrel, and returned to the freight house to apply to Jim
Mason for a three days’ leave of absence.
Jim had given his permission quickly enough, but had shown little
enthusiasm for the boy’s project. Playing baseball for a living did
not, to his thinking, contrast at all favourably with working for the
railroad, and he didn’t hesitate to say so. In fact, he was decidedly
pessimistic and gloomy until Wayne reminded him that there was a
strong possibility of his not securing the position after he reached
Harrisville. Jim cheered up after that and chose to look on the three
days’ absence as a sort of brief vacation, and virtually despatched
Wayne with his blessing when closing time arrived.
“Don’t you worry about me,” he said. “I’ll get on all right. It ain’t
but two days and a half, anyway. Just you have a good time and enjoy
yourself, son. Better come around for dinner Sunday and tell us about
your trip.”
Wayne promised to do this in the event of his return, shook hands with
Jim, feeling a bit guilty and more than half hoping that the manager of
the Harrisville Baseball Club would send him home again, and hurried
off to the train. Arthur Pattern had promised to get down to see him
off if he could do it, but evidently Arthur had had to stay late
this evening. The train was in the open country now, running between
wooded hills on which the long, slanting rays of the setting sun fell
gloriously. He was a little lonesome and wished he had taken Sam with
him. After all, Sam wouldn’t have been much trouble, and he was a heap
of company. And just then the door at the front end of the car opened
and in walked June with a squirming, excited Sam in his arms!
June was grinning broadly, but there was something anxious and
apologetic about that grin. After his first gasp of surprise, Wayne
wanted to be stern and severe, but he just couldn’t because it was so
good to have June and Sam there! And, anyway, you couldn’t frown or be
cross with a delirious dog in your lap trying to lick your face and
whine his delight at the same time! And so Wayne gave it up, and only
smiled a trifle sheepishly, and June, seeing that he was not to be
scolded, hugged himself, and grinned harder than ever.
The conductor interrupted the reunion with a request for tickets and a
demand that the dog be removed to the baggage car, and so the three of
them made their way forward and Sam was once more secured to the handle
of a trunk with a piece of cord and Wayne and June perched themselves
alongside and so finished their journey. June, it seemed, had at no
time entertained any notion of being left behind, but had thrown up his
job at the hotel that morning, staying only long enough to break in one
of his recently made friends, and had then gone back to the car to pack
up. Wayne’s belongings were here in a pasteboard box and June’s tied
up in paper. “I done fasten up the place,” said June, “an’ nail boards
over the windows, an’ I reckon if we-all wants to go back there we’s
goin’ to fin’ things jus’ the same like we left ’em. An’ I done water
them tomatuses an’ everything too, Mas’ Wayne.”
“But, June, if we don’t stay in Harrisville what will you do? You
shouldn’t have thrown up your job.”
June winked solemnly. “I done made a ’greement with that nigger, Mas’
Wayne. If I comes back he’s goin’ to get out, yes, sir, an’ I gets my
job back.”
“Oh! But supposing he changes his mind by that time?”
“Then,” answered the other solemnly, “I’se goin’ to change his face.”
Just before it got too dark to see, the train began to run parallel
with a broad river, and after that, at intervals, the big stream
flashed into sight. The baggage-man was amiable and talkative and told
them much about the country they were passing through and the city
they were approaching, giving them directions for finding a cheap but
satisfactory hotel near the station. As Harrisville contained about
fifty thousand population the boys naturally expected to find a big
place, but when, having alighted from the baggage-car by the simple
expedient of jumping to a truck outside the wide door, and made their
way through the crowded station to an equally crowded street, the city
proved to be larger and far more confusing than their anticipation.
Fortunately, though, the Bemis House was in plain sight across the way
and they had soon secured a room. The Bemis House drew no colour line,
nor did it object to a small dog if he was sort of smuggled upstairs
and kept quiet, and so the three companions were speedily housed
together in a small and shabby but comfortable enough bedroom.
They didn’t stay in it long, however, for the city lights were calling
them. They had some supper at a little restaurant near by and then,
with Sam pulling ahead at the end of his improvised leash, they set
forth on exploration bent. That was a most exciting evening, for they
had traversed no more than a half-dozen squares when the lights and
gaudy pictures of a moving-picture theatre brought them to a stop.
June announced his intentions inside of two seconds, and Wayne, after
discovering that a dime would purchase admittance, made no objections.
For the subsequent hour and a half they were as happy as two boys could
be, and when the “Good Night! Come Again” was flashed on the screen and
the audience poured out June was all for seeing the show over again
and had to be literally dragged away, Wayne assuring him that they
could come again tomorrow evening. They saw some of the town then, but
nothing short of a three-alarm fire would have snared their attention
after the things they had witnessed on the screen, and so, being tired
and sleepy, they went back to the little hotel and crawled into the
beds.
Wayne’s letter of introduction to Mr. Stephen Milburn bore the address
of the Congress House, and inquiry elicited the information that the
Congress House was far uptown and many blocks away from their lodgings.
For fear that the club manager might get away before he could reach
him, Wayne ate a hurried and sketchy breakfast at seven, entrusted
Sam to June’s care, and hurried off on foot at about the time the
retail section of the city through which his route lay was beginning to
wake up. The distance was long and Wayne was horribly afraid that Mr.
Milburn would have had his breakfast and be off and about the business
of managing before he got to the hotel. Consequently, he was somewhat
surprised when, on inquiring for the manager, he was told that Mr.
Milburn never saw anyone until after breakfast.
“After breakfast!” repeated Wayne blankly. “Well, what time is that,
please?”
The clerk at the desk looked speculatingly at the clock and yawned
behind his hand. “He usually comes down about nine,” was the reply.
“Come back at half-past and you’ll probably find him.”
Wayne withdrew, wondering how Mr. Milburn ever found time to do
anything after getting up at nine o’clock! For a while he occupied one
of the extremely comfortable chairs in the hotel lobby and perused a
newspaper that someone had discarded there, but the street outside was
by this time humming and bustling, the morning was still cool and the
temptation to see more of Harrisville was too strong for him. So he
went out and joined the stream on the sidewalk and loitered along,
looking into fascinating windows and missing little that went on. At a
quarter to nine he was some distance from the hotel and so he turned
back. But when he had walked as many squares as seemed necessary to
bring him to his destination he failed to discover it. It dawned on him
then that he had been walking at right angles to the street on which
the hotel was situated, and he turned back and hurried along the way he
had come. In the end he had to ask his way of a newsboy. Whether that
young rascal purposely gave him the wrong direction or whether Wayne
misunderstood him, the result was the same. He reached the Congress
House at just twenty-five minutes to ten by the big round clock in the
lobby and was met with the information that Mr. Milburn had breakfasted
a little earlier than usual and had just gone out. The clerk, still
yawning delicately, could not even hazard a guess as to the manager’s
present whereabouts, and Wayne was turning disappointedly away from the
desk when a bell boy came to his assistance.
“Say, Mister, you can find Mr. Milburn at the ball park after half-past
ten,” he said. “They practises then every day.”
“Oh, thanks,” answered Wayne. “Which way is the park from here, please?”
“Out Tioga Avenue. Take any blue car going north. The conductor’ll
tell you where to get off. But you’ll see it yourself if you watch for
it.”
“Is it much of a walk?” Wayne asked.
“No, not more’n a mile and a half. Mr. Milburn walks out there every
morning. Go out Prentiss Street till you come to the armory and then
turn left and follow the car tracks. You’ll find it.”
“I surely will!” Wayne told himself as he thanked the boy and went out
again. “But the next time I’ll know better than to let him get away
from me like that. When you start to do anything, I reckon it’s a good
plan to keep on doing it.”
As it was still only a quarter to ten, Wayne assured himself that he
had plenty of time. But he also assured himself that he wasn’t going
to loiter for that reason. If he could intercept Mr. Milburn before he
started to work it would, he thought, be better. So he set forth at a
good, steady pace, asking his direction every few squares so that he
would not again get lost, and presently found the armory and took the
turn to the left as instructed. A square farther a blue car buzzed
past him bearing the legend “Ball Grounds,” and Wayne knew that he was
right. It was, however, a minute or two past the half-hour, when the
enclosure came into sight, and Wayne decided that the bell boy had
underestimated the distance, possibly from kindly motives.
The park occupied two squares in a part of the city given over to
small, thickly clustered dwellings. On one side the railroad tracks ran
close to the high board fence and smoke from the engines--accompanied
by cinders, as Wayne was to learn later--billowed over onto the
field whenever the wind blew in the right--or, more accurately,
wrong--direction. The place looked well cared for and the stands,
visible above the fence, were of steel and concrete. The ticket windows
and main entrances were closed and Wayne went nearly to the next corner
before he found a means of ingress. And even then his way was barred
by a man who sat beside the small door reading a paper until Wayne had
exhibited his letter.
“All right, Jack, help yourself,” replied the man on guard. “He’s in
the house, I guess.”
Wayne didn’t consider it worth while to waste his time telling the man
that his name wasn’t Jack; which was just as well since Mike always
called everyone Jack--except Mr. Milburn and one or two of the more
important team members--and it wasn’t at all likely that he would have
given serious consideration to the correction. Wayne passed through
and found himself squarely behind first base, with a wide expanse of
not very flourishing turf stretching away to the distant fences which
were everywhere adorned with colourful advertisements of everything
from smoking tobacco to suspenders. Beside him on his right was an open
door leading into a structure built under one of the stands and which
he presumed held the dressing quarters. At his left was another stand
with a similar building beneath it. Over the door of the latter was the
word “Visitors.”
A tall, raw-boned youth of twenty-one or two emerged through the open
door at that moment. He had the reddest hair Wayne had ever seen on
a human being and was fearfully and wonderfully freckled. He was in
uniform and held a ball in one hand and a glove in the other. As he
almost ran into Wayne he could not help noticing him.
“’Lo, Bill!” he said. “Lookin’ for someone?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Milburn.”
The red-haired chap jerked the hand holding the ball over his shoulder.
“Steve? He’s inside bawling ’em out. That’s why I beat it. If you want
to sell him anything or strike him for a pass, kid, take my advice and
don’t do it. Let him simmer down. Can you catch?”
Wayne nodded. “I’ve got a letter to him,” he said uncertainly and
questioningly.
“Keep it, Bill, till he recovers,” advised the other. “Come on out and
catch a few for me. I got a bum wing this morning for fair.”
Doubtfully, Wayne followed the big chap around to the front of the
stand. He didn’t like the idea of delaying his interview, but it seemed
possible that the red-haired man knew best. The latter pointed to a
scarred place in the turf in front of which a stone slab did duty for
a plate. “Stand there, Bill. Haven’t got a glove, have you? Well, I’ll
just toss ’em. I got to limber up or Steve’ll be riding me, too, in a
minute.” He swung an arm up and sped the ball slowly and easily across
the trampled grass to Wayne and Wayne tossed it back again.
“Guess you’re a player, ain’t you?” asked the big pitcher. “Looking for
a job, are you?”
“Yes, Mr. Farrel sent me over here to see Mr. Milburn.”
“So Chris is at it again, eh?” The red-haired one eyed Wayne with more
interest as he waited for the ball to come back. “Where’d he find you,
kid?”
“Medfield, sir.”
“Medfield? Have they got a club there? What league’s that? The Nile
Valley?”
“It’s just an amateur club,” replied Wayne. “It isn’t in any league.”
“Oh, that’s it, eh? Well, say, Chris is catching ’em young, ain’t he?
What was you doing when he caught you?”
“I played second on the Chenango team and----”
“On the _what_?”
“On the Chenango team, sir.”
“Think of that! You played second base for ’em, eh? Bet you they was
the proud bunch!”
Wayne coloured. “Maybe you’d better find someone else,” he said
stiffly, rolling the ball back and turning away.
“Oh, come on, kid!” called the pitcher, with a good-natured laugh.
“Have a heart! I wasn’t saying anything, was I? Gee whiz, if you stay
around here you’ll get a lot worse ragging than that, believe me! And
if you know what’s what, Bill, you’ll take it smiling, ’cause if you
don’t they’ll make it worse for you. Just hold a few more now, like a
good feller. Dan’ll be out in a minute.”
Wayne nodded and spread his hands again. This time the ball came in
with a thud that almost staggered him and the pitcher grinned. “Too
bad, kid,” he said. “I won’t do it again.” Wayne smiled, too.
“You may if you’ll tell me before you do it,” he answered.
“Say, I’ll bet you can hold down a sack all right, Bill,” replied the
other. “Tell you what. You wait for me to give you the signal, see?
When I see that Steve’s got his temper back I’ll pipe you off. But
don’t you tackle him before. Here they come now. Thanks, kid. Keep out
of the way awhile.”
Wayne tossed the ball back, nodded and loitered aside as the
players emerged from the dressing-room. Wayne thought them a very
likely-looking lot as they made their way around to the bench, followed
by a man lugging two big bat-bags. In age they ran from nineteen to
thirty, he judged. One, a broad-shouldered and powerful-looking man,
appeared even older than thirty and wore a heavy mustache, something
that none of the others had. The big man looked decidedly cross, Wayne
thought, and he wondered if he had been the principal object of Manager
Milburn’s wrath. The manager himself Wayne failed to see. No one paid
any attention to Wayne. All the players looked very grave and solemn,
but Wayne caught one, a youth not much older than he, winking at a
companion and concluded that the solemnity was largely assumed. It was
the man with the mustache who took command of the situation just then.
“Now show some pep!” he barked. “Get out there and act alive. Some of
you stuffed sausages will be benched mighty quick if you don’t wake up,
and I’m giving it to you square. Ten dollars a month would buy the lot
of you if anyone made the offer!”
Wayne awoke to the fact that the mustached man was Mr. Steve Milburn,
something he had not suspected, since he had thought to find the
manager in street clothes. Wayne viewed his angry countenance with
sinking heart. The big pitcher was right, he concluded. This was
no moment to approach Mr. Milburn with the expectation of getting
a hearing. He made himself as small and inconspicuous as he might,
finding a seat on the empty bench, and for the ensuing half-hour
watched the Harrisville Badgers go through their morning practice.