TURNED DOWN!
The practice wasn’t much different from what the Chenangos were
accustomed to. Harrisville showed more certainty and ease and speed in
handling the ball, and there were fewer slip-ups, but, on the other
hand, Wayne thought there was something rather perfunctory about the
work. Manager Milburn was after his charges every minute, barking and
snarling, and nothing appeared to please him the least bit in the
world. Wayne began to wonder whether it would not be the part of wisdom
to take himself off and let the interview wait until after dinner or
even tomorrow. There came no sign from the red-haired pitcher--his name
appeared to be Herring, according to the irate manager, and “Red,” if
you believed the players--who was working out near by in company with
three other twirlers and two catchers. Manager Milburn was behind the
plate and the rest of the players, with the exception of two, were in
the field. The two took turns at batting, laying down bunts, cracking
out liners and arching long flies at the behest of the manager. A
short, stocky youngster named Nye was pitching. It was interesting
enough and Wayne would have enjoyed it had it not been for that letter
in his pocket toward which his hand strayed every minute or two.
After a while Nye gave way to one of the batters, who, it appeared,
was also a pitcher, and retired to the bench beside Wayne. Several not
over-clean towels draped an end of the seat and Nye seized one and
patted the perspiration from his streaming face.
“Getting hot,” he said to Wayne. The latter agreed. “Newspaper man?”
asked the pitcher. Wayne shook his head. “Thought I didn’t know your
face. What’s your line, friend?”
“I’m after a place on the team,” replied the boy. “Mr. Farrel sent me.”
“Honest? How old are you?”
Wayne hesitated an instant. Finally, however, since he had a fondness
for the truth, he told it. The pitcher raised his brows.
“Well, if Steve asks you you’d better tack on a couple of years,” he
advised. “You look like you might be eighteen, easy. Where do you play?”
“Second, sir.”
“Well, you aren’t likely to get there this season. Jones is as good as
they make ’em. Seen him yet?”
“Jones?”
“No, Steve Milburn.”
“No, sir, not yet. He didn’t seem to be in very good humour and so I
thought maybe I’d better wait awhile.”
“Hop” Nye chuckled. “You got it about right, kid. If I was you I’d beat
it and come around tomorrow. He won’t get any better today, I guess.
Not this morning, anyway.”
“Is he always like--like he is now?” asked Wayne anxiously.
“Steve? No, this is a little extra. Some of the boys went off to a
picnic night before last and yesterday we got licked to a fare-ye-well
by the ‘Billies.’ Oh, no, Steve has his fits now and again, but we
don’t mind ’em much, and he gets over ’em. He’s a good sort--for a
manager.”
At that moment a stout man wearing a faded sweater whose alternate
rings of red and white added to his apparent circumference and who
walked with a rolling gait and chewed gum fast and furious, appeared on
the scene and was instantly pounced on by Mr. Milburn.
“Where have you been, Jimmy?” demanded the manager irately. “Had your
dinner yet? Or are you just up from breakfast?”
“It’s my usual time, Steve,” was the placid reply. “Got through with
’em?”
“Yes, I’m through with them.” The manager’s tone implied that he was
vastly relieved. “Take them, and if you can do anything with them, do
it for the love of mud!”
“All right, Boss. Over to the net, boys. Bring them bats, some of you.
Get a hustle on now. Some of you look like you was falling asleep on
your pedals. Get goin’, get goin’!”
The players moved off with more or less alacrity to the further side
of the field where two batting nets were set, and the manager, after
watching them a moment with the utmost contempt, turned toward the
bench and caught sight of Wayne. The latter wished then that he had
acted on Nye’s advice and left the field when he had had the chance.
Steve Milburn strode up to him belligerently.
“What are you doing in here?” he barked. “Who let you in? Don’t you
know you fellows aren’t allowed in here without permission? Get out and
stay out!”
Wayne found himself on his feet. There was something extremely
compelling in the manager’s voice and manner! But the next instant his
fingers had closed around that letter and he was pulling it forth from
his pocket. “I--I was sent to see you, sir----”
“See me at the hotel then. You newspaper fellows make me sick, anyway.
Who sent you?”
“Mr. Farrel.”
“Farrel? Who’s Farrel?”
“Mr. Chris Farrel, sir. He told me--he gave me----”
“Chris sent you? What have you got there?”
“A letter.” Wayne offered it and the manager pulled it impatiently from
his hand, tore open the envelope, and ran a quick and frowning gaze
over the contents. Then he squeezed letter and envelope into a tight
ball and tossed them under the bench.
“He’s a fool! I don’t need infielders, and he knows it. Nothing doing,
kid.”
“But--he said you’d give me a try-out, sir,” exclaimed Wayne with a
sinking heart.
“He’d tell you anything. Look here, now, and get this. I don’t need
infielders and wouldn’t sign one up if he was a Baker and a Collins all
rolled into one. I told Chris to find me an outfielder who could hit
and he goes and sends me a second baseman! And robs the nursery, too!
The man’s crazy! You might as well beat it, kid. Back to the crib for
yours.”
“I’m old enough to play ball, sir,” answered Wayne.
“Nothing doing,” replied the man wearily. “I can pick them up any day
like you.”
“But he said you’d give me a try-out, Mr. Milburn. He--he promised me
that. He wrote another letter to you yesterday----”
“He _said_ he did. He’d tell you anything. What would you expect of an
idiot who will ship you a second baseman when you want an outfielder?
Anyway, I haven’t got any letter. And it wouldn’t matter if he wrote me
a dozen. I’ve got all the second baseman I want. So don’t stand there
and argue about it. I know what I want, don’t I?”
“I reckon you do,” answered Wayne, losing his temper at last. “And
I know I was promised a try-out by your--your representative”--the
manager sniffed audibly--“and I want it!”
“What do I care what you want?” demanded the man loudly. “You won’t get
any try-out from me, and I’m telling you right. I’m not responsible for
Chris Farrel making a fool of himself. Anyway, you aren’t old enough.
Come around next year and I’ll give you a try-out--for bat-boy!” Steve
Milburn turned on his heel.
Several retorts, none of which were either tactful or likely to aid
his cause, sprang to Wayne’s lips, but he closed his teeth on them.
Instead, he strode quickly after the manager, and the latter turned
upon him scowlingly. “Listen to me, kid,” he said threateningly. “You
beat it out of here before I throw you out. Get that?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Wayne unflinchingly. “I’m going. Can I see you at
your hotel this evening?”
“You can not! I’ve said everything. Want me to sing it for you?”
“No, sir, only I thought that maybe you’d feel different when you’d----”
“When I’d what?”
“When you’d got your--when you weren’t angry, sir.”
“Angry? Who says I’m angry? I’m not angry. You can’t make me angry.”
Mr. Milburn scowled alarmingly. “Anyway, wouldn’t a bunch of boneheads
like those over there make anyone angry? I’d like to see anyone keep
sweet-tempered with that bunch of ivory-domed, flat-footed, slab-sided
cripples on his hands. There isn’t a ball player in the lot! Not a
single, solitary one! They don’t know ball from beans, and they don’t
want to! Angry! Great Scott----”
“Well, don’t you want to hire a ball player, then, sir?” asked Wayne
innocently.
“Hire a----” Mr. Milburn sputtered and waved impotent hands about his
head. Then: “_Get out!_” he bawled.
Wayne went. There didn’t seem anything to be gained by driving the
manager to new heights of frenzy. The last he saw of Steve Milburn that
much-tried man was legging it across the field as fast as his feet
would carry him. Wayne smiled. “I’m glad I’m not one of those fellows,”
he thought as he turned to the gate.
Mike, who had moved his chair into the shade and was dozing over his
newspaper, looked up sleepily and nodded as Wayne passed through the
fence. Outside, the smile faded from the boy’s face. The humour had
quite gone from the situation now. He had failed and there was nothing
to do but go back to Medfield. The thought didn’t please him. To be
sure, he had prepared Jim Mason and the others for his return by a
prediction that he wouldn’t make good, but it came to him now that he
hadn’t believed in that prediction, that, deep down inside of him, he
had all along expected to succeed. No, returning to Medfield didn’t
appeal to him a bit.
Presently, as he walked along in the full glare of a merciless noonday
sun, anger ousted dejection. Steve Milburn had no right to turn him
down like that. The club’s scout had guaranteed him a try-out and
the manager ought to give it to him. Wayne told himself that several
times, and the more often he said it, the more convinced he became of
the truth of it, until, having reached the armory corner and turned
toward the Bemis House, he was in a condition of perspiration and
indignation. Sight of the Congress House crystallised the indignation
into resolution. He had a right to a fair trial and he would have it.
He would have it if he stayed in Harrisville all summer!
From that verdict to reckoning up his money and comparing the amount to
the requirements of a prolonged sojourn in the city was a short step.
He had a little over ten dollars left, or would have when he had paid
for his room at the hotel, and ten dollars would not, he reflected,
keep two hungry boys and a dog from starvation very long. Then he
remembered June’s savings and cheered up again. Using June’s money was
something he didn’t like to do, something he wouldn’t do under ordinary
circumstances, but this was no ordinary crisis. Wayne felt that justice
and honour were involved. He was standing up for his rights. June’s
money should be used, if necessary, for the Cause!
He wondered whether it might not be well to apply to the law for
assistance, but he abandoned that idea quickly. Lawyers were, as he
had always heard, expensive helpers. And, besides, what was the good
of a try-out if nothing came of it? And if he antagonised Mr. Milburn
too much nothing would come of it. All the manager needed to do was to
give him the try-out and say that he didn’t suit. Next Wayne thought of
the owner of the club, Mr. John J. Badger. Or was it John K.? He might
seek Mr. Badger and put the situation up to him. But then, that, too,
would increase the manager’s ire and probably accomplish harm rather
than good. No, what was to be done must be done tactfully, if firmly,
he decided. He must persuade Mr. Milburn to give him the try-out of his
own free will. Only, how?
He was still confronted by that “How” when he reached the Bemis House
and found June and Sam dozing in a tilted-back chair under the striped
awning in front. Wayne dragged a chair alongside and, defeating Sam’s
attempts to crawl into his arms, narrated the story of the morning’s
encounter--and defeat. June was incredulous, outraged, indignant. He
insisted that Wayne should revenge himself instantly on Mr. Milburn
and the Harrisville Baseball Club by shaking the dust of the place
from their feet and leaving manager and team to get along without his
services. But Wayne said no to that.
“We’re going to stay right here until I get what I came for,” he
declared stoutly. “We’re going to find a place to live first of all.
This is too expensive, I reckon. How much money have you got, June?”
“I got forty-seven dollars an’ ninety-three cents,” replied June
proudly. “I reckon that’ll keep us here mos’ all summer, Mas’ Wayne, if
that fool man don’ give you that position before.”
“All right, June. Now I’m going to write a letter. Then we’ll have some
dinner and try to find a boarding-house afterward. You stay here, Sam.”
The letter, written at one of the sloping desks that lined a wall in
the little hotel lobby, was short but decided. It was addressed to Jim
Mason and announced that Wayne would not be back to his job but was
going to remain in Harrisville. It didn’t go into details at all and it
ended up with thanks to Jim for his kindness and love to Mrs. Mason and
Terry and a promise to see him the first time he returned to Medfield.
He considered writing to Arthur Pattern, too, but decided to wait for
a day or two longer. Then, having burned his bridges behind him, Wayne
accompanied June to a nearby restaurant and ate a very satisfactory
dinner.