WAYNE LENDS A HAND
That evening Wayne went to the Congress House and inquired for Mr.
Milburn. The clerk at the desk pushed a card toward him and he wrote
his name on it. Five minutes later a bell boy returned with the
message that the manager declined to see him. As Wayne had expected
just that, he was not disappointed. Finding a vacant chair against a
wall of the lobby, he went on watch. But, although he saw several of
the Harrisville players come and go during the succeeding hour, the
manager did not appear, and at half-past nine Wayne returned to the
new lodgings. June, with Sam curled into a tight bunch on his chest,
was stretched on his bed reading an evening paper. June was not a fast
reader but he was most thorough, and one newspaper generally lasted him
for several days. Wayne made him lay his paper aside for the present
and produce what money he had. To it Wayne added his own wealth and
they then counted it over. They had to count it thrice for the result
was different the first two times. Fifty-five dollars and forty-one
cents was what they finally made it. Then Wayne figured on the margin
of June’s paper and, after much frowning and muttering, decided that by
rigid economy they could live just about five weeks on their capital.
“Fifteen cents apiece is enough for breakfast and supper,” said Wayne,
“and we can get a good dinner for thirty cents. That comes to one
dollar and twenty cents a day, or eight-forty a week. Then two and
a half for the room makes it ten-ninety, and ten-ninety goes into
fifty-five forty five times and leaves ninety cents over.”
“That’s so,” assented June, “but we’d better leave us enough to get
home on, Mas’ Wayne.”
“We’re home now,” replied Wayne firmly.
“Is we?”
“We are! We’re going to stay right here, June. If I don’t get on the
baseball team I’ll find a job somewhere. And you can do the same.”
“Yes, sir, but what’s to hinder me from gettin’ me a job right now?”
asked June.
Wayne considered. Finally he shook his head. “No,” he answered, “I
don’t want you working if I’m not. We’ve got enough to last us five
weeks; four, anyway; and when we get toward the end of the money we can
begin to look for something to do. If Mr. Milburn gives me a try-out
and I make good, why, you won’t have to work.”
“Say I won’? How come, Mas’ Wayne?”
“You’ll keep house for me, June, and look after Sam. And you can go to
school again. We’ll find a couple of rooms where we can get our own
meals. How would you like that?”
“With a real cook stove, Mas’ Wayne?”
“Yes, a real, sure-enough one, June. And we’ll buy a whole outfit of
pans and dishes and everything. And there’ll be a pantry with all sorts
of things in it: canned soup and flour and sugar and----”
“Molasses?” asked June eagerly.
“Of course. Everything we want.”
“Lawsy-y-y!” crooned June, hugging himself tightly and rolling his
eyes. “Jus’ like quality, Mas’ Wayne! Say, I goin’ to cook a big mess
of pork an’ cabbage the very firs’ thing! I ain’ had none of that for a
mighty long ol’ time, I’m tellin’ you.”
“That’s ‘if’,” reminded Wayne. “Maybe it won’t happen, though.”
“Mas’ Wayne,” said June earnestly, “it’s jus’ got to happen, yes, sir!
If that yere Mister Manager don’ give you that yere job I goin’ pesker
the life out’n him! ’Deed I is, yes, sir! I’m goin’ make him pow’ful
mis’able.”
“I’m going to do a little ‘peskering’ myself,” responded Wayne grimly.
“And I’m going to begin tomorrow morning. Now, though, I’m going to
sleep.”
In the morning they found a little restaurant within a block of their
new lodgings and had breakfast there. It wasn’t a very attractive
place, and the tablecloths were likely to be soiled, but the food was
satisfactory and the prices well within the limit Wayne had decided on.
Also, the proprietor, a little man with a pronounced squint who talked
in broken English, took a liking to Sam and neither of the boys had to
stint his appetite to provide for the dog. After that first morning
Sam trotted at once to the door at the back and stood there with an
inquiring gaze and slowly wagging tail until the expected chop bone or
other delicacy came his way.
After breakfast June and Sam were left to their own devices and Wayne
set forth for the ball park. Summer had come to Harrisville in its
full intensity now and that long walk through the city and out beyond
where there were neither buildings nor trees to mitigate the ferocity
of the sun left the boy rather limp. As on the first occasion, Mike
held him up at the door, but, recognising him the next instant, passed
him through unsuspectingly. Today practice was in full swing when
he entered the enclosure. Mr. Milburn was batting grounders to the
infield and the portly trainer was knocking up flies. No one paid any
attention to Wayne, and he crossed to the bench in the shade of the
right base stand and settled himself to watch. Perhaps yesterday’s
victory had restored the manager’s good-humour, for he was quite a
different despot this morning. He didn’t hesitate to criticise or find
fault, but his criticisms were just, and his fault-finding excusable.
And he was quite as quick to praise as blame today. The players seemed
in a merry mood and jokes and sallies passed from one to another across
the diamond. Wayne’s first acquaintance, “Red” Herring, was limbering
up his long arm, in company with the rest of the pitchers, at the other
side of the field; Linton and Young catching. In deep right field, two
painters, seated on a swinging scaffold, were dividing their attention
between the sign they were at work on and the practice.
Both Mr. Milburn and Mr. Slattery, the trainer, caught the balls as
they were returned to them from the fielders, and now and then one
got away from them. Presently a ball thrown to the trainer went wide
and rolled nearly to the fence at the entrance. Being nearer than Mr.
Slattery, Wayne went after it and tossed it back. The trainer accepted
it without comment, swung his bat and sent it flying out into the
field again. When it came in again, however, it passed well out of
the trainer’s reach and that individual, turning with an exclamation
of disgust, saw it, to his surprise, bound into the hands of Wayne.
Unseen of the trainer, Wayne had signalled to the fielder with
upraised hand. Mr. Slattery grunted, accepted the ball and sent it
sailing forth again. After that it was Wayne who caught the throw-in
each time, taking it on the bound, and who tossed it lightly to the
batter. The latter accepted the service silently, doubtless glad to
have it performed for him and not troubling about the performer’s
identity. But, looking across to the plate once, Wayne found Manager
Milburn observing him curiously, perhaps wondering where he had seen
him before. That the manager did not remember him seemed evident a few
minutes later when the players were called in and someone reported that
the second base bag had broken away. Mr. Milburn called to the trainer.
“Jimmy, send in and get a new strap for the second base bag,” he
directed. “Jones says it’s broken.” And when Jimmy Slattery turned to
waddle back to the dressing-room he added: “Send your helper, Jimmy,
and you take them over to the nets.”
“This feller?” asked Jimmy viewing Wayne doubtfully. “You know where
they are?” he inquired.
“I’ll find them, sir,” said Wayne.
“Well, get one, then, like a good feller,” said Jimmy, “and slip it on
the second bag.”
Wayne entered the shed and looked around. There was a table in the
first half-lighted room, and a half-dozen ticket boxes in a row on
the floor. The table held a telephone instrument, some newspapers, a
blotting-pad that looked as though it had been unchanged for many years
and a litter of miscellaneous articles. But there were no base straps
there and Wayne penetrated to the next apartment. This was evidently
the dressing-room, for one side was lined with wooden lockers, most of
them open and displaying the street costumes of the players, and on
the other side were half a dozen showers. Two bare tables occupied the
centre. Three wooden benches about completed the furnishings. One of
the benches held a pile of towels and a box which, containing bottles
and rolls of tape and gauze, exhaled a strong odour of liniment. But
still there were no straps and Wayne returned to the outer room and was
about to acknowledge defeat when his eyes fell on a closet. Although
its door was closed, the key was in the lock, and when he had pulled
it open he found what he was after. There were all sorts of things in
that closet: base bags, bats, boxes of balls, masks, chest protectors,
boxes whose contents he could only guess at, and, finally, a lot of
straps depending from a nail. Wayne took one of the latter, closed the
door as he had found it and went out again.
Everyone had crossed to the further side of the field where the
batting-nets stood, and Wayne took the strap down to second base and
proceeded to fix it in place. When he had finished and had secured the
bag to its spike he went over to Jimmy Slattery, who was coaching the
batters at the nearer net, and held out the broken strap. “What shall I
do with this?” he asked.
“Huh?” asked Jimmy. “Oh, throw it away, kid. Want a job?”
“Yes,” answered Wayne truthfully.
“Get out there then and chase some of those balls,” directed the other.
So Wayne went down the field, discarded his jacket and placed it
against the fence and got to work. It was work, too, for only three of
the players were fielding and they were quite content to let Wayne run
after the hits that went over their heads or got past them. Now and
then Wayne had the fun of trying for a fly. When he did he usually got
it, although he started out with a muff that brought ironical remarks
from the others.
“Open your mouth and let it fall in,” called Fawcett.
“Put your hands up,” advised Briggs facetiously, “and see will the ball
hit ’em, kid!”
But Wayne only smiled as he trotted after the elusive sphere and threw
it to the nearer fielder. The next time the ball did hit his hands and,
moreover, stayed in them, and Briggs was ready with a cheerful “’Ata
boy! Squeeze it!” After that, by common consent, a fly that passed over
the heads of the three players was left to Wayne undisputed.
“Say, Win,” called Briggs once, “you’ll be losing your job first thing
you know. The kid’s clever!”
At first Wayne threw to Briggs or Fawcett or the third fielder, Leary,
and let them peg the ball back to the pitcher, but presently, when he
had stopped a grounder well in, he took courage and threw the ball in
himself and threw it so well that Fawcett turned and regarded him with
new interest.
“Can you do that every time, stranger?” inquired the substitute
outfielder. “’Cause, if you can, you’d better strike the boss for a
job!”
After a while Fawcett, Briggs, and Leary went in to take their turns at
the net and a new trio came out to field. One was “Sailor” O’Neill, the
left fielder, and “Sailor,” sauntering out toward Wayne, observed him
curiously.
“Where’d you come from, kid?” he asked.
“Medfield,” replied Wayne.
“Steve signed you on, has he?”
“Not yet.”
“Is he going to? Are you the fellow ‘Red’ was telling me about?”
“I reckon so,” was the answer. “Mr. Farrel sent me here for a try-out,
but Mr. Milburn says he don’t need me.”
“Huh! One of Chris’ finds, eh? Well, he picks a good ’un now and then;
about once in three years. Keep after him, kid. He’ll come across all
right.”
Further conversation was interrupted by a sizzling grounder that
reminded “Sailor” of his duties.
The morning’s work-out ended with practice on the bases and Wayne
went back to the bench. He didn’t have it to himself now, for Jimmy
Slattery, very warm and puffing from his recent exertions, was
there, as were four of the pitching staff, “Hop” Nye amongst them.
“Hop” recognised Wayne and nodded. The others viewed him with mild
curiosity. Only Jimmy challenged his presence there.
“How do you happen to be in here, kid?” he asked when Wayne had seated
himself on the bench.
“I’m waiting for a try-out,” answered the boy as casually as he could.
“Mr. Farrel sent me.”
“Oh.” But the trainer was still evidently puzzled. After a minute,
spent in surreptitious examination of the boy, he inquired with a trace
of sarcasm: “And what might you be? A pitcher or a catcher or what?”
“Infielder, sir. Second baseman, for choice.”
“Huh! You’ve got a choice, have you? That’s fine! What’s the boss say?”
“He hasn’t decided yet.”
Nye, who had overheard the conversation, leaned forward and spoke to
the trainer. “He’s all right, Jimmy,” said “Hop.” “Chris sent him up
and Steve won’t give him a look-over. _Says_ he won’t, anyway. What’s
your name, kid?”
“Sloan, sir.”
“Well, Sloan, you take my advice and keep right after him. You’ll have
to if you want to get anything out of him. Ain’t that so, Jimmy?”
“It’s true as true, my boy. I don’t see, though, what for Chris Farrel
sent us an infielder. Can you hit the ball any?”
“I--yes, sir, a little.”
“A little won’t get you anything, my boy. What the boss is lookin’ for
is fellers as can swing on ’em hard. Still and all, I ain’t saying you
mightn’t develop if Steve’ll take you on. Who was you playing with
last?”
“Medfield,” answered Wayne.
“Medfield? I never heard of them,” pondered the trainer.
“It’s an amateur team, sir.”
“Ah, that’s it, eh? You’re one o’ them gentlemen amachoors, are you?
Well, Joe, here, was one o’ them things himself till I found him. ’Twas
me that rescued him from a life of crime.”
Joe Casey turned a tanned countenance and grinned along the bench.
“When you found me, Jimmy,” he said, “I was playin’ with a bunch that
knew baseball, take it from me. That team could give us two runs an
inning and beat us without trying.”
“Yah!” said Jimmy disdainfully. “Listen to him, fellers! When I first
set my eyes on that guy he was playing toss with a bunch of these here
Willie Boys, and all dolled up in fancy togs like a moving-picture
hero! Wore a silk shirt, he did! And every time he steps gracefully to
the box a lot of his sissy friends waves little pink flags and cheers
right out loud for him! Say, believe me, fellers, it was killing!”
“That’s all right,” responded Casey, with a laugh. “That same bunch
of Willie Boys could play ball some! We were the champs three years
running, old scout!”
“I know, but them girls’ schools is easy to beat,” replied Jimmy, with
a wink at Wayne. The others on the bench laughed and Jimmy pulled
himself to his feet. “Kid,” he said, “if you want a try-out you’ve got
to make the boss think you’re good. Tell him you fielded for a thousand
and batted for seven hundred. He won’t believe you, but he might be
curious to see how you stack up. And keep after him, laddie.”
“Thank you,” answered Wayne. “I mean to.”