MR. MILBURN PROMISES
June took a shining half-dollar from his pocket and slipped it along
the counter. Wayne examined it questioningly.
“Mister Milburn done give me that,” chuckled June. “An’ all I done was
jus’ fetch him some seegars from the news-stand.”
“You mean he tipped you a whole half-dollar for that?” marvelled Wayne.
June nodded. “Yes, sir, that’s all I done. He say, ‘Boy, fetch me two
seegars from the news-stand. Tell them they’s for Mister Milburn an’
they’ll know what you want.’ An’ he give me a dollar bill an’ they was
seventy-five cents change an’ he say, ‘Where you come from? I ain’
seen you before, has I?’ An’ I say, ‘No, sir, you ain’. I’m the new
bell boy, sir, an’ anytime you wants anythin’ done partic’lar jus’ you
asks for June.’ He sorter laughed an’ say as how he’s goin’ remember,
an’ asks me where did I come from, an’ I tell him I come from Colquitt
County, Georgia, an’ he say he knows Colquitt County ’cause he was to a
trainin’ camp down thataway once.” June paused long enough to transfer
some of the contents of his plate to his mouth, and then, heedful of
his companion’s mandate regarding conversation and a full mouth, waited
another moment before continuing. “We got on fine, him an’ me, Mas’
Wayne. He’s a right sociable gen’leman, yes, sir.”
Wayne laughed. “I reckon that half-dollar was for your conversation,
June, and not for the errand. Did you tell him you came here from
Medfield?”
June shook his head innocently. “He ain’ ask me that.”
“Well, you made a good start. Do you like the work, June?”
“Yes, sir, it’s a right promisin’ place. Lot’s o’ free-spendin’
gen’lemen at that yere hotel. Reckon I’m goin’ do better’n I did at
the Union. I gets four dollars a week. They works you longer, though,
’cause I got to get there at six in the mornin’ an’ I don’ get through
till six in the evenin’.”
“Why, that’s twelve hours, June!”
“Yes, sir, but the more I’m aroun’ there the more I’m goin’ to put
in my jeans. I made a dollar an’ ten cents today, Mas’ Wayne; an’
I’d a done better’n that if them other boys hadn’ tried to friz me
out. There’s four of them, an’ one’s a big yaller boy with a mean
disposition. I reckon,” June added thoughtfully, “I’ll jus’ have to lam
him good before he quits foolin’ with me!”
“You’d better not,” cautioned Wayne. “This isn’t Medfield, and they
might fire you if they found you fighting.”
“They ain’ goin’ to fin’ me. I’m goin’ do it where they won’ know
nothin’ about it. How come them other gen’lemen pesker us like they
done today, Mas’ Wayne?”
“What other gentlemen? Oh, you mean the Damascus club. We just couldn’t
hit them any more than they could hit us, June. You see Mr. Milburn
pitched Nick Crane and so the Damascus manager put in Woodworth, their
best man, and it was a pitchers’ battle right through the whole eleven
innings. If Bennett hadn’t stolen home from third with two out in the
eleventh I reckon they’d be playing yet. I’d like to have seen that
steal. It must have been a dandy!”
“Sure must! That gives us three games to their two, don’ it? Reckon
we’ll win the one tomorrow, Mas’ Wayne?”
“I don’t know. I heard that they’re going to use a fellow named Ripley,
and they say he’s almost as good as Woodworth. He’s a spit-ball
pitcher.”
“I am’ never see nobody pitch one of them yere spit-balls,” said June.
“Who goin’ pitch for us, sir?”
“I suppose it will be Nye. It’s his turn, I think. Either Nye or
Cotton. I reckon if Damascus plays the way she played today tomorrow’s
game is going to be worth seeing.”
“Why don’ you-all go an’ see it, Mas’ Wayne?”
“Can’t afford it, June. We’ve been here a week now and----”
“You ain’ got to ’ford it,” chuckled June. “Mister Milburn say if I
want to see a game jus’ let him know an’ he goin’ pass me in. I’ll ask
him about it tomorrow an’ you can take the ticket.”
“He wouldn’t want you to give it to anyone else, June. Maybe I’ll try
walking in past Mike at the players’ gate. I don’t believe he would
stop me, and I don’t believe anyone would mind, because I’ve helped a
good deal out there in the mornings, June.”
“Sure you has, Mas’ Wayne! You got a perfec’ly good right to see them
games, yes, sir.”
Wayne exhibited his stepfather’s letter then and June, after he had
slowly puzzled through it, snorted with disgust. “Ain’ that like him,
Mas’ Wayne, sir? Ain’ it jus’ _like_ him? Firs’ thing he thinks of is
money! I can’ ever say jus’ what I thinks of that gen’leman ’cause
he’s a sort o’ relation o’ yours, Mas’ Wayne, but I certainly does do a
heap o’ thinkin’!”
“Anyway, he intends to let me alone, June, and that’s what I wanted.
As for money, why, he will have to give me some when I’m twenty-one
because mother left me almost twelve hundred dollars and he only has it
in trust.”
“Reckon he ain’ wishin’ for you-all to remember that,” replied June,
shaking his head. “An’ if I was you, Mas’ Wayne, I’d write to Lawyer
Ackerman an’ tell him to keep a mighty sharp watch on that yere
stepdaddy of yours, yes, sir!”
“He can’t very well run off with the farm, June,” laughed Wayne, “and
as long as that’s there I reckon I can always get my money.”
June was passing along the second floor corridor of the Congress House
the next morning, laden with a number of empty ice-water pitchers and
crooning a song, when a door opened and Mr. Milburn confronted him.
“Boy! Run down and get me a Philadelphia paper. Any one will do. Oh, is
that you, January?”
“No, sir, Mister Milburn, I ain’ January yet, sir; I’m jus’ June.”
“Well, all right, June,” chuckled the manager. “Hustle up that paper.
I’ve got a dime here that’s looking for a home.”
“Yes, sir, don’ you do nothin’ with it till I returns,” answered June,
sprinting for the stairs.
When he came back and knocked on the door and was told to enter Mr.
Milburn was seated at a table clipping things from various newspapers
and pasting them in a huge scrapbook. “That’s the boy,” he said, “and
here’s your dime, June. How did they come to call you June, eh?”
“’Tain’ really June, sir, it’s Junius; Junius Brutus Bartow Tasker is
my full name, Mister Milburn.”
“‘Full’ is good! Going out to see my boys play today, Junius Brutus
And-so-forth?”
“I can’ get off today, sir, but I got a friend that would like powerful
much to see that game.”
“Oh, I’m not proposing to supply your friends with tickets, boy. Hasn’t
this friend got a quarter?”
“Yes, sir, but he’s needin’ all the quarters he’s got, jus’ like me,
sir.”
“Oh, all right.” Mr. Milburn produced a slip of paper and scrawled a
hurried signature on it. “There you are. Tell him to show that to the
man at the ticket office and he will fix him out. Haven’t you seen my
club play yet?”
“Once, Mister Milburn. We seen ’em lick those Billies last--last
Friday, I reckon it was. An’ we seen some ball playin’! Yes, sir, we
surely did so!”
“Who are ‘we’? You and this friend of yours?”
“Yes, sir. He ain’ exac’ly a friend, though.”
“Isn’t he?” Mr. Milburn turned the pages of the paper June had brought
him and hurriedly scanned them. “Isn’t an enemy, is he?”
“No, sir, he’s--he’s my boss.”
“Your boss? What do you mean by that?” The manager dropped the paper to
the floor, glanced at his watch and turned an amused gaze on the boy.
“Well, sir, he’s Mas’ Wayne Sloan, sir, an’ the Sloans is quality down
in Colquitt County. You see, Mas’ Wayne’s mother she up an’ die ’bout
three-four years ago an’ this yere stepdaddy of his ain’ no earthly
’count, no, sir, he ain’. He jus’ pesker Mas’ Wayne somethin’ fierce
till him an’ me we jus’ lit out an’ come up North here.”
“Sloan?” inquired Mr. Milburn. “He’s a white boy, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sloan, eh? Look here, that isn’t the kid that Farrel sent to me for a
try-out, is it? A dark-haired chap with----”
“Yes, sir, that’s Mas’ Wayne. How come you-all ain’ given him that
yere try-out yet, sir?”
“Because he’s an infielder, June, and we don’t need infielders. I told
him that days ago, but he’s still hanging around, I see.”
“Yes, sir, we’re waitin’.”
“Well, I’m afraid waiting won’t do him any good, June. You’d better
tell him so. I like the kid’s perseverance, but he’s wasting his time.
If he was a couple of years older and could play a little I’d give him
a chance.”
“Yes, sir, an’ I reckon he’s goin’ be a couple years older if you-all
don’ hurry up!” June’s grin robbed the statement of offence. “Mister
Milburn, please, sir, can I tell you somethin’?”
“Go ahead, June.”
“Well, sir, Mas’ Wayne’s surely one fine ball player,” said June
earnestly, “an’ you-all ain’ actin’ sensible if you don’ grab him, sir.”
“Oh, that’s just your idea of him, June,” was the good-natured reply.
“We get dozens like him every spring, fellows fresh from high school or
college who think that if they can hold a ball when it’s thrown to them
they’re regular Big Leaguers.”
“How come this yere Mr. Farrel done send him over here, sir?”
“Oh, Farrel plays it safe, June. He has instructions to pick up
anything that looks good and ship him over for me to see. But he isn’t
supposed to rob the nurseries. We can’t use them until they’re grown
up.”
“Well, sir, seems like this yere Mister Farrel ain’ actin’ jus’ right.
He done tell Mas’ Wayne how you goin’ give him a try-out an’ all, an’
Mas’ Wayne he give up his position in Medfield an’ now ain’ nothin’
’tall come of it. It don’ seem jus’ right, sir, does it? Mas’ Wayne he
’lows we’s goin’ stay right here till he gets that yere try-out, yes,
sir, but we ain’ got but about fifty dollars an’ that ain’ goin’ to
last forever, is it? Please, sir, Mister Milburn, I wish you’d jus’
give him that ol’ try-out, sir, an’ then, if he don’ act good, we knows
where we’re at! Couldn’ you jus’ do that, please, sir?”
The manager frowned impatiently, slapped the scrapbook shut, opened it
again, and once more looked at his watch. June observed him anxiously
but continued to smile. Perhaps it was that smile that decided the
question, for Mr. Milburn saw it and the corners of his own mouth began
to go up, and presently he laughed.
“All right, June,” he said. “He shall have his try-out. Maybe tomorrow.
By the first of the week, anyway. You can tell him so. And you can tell
him he owes it to you. Mostly, at any rate.” The manager arose. “Maybe
I’d have given it to him anyhow sooner or later, just to get rid of
him!” he added grumblingly. He turned with pretended ferocity on June.
“You got that dime, didn’t you?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir, thanky, sir.”
“Well, what are you waiting for then? Beat it! Get out of here before
you think up any more hard-luck stories! Here, give me that pass!”
June yielded it and the manager tore it in half and dropped the pieces
on the floor. “Tell Sloan I said he was to go in the players’ gate. I
guess he’s earned the right to see one game. Now get out of here, you
black nuisance!”
“Yes, sir,” replied June, grinning from ear to ear. “Thanky, sir. Hope
you wins your game, sir.”
“Hope you get your wish, June! You don’t happen to own a rabbit’s foot,
do you? One of the lucky sort, I mean.”
“No, sir, I ain’ got no rabbit’s foot, but you-all’s goin’ win today,
Mister Milburn, yes, sir! I goin’ put a conjur on that yere game!”
“You and your conjurs!” laughed the other. “We’ll see, though, and if
we don’t win--well, you’d better keep out of my reach, boy.”
“Yes, sir,” chuckled June from the doorway, “if we don’ win I’m goin’
give you the whole sidewalk!”
June, however, had no chance to give Mr. Milburn’s message to Wayne,
for Wayne did not come around to the hotel and June’s duties prevented
him from seeking him at noon hour. June got his dinners at the hotel,
which meant a saving of thirty cents a day, but he wasn’t allowed
much time to eat them in. Consequently it was with the intention of
walking boldly past Mike, the gate-man, that Wayne started out for the
field that afternoon. Yesterday’s close contest, and the fact that
today’s encounter was the last with the Damascus club at Harrisville
until after the home team’s swing around the circle which began next
week, had combined to awaken a more than usual amount of interest in
the afternoon’s game and the cars that buzzed and clanged their way
past Wayne were filled to the running-boards. It was evident that the
attendance at the park today would assume holiday proportions, and,
too, that the railway company had, in spite of extra cars, failed to
accommodate all who wanted to ride. Wayne had started early, hoping
to get there about the time the players went in and trusting to the
good offices of “Red” Herring or some other acquaintance to gain him
admittance should Mike prove obdurate, but the players had passed him
long ago in their car and it lacked but twenty minutes of starting time
when he got within distant sight of the park.
It was then that he noticed that the trolley cars were blocked
somewhere ahead. The passengers were jumping off and starting the
rest of the journey afoot, but Wayne thought nothing of it until the
imperative clang of an ambulance bell sounded on his ears and he turned
to watch the vehicle dash hurriedly past, scattering pedestrians to
right and left. Before Wayne had covered the next two squares, the
ambulance passed again, speeding now in the direction of town, with a
white-garbed doctor swaying on the steps.
“Reckon someone got smashed up,” reflected Wayne, walking a little
faster. The folks about him were audibly conjecturing on the accident
but no one seemed to know anything about it, and it was not until
Wayne had reached the corner of an intersecting street a square from
the ball grounds that he learned the facts. The brakes on one of the
cars had failed to work and, since there was a down-grade just here,
it had crashed into the rear of a car ahead. The two cars were there
for evidence, both badly crushed as to vestibules. A motorman and two
passengers had been badly injured, Wayne heard, but no one had been
killed. Several others had been shaken up, but, as Wayne’s informant
added, with a smile, they had gone on into the ball game and so
probably weren’t dangerously injured! That reminded Wayne of his own
purpose and, after pushing his way forward for a curious view of the
damaged cars, he hurried on again and sought the players’ gate. By now
he had determined to see the game in any event. After walking all the
way from town in the hot sun it would be silly to turn back, he told
himself, and he jingled the few coins in his pocket reassuringly.
The door in the high fence was closed but yielded readily to pressure
and Wayne, looking as nonchalant as he knew how, stepped inside. Mike
was standing a few yards away, talking with one of the ground-keepers
and didn’t turn until he heard the creaking of the door as it went shut
on its rusty hinges. When he did turn, though, Wayne saw an expression
of lively interest on his face and paused irresolutely, so certain was
he that Mike meant to deny him admittance. But Mike’s greeting was
startlingly different from what Wayne expected. The door tender took a
step toward him and jerked an impatient thumb over his shoulder.
“Hurry up an’ get in there,” he said. “The boss is lookin’ for you!”