Title: First Base Faulkner
Author: Mathewson, Christy
Language: English
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                          FIRST BASE FAULKNER



[Illustration: Sensing a mix-up, Joe held the ball and raced for second
base]



                          First Base Faulkner

                                  BY
                           CHRISTY MATHEWSON

                               AUTHOR OF
                            CATCHER CRAIG,
                         PITCHER POLLOCK, Etc.


                            ILLUSTRATED BY
                           CHARLES M. RELYEA


                            [Illustration]


                           GROSSET & DUNLAP
                       PUBLISHERS      NEW YORK



                          Copyright, 1916, by
                     DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.



CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                            PAGE
      I  THE NEW HOME                  3
     II  JOE LOOKS FOR WORK           16
    III  AUNT SARAH IS SURPRISED      28
     IV  JOE FINDS A FRIEND           45
      V  HOCKEY AND JUST TALK         59
     VI  JOE HAS AN IDEA              74
    VII  PARTNERS                     86
   VIII  MR. CHESTER YOUNG           102
     IX  IN THE BASEBALL CAGE        117
      X  STRIKING A BALANCE          130
     XI  HANDSOME FRANK              138
    XII  OUTDOOR PRACTICE            151
   XIII  THE FIRST GAME              161
    XIV  A TRY-OUT AT FIRST          178
     XV  BUSTER DROPS OUT            190
    XVI  FOLEY IS WORRIED            208
   XVII  IN THE TWELFTH INNING       221
  XVIII  EMPTY BOXES                 233
    XIX  JOE ACCEPTS A LOAN          243
     XX  PURSUIT                     258
    XXI  ON THE WEST-BOUND           265
   XXII  THE AMATEUR DETECTIVE       278
  XXIII  “BATTER UP!”                296
   XXIV  BUNCHED HITS                307
    XXV  A DOUBLE UNASSISTED         317



ILLUSTRATIONS


 Sensing a mix-up, Joe held the ball and raced for second
   base (Page 327)                                     _Frontispiece_

                                                              FACING
                                                                PAGE

 Joe found himself still in the company of Strobe                 54

 “He thinks he’s a pretty swell little dresser, Foley does”      214

 “_What!_” squealed Young. “You ain’t a――a――――”                  290



FIRST BASE FAULKNER



CHAPTER I

THE NEW HOME


“Lucky” Faulkner arrived in Amesville, Ohio, shortly before seven
o’clock of a cold morning in the first week of January. He wasn’t known
as “Lucky” then, and he certainly didn’t look especially fortunate as
he stepped from train to platform and blinked drowsily at this first
sight of the strange city that was to be his new home. He had travelled
nearly six hours in a day-coach, sleeping fitfully with his head on the
arm of the car seat, and his clothes were creased, his hair rumpled
and his face tired and pale under its coating of train dust. He wore a
good-looking gray ulster and a cap to match, and carried a big valise
whose sides bulged tremendously and which bore the inscription “J. C.
F.” in neat old English characters.

On the platform he set the bag down, took a trunk-check from a pigskin
purse and gazed inquiringly about him. The passengers who had left the
warmth of the cars had hurried to the restaurant to make the most of
the ten minutes allowed them for breakfast, and it was much too early
in the day for loiterers. It was a boy of about his own age――which was
sixteen――who, stopped in his mad career of dragging a mail-sack along
the platform, supplied information.

“Huh? Expressman? Sure! Around back. Ask for Gus Tenney.”

Gus, a small, crabbed-looking negro, was loading a huge sample-trunk
into a ramshackle dray when discovered.

“I’ve got a trunk on this train,” said the new arrival. “Will you take
it to Miss Teele’s, on Brewer Street, please? And how much will it be?”

“Brewer Street? What’s the number, Boss?”

“One-twenty-eight.”

“Fifty cents, Boss.”

“I’ll give you a quarter. Can you get it there by eight?”

“I can’t tote no trunk ’way up to Brewer Street for no quarter, Boss.
You’ll have to get someone else to do it.”

“All right. Is there anyone else around?”

“Don’t see anyone, Boss. Reckon I’se the only one here.”

“Will you take my trunk up there first and let me ride along with you?”

“I got to deliver this to the Commercial House first, Boss.”

“How far is that from Brewer Street?”

“’Most a mile.”

“And Brewer Street’s near the City Hall, isn’t it?”

“Well, it ain’t so mighty far.”

“And the Commercial House is near the City Hall, too, isn’t it?”

“Look here, Boss,” said the negro peevishly, “maybe you-all knows my
business better’n I do and maybe you don’t. I got to deliver this trunk
right away ’cause the gentleman’s waitin’ for it.”

“All right. Don’t let me keep you, then.”

“Well, you give me that check an’ I’ll get your trunk up just as soon
as I can, Boss.”

“No, I’ll wait for someone else. It isn’t worth more than a quarter.”

The negro hesitated and muttered as he gave the sample-trunk a final
shove. Then: “All right, Boss, I’ll do it. Seems like folks nowadays
don’t want anyone to make a livin’, I ’clare to goodness it does!”

“Will you get it there by eight?”

“I’ll get it there in half an hour, Boss, if that old mare of mine
keeps on her feet. It’s powerful mean goin’ today, with so much snow.”

The boy yielded his check, saw his trunk put on the dray, and, after
getting directions from the negro, trudged across Railroad Avenue and
turned eastward past the row of cheap stores and tenement houses that
faced the tracks. There had been a good deal of snow since Christmas
and it was still piled high between sidewalk and street. Overhead a
gray morning sky threatened more, and there was a nip in the air that
made the boy set his bag down before he had traversed a block and slip
on a pair of woollen gloves. Behind him a door opened and an appealing
odour of coffee and cooking was wafted out to him. As he took up his
valise again he looked wistfully through the frost-framed window of
the little eating-house and mentally counted up his change. Evidently
the result prohibited refreshment, for he went on, the heavy valise
dragging and bumping as he walked, and at last turned the corner and
struck northward. Here, after a short distance, the buildings became
comfortable homes, many of them surrounded by grounds of some extent.
From chimneys the gray smoke was ascending in the frosty air and now
and then the tantalising vision of a breakfast table met his sight. The
sidewalks hereabouts had been cleaned of snow and walking was easier,
something the boy was heartily glad of since that valise was gaining
in weight at every step.

It was not, he was thinking as he trudged along, a very inspiriting
morning on which to arrive in a strange place. Perhaps if the sun had
been shining Amesville would have seemed less gloomy and inhospitable
to him, but as it was he found nothing to like about the city. On the
contrary, he was convinced that it was far inferior in every way to
Akron and that he would never care for it, no matter how long he stayed
there. However, he forgot to take into consideration the fact that he
was tired and hungry and cold, neglected to realise that almost any
city, approached from its least attractive quarter and viewed in the
dim light of a cloudy Winter morning, looks far from its best.

He set his valise down at a corner, rubbed his chilled fingers, and
went on once more with his burden in the other hand. He was wondering
now what Aunt Sarah would prove to be like. He had never seen her
to remember her, although his mother had tried to recall to his
recollection an occasion when Aunt Sarah had visited them in Akron. But
that had been when he was only four or five years old and his memory
failed him. Aunt Sarah was not a real, bona-fide aunt, for she was
his mother’s half-sister. But she was the closest relative there was
and when it had become necessary to break up the home in Akron it was
Aunt Sarah who had written and offered to take them in. There would be
practically no money left after his father’s affairs had been settled
up and all the bills paid, and Mrs. Faulkner had been very glad to
accept Aunt Sarah’s hospitality for her son. She herself had obtained,
through the influence of a friend of her husband’s, the position of
housekeeper in a hotel in Columbus. Since her son could not be with her
she had decreed that he was to go to Amesville, finish his schooling
there, and remain with Aunt Sarah until enough money had been saved
to allow of the establishment of a new home. He had pleaded hard to
be allowed to leave high school and find work in Columbus, but Mrs.
Faulkner wouldn’t hear of it.

“You may not realise it now, dear,” she had said, “but an education
is something you must have if you are ever to amount to anything. And
there’s just one time to get it, and that’s now. If you study hard
you’ll be through high school next year. You’ll be eighteen, and that’s
quite young enough to start earning a living. Meanwhile Aunt Sarah will
give you a good home, dear. I shall pay her a little, as much as I can
afford, so you needn’t feel that you are accepting charity. You must
try to be nice to her, too. She――she doesn’t always show her best side,
unless she’s changed since I saw her last, but she’s as good as gold,
for all her sharp tongue. And I want you to try and remember that,
dear.”

He recalled the words now and tried to banish the mental picture of
Aunt Sarah which he had unconsciously drawn: a tall, thin, elderly
maiden lady with sharp features and a sharper tongue, dressed in a
gingham gown of no particular colour and wearing a shawl over her
shoulders. But the preconceived vision wouldn’t be dispelled, and
consequently, when a few minutes later, the door of the little yellow
house with chocolate-coloured trimmings opened to his ring and Aunt
Sarah confronted him, he was not a bit surprised. For she was, with the
exception of gingham dress and shawl, so much like what he had imagined
that it was quite as if he had known her for a long time.

“This is Joseph?” she asked as he took off his cap on the threshold.
“You’re late. I’ve been expecting you for a quarter of an hour and
breakfast is stone-cold likely. Come in, please, and don’t keep the
door open. Take your bag right upstairs. It’s the first room to the
left. When you’ve washed, and dear knows you need it, come right down
again. I dislike very much having folks late to their meals.”

During this announcement, uttered levelly in a sharp voice, she shook
hands rather limply, closed the door, pushed the rug straight again
with the toe of a sensible boot and smoothed the front of her black
merino gown. That black gown was the only thing that didn’t fit in
with his picture of her and he rather resented it as, tugging his bag
behind him, he went up the narrow, squeaky staircase. That colourless
gingham he had mentally attired her in would, he thought, have been
less depressing than the black merino.

The room in which he found himself was small, but, in spite of the
cheerless weather outside, bright and homelike. There were some
surprisingly gay cretonne curtains at the two windows, the paper
was blue-and-white in a neat pattern, the brass knobs of the single
bed shone like globes of gold, and Joe noted with approval that the
gaslight was convenient to the old-fashioned mahogany, drop-front
desk. On the table at the head of the bed were three books, disputing
the small surface with a candlestick and a match-safe, and while he
hurriedly prepared for breakfast he stole time to examine the titles.
“Every Boy’s Handy Book,” he read, “Self-Help,” “Leather Stocking
Tales.” He smiled as he turned away. On the walnut bureau――it had a
marble slab and an oval mirror and a lidded box at each side――was a
Bible. He made a quick toilet and returned downstairs. A pleasant
fragrance of coffee guided him to the dining-room. Aunt Sarah was
already in place and a large black cat was asleep on a chair between
the windows.

“That will be your place,” said Miss Teele, indicating a chair across
the table with a nod. “Do you eat oatmeal?”

“Yes, ma’am, thanks,” replied Joe as he settled himself and opened
his napkin. Aunt Sarah helped him and passed the dish. A glass
percolator was bubbling at her elbow and, after serving the oatmeal,
she extinguished the alcohol flame underneath and poured a generous and
fragrant cup of coffee. Joe ate hungrily and finished his oatmeal in a
trice. He would have liked more, but none was offered. Then an elderly,
stoop-shouldered woman entered with a quick, curious glance at Joe from
a pair of faded eyes and deposited a platter of bacon and eggs before
her mistress.

“This is Mildred Faulkner’s boy, Amanda,” announced Miss Teele. “You
may hand the coffee, please.”

Amanda nodded silently in reply to Joe’s murmured “How do you do?” and
quickly departed, to return a moment later with a toast-rack. Joe had
never seen toast served that way before and was viewing it interestedly
when Aunt Sarah, having served him with a generous helping of bacon and
a fried egg, and tasted her coffee, remarked:

“You’ll find the food here plain but wholesome, Joseph. And I guess
you’ll always get enough. If you don’t I want you to tell me. I don’t
hold with skimping on food. How’s your mother?”

“Quite well, thank you. She goes to Columbus today.”

Aunt Sarah sniffed. “Going to be a housekeeper at a hotel, she wrote
me. A nice occupation, I must say, for a Teele!”

“There didn’t seem to be much else,” replied Joe.

“She might have come to me. I offered her a home. But she always was
dreadfully set and independent. Well, I hope she don’t regret it. How
was it your father didn’t leave anything when he died?”

“I don’t know, Aunt Sarah. We always thought there was plenty of money
before. But there were a good many bills, and the paper hadn’t been
paying very well for a year or two, and so――――”

“I told your mother when she was so set on marrying John Faulkner that
he’d never be able to provide for her. I’m not surprised.”

“But he did provide for my mother,” replied Joe indignantly. “We always
had everything we wanted.”

“You haven’t got much now, have you? Giving your folks all they want
while you’re alive and leaving them without a cent when you die isn’t
exactly my idea of providing.” Aunt Sarah sniffed again. “Not that I
had anything against your father, though. I always liked him. What I
saw of him, that is, which wasn’t much. He just wasn’t practical. Are
you like him?”

“Folks say I look like him,” said Joe coldly. He felt resentful of Aunt
Sarah’s criticism.

“So you do, but I guess you’ve got more spunk than he ever had. You’ll
need it. When do you propose to start in school?”

“As soon as I can. I thought I’d go and see the principal this morning.”

“The sooner the better, I guess. Idleness never gets a body anywhere.
Will you have another egg?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m glad you haven’t got a finicky appetite.” She added bacon to the
egg and pushed the toast-rack nearer. “Will you have another cup of
coffee?” Joe would and said so. It seemed to him that he would never
get enough to eat, which, considering that he hadn’t had anything since
six o’clock the night before wasn’t surprising. Aunt Sarah nibbled at a
piece of toast and sipped her coffee and was silent. Joe felt that he
ought to attempt conversation and presently said:

“You have a very pleasant home, Aunt Sarah.”

“I’m not complaining any,” was the brief response.

A minute later he happened to look up and caught her gaze. He may
have been mistaken, but it seemed to him that she was regarding
his performance with knife and fork quite approvingly. When he had
finished, Aunt Sarah said grace, which to Joe’s thinking was turning
things around, and arose.

“I suppose you brought a trunk with you?” she questioned.

“Yes, ma’am, and it ought to be here. The expressman said he would get
it around by eight.”

“Like as not it was Gus Tenney,” said Aunt Sarah. “If it was it won’t
get here until afternoon, I guess. He’s the most worthless, shiftless
negro in town.” But Aunt Sarah, for once, did the coloured gentleman
an injustice, for even as she finished he backed his team up to the
sidewalk. “You show him where to put it,” she instructed, “and tell him
to be careful and not bump the walls. And don’t pay him a cent more
than a quarter of a dollar, Joseph. Have you got any money?”

“Yes, ma’am, thanks.”

Aunt Sarah, who had begun to look around in a mildly distracted way for
her purse, stopped and said “Hmph!” Then, “Well, don’t you give him
more than a quarter, now!”

Five minutes later Joe was unpacking his belongings and whistling quite
merrily. After all, things weren’t so bad, he reflected. Aunt Sarah was
cross-grained beyond a doubt, but she gave a fellow plenty to eat!

“And good eats, too!” he murmured contentedly.



CHAPTER II

JOE LOOKS FOR WORK


“Joseph Faulkner?” inquired Mr. Dennison, the high school principal.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m very glad to meet you, Faulkner.” They shook hands and Mr.
Dennison pulled a chair nearer the big, broad-topped desk. “Sit down,
please. You wrote me a week or so ago from Akron, I believe, and
enclosed a letter from your principal, Mr. Senter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have it here, I think.” Mr. Dennison searched for a moment in
the file at his elbow and drew forth the two communications pinned
together. He read Mr. Senter’s letter again and nodded.

“I see,” he murmured. “Now tell me something about yourself, my boy.
Your father has died recently?”

“Yes, sir, in November.”

“I’m very sorry. I think now I recall reading of his death in the
paper. He was the editor of the _Enterprise_, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. He owned the paper, too. That is, most of it.”

“Your mother is alive, I trust?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you have brothers and sisters?”

“No, sir; there’s only me.”

“I see. I rather expected your mother would call with you, Faulkner.
It’s the customary thing. We rather like to meet the pupils’ parents
and get in touch with them, so to speak. Possibly your mother, however,
was not feeling well enough to accompany you this morning.”

“She isn’t here, sir. She’s in Columbus. You see, father didn’t leave
much money and so she――she took a position in Columbus and sent me here
to live with an aunt, a Miss Teele, on Brewer Street. Mother wants
me to finish high school. I thought I’d ought to go to work, but she
wouldn’t let me.”

“Dear, dear!” said Mr. Dennison sympathetically. “Most unfortunate!
Well, I think your mother is quite right, my boy. You’ll be better
fitted to face the――er――the responsibilities of life if you have
supplied yourself with an education. Hm! Yes. Now, let me see. I gather
from what your former principal writes that you have been a very
steady, hard-working student. You like to study and learn, Faulkner?”

“Yes, sir. That is, I like to study some things. And, of course, I want
to learn. Mr. Senter said he thought there wouldn’t be any trouble
about my getting into the junior class here, sir. I’ve only missed
about seven weeks.”

“I see.” Mr. Dennison thoughtfully folded the letters in his hands,
observing Joe the while. What he saw prepossessed him in the boy’s
favour. Joe was large for his age, sturdy without being heavy, and
had the healthful colouring and clear eyes of a youth who had divided
his time fairly between indoors and out. You wouldn’t have called him
handsome, perhaps, for his nose wasn’t at all classic, being rather of
the tip-tilted variety, and his chin was a bit too square to meet the
Greek standard of beauty. Perhaps it was the chin that had suggested
spunk to Aunt Sarah. Anyhow, it suggested it to Mr. Dennison. In fact,
the whole face spoke of eager courage, and the gray eyes looked out
with a level directness that proclaimed honesty. For the rest, he had
light-brown hair, so light that one hesitated at calling it brown, but
had to for want of a better description, a forehead that matched the
chin in breadth and gave the face a square look, and a mouth that, no
matter how serious the rest of the countenance was, seemed on the point
of breaking into a smile. On the whole, summed up the principal, a
healthy, honest, capable appearing boy, and one likely to be heard from.

“Yes,” said Mr. Dennison after a moment’s silence, “yes, I think the
junior class is where you belong. At least, we’ll try you there. I
don’t want to set you back unless it’s quite necessary. You may have to
work hard for a month or so to catch up, but I think you can do it. How
old are you, Faulkner?”

“Sixteen, sir, on the fourth of last August.” Other questions were
asked and answered and the answers were entered on a filing card. Then:

“Can you start in tomorrow?” asked the principal.

“Yes, sir, I’d like to.”

“Very well. Then in the morning report in Room D to Mr. Whalen. School
takes in at eight-thirty. Here is a list of books and materials you’ll
need, many of which you doubtless have already. Any books or stationery
you need can be obtained at the outer office. Books may be purchased
outright or rented, as you please. That’s all, I think. I hope you’ll
like us here, Faulkner. You must get acquainted with the other boys,
you know, and then you’ll feel more at home. Come and see me in a day
or two and tell me how you are getting on. And if there’s anything you
want to know or if there’s any help you need don’t hesitate to apply to
Mr. Jonson, my assistant, or to me.” Mr. Dennison shook hands again and
Joe, armed with the printed list of books and materials, expressed his
thanks and passed out into the corridor. A gong had sounded a moment
before and the stairways and halls were thronged with students. No one,
however, paid any attention to Joe and he left the big building and
walked across the town to Main Street and turned southward, his eyes
busy as he went.

The sky was still gray and Main Street was ankle-deep in yellow-brown
slush, and Amesville did not, perhaps, look its best even yet. But the
buildings, if not so fine as those of Akron, were solid and substantial
for the most part, and the stores presented enticing windows and
leavened the grayness with colour and brightness. It seemed, he
decided, a busy, bustling little city――he had already ascertained that
it boasted a population of twenty-five thousand and the honor of being
the county seat――and it didn’t require any great effort of imagination
to fancy himself back in Akron.

Joe not only observed but he studied, and for a reason. To let you into
a secret which he had so far confided to no one, Joe had no intention
of allowing his mother to pay Aunt Sarah for his board and lodging for
very long. He meant to find some sort of work that he could perform
before and after school hours. What it was to be he did not yet know,
although there was one job he expected to be able to secure if nothing
more promising offered. He was fairly certain, although his mother
had not taken him into her confidence to that extent, that hotel
housekeepers did not receive munificent wages, and he realised that his
mother, used to having practically every comfort money could buy, would
find it hard enough to get on without having to send a part of her
monthly salary to Aunt Sarah.

The job that he felt pretty certain of obtaining was that of delivering
newspapers. Joe was well enough acquainted with the newspaper business
to know that it was always difficult for circulation managers to find
boys enough to keep the routes covered. He had had some experience
of the kind, for when he was in grammar school he had delivered the
_Enterprise_ all one Summer and part of a Winter, until, in fact,
a chronic condition of wet feet caused his mother to interfere. His
father had not at any time approved of the proceeding, for Mr. Faulkner
had been a man of position in Akron and it had seemed to him that in
carrying a newspaper route Joe was performing labor beneath him and,
perhaps, casting aspersions on the financial and social standing of
Mr. John Faulkner. Joe had had to beg long for permission and his
father had agreed with ill-grace. The fun had soon worn off, but Joe
had kept on with the work long after his chum, who had embarked in
the enterprise with him, had given up. It didn’t bring in much money,
and Joe didn’t need what it did bring, since his father was lavishly
generous in the matter of pocket-money. It was principally the fact
that his father had predicted that he would soon tire of it that kept
him doggedly at it when the cold weather came. Getting up before light
and tramping through snow and slush to toss twisted-up papers into
doorways soon became the veriest drudgery to the fourteen-year-old boy,
and only pride prevented him from crying quits. When, finally, wet
boots and continual sniffling caused his mother to put her foot down
Joe was secretly very, very glad!

But delivering newspapers wasn’t the work he wanted now, unless he
could find none other, and, as he went down Main Street just before
noon, his eyes and mind were busy with possibilities. To find a
position as a clerk was out of the question, since he wouldn’t be able
to work during the busiest hours. Some labor that he might perform
after school in the afternoon and during the evening was what he hoped
to find. And so, as he passed a store or an office, he considered
its possibilities. He paused for several minutes in front of one of
the big windows of Miller and Tappen’s Department Store, but finally
went on with a shake of his head. If it had been before instead of
after the holidays he might have found employment there as an extra
hand in the wrapping or shipping department, but now they would
more likely be turning help away than taking it on. A drug store on
the corner engaged his attention next, and then a brilliantly red
hardware store across the street, a hardware store that evidently
did a large business in athletic goods if one was to judge by the
attractive display in one broad window. But Joe couldn’t think of any
position in one or the other that he could apply for. Further along,
a handsome new twelve-story structure was nearing completion, and he
stopped awhile to watch operations. It was the only “skyscraper”
in sight and consequently stuck up above the surrounding five- and
six-story edifices like, to use Joe’s metaphor, a sore thumb! It was
a fine-looking building, though, and he found himself feeling a civic
pride in it, quite as though he was already a settled citizen of the
town. Well, for that matter, he told himself, he guessed Amesville
wasn’t such a bad place, after all, and if only he could find a
job that would bring him in enough to pay Aunt Sarah for board and
lodging――――

But at that moment the noon whistle blew, a bell struck twelve
somewhere and Joe turned back toward Brewer Street. Aunt Sarah had
enjoined him to be back before half-past twelve, which was dinner time,
and he recalled her assertion that she disliked having folks tardy at
meals. So his search for employment must wait until later.

His walking had made him hungry again and he viewed veal chops
smothered with tomato sauce and the riced potatoes piled high in the
blue dish and the lima beans beside it with vast approval. There was a
generous plate of graham bread, too, and a pyramid of grape jelly that
swayed every time Amanda crossed the floor. He satisfied Aunt Sarah’s
curiosity as to the interview with the high school principal while
satisfying his own appetite. Aunt Sarah said “Hmph!” and that she’d
heard tell Mr. Dennison was a very competent principal. Thereupon she
went into the past history of the Amesville High School and its heads,
and Joe, diligently addressing himself to the viands, told himself that
his Aunt Sarah seemed astonishingly well informed on the subject. Later
he discovered that Aunt Sarah was well informed on most subjects and
that when it came to town news she was better than a paper!

“I had Amanda bake an apple pudding,” she informed him presently, when
his appetite began to languish. “I guess boys usually like something
sweet to top off with. Do you eat apple pudding?”

“Yes, Aunt. Most any kind of pudding. But don’t you――don’t you go to
any trouble about me, please. I――I can eat whatever there is. I’ve got
a fine old appetite.”

“Hmph! Well, I guess you won’t go hungry here. Not that I intend to
have things much different from usual, though. I don’t hold with
humouring folks’ notions about food. Food is food, I say, so long’s
it’s nourishing and decently cooked. Your mother, though, was always a
great one for strange, outlandish dishes and I suppose you’ll miss ’em.
Well, all I can say is plain food’s what I was brought up on and I’ve
never seen anyone hurt none by eatin’ it. I’ve noticed that folks who
like messed-up dishes generally have dyspepsia and are always doctoring
themselves. Amanda, bring in the pudding.”

Aunt Sarah seemed slightly surprised when, the apple pudding partaken
of, Joe announced that he thought he’d go and have a look around town.
“Well,” she said, “you’re old enough to look after yourself, I suppose,
but for goodness’ sake, don’t go and get run over or anything! Main
Street’s getting to be something awful, what with these automobiles
and all. Seems like a body just has to take his life in his hands when
he goes there nowadays. If those awful things don’t run you down they
scare you to death, and if they can’t do any worse to you they spatter
you with mud. Gracious sakes, I haven’t dared shop on the other side of
Main Street for ’most a year!”

Joe didn’t confide to her his real errand, just why he didn’t exactly
know. Perhaps he had a dim notion that Aunt Sarah wouldn’t approve of
his engaging in work that might keep him away from home at strange
hours of the day or night. She watched his departure doubtfully from
the front door and when he was almost to the corner of the next street
called after him to go to Rice and Perry’s and get himself a pair of
overshoes. “Tell Mr. Perry they’re to be charged to me, and see that he
gives them to you big enough. If you don’t watch him he’ll fit you too
snug and then they’ll wear out right away!”

Joe didn’t obey instructions, however. Somehow he wasn’t yet ready
to become indebted to Aunt Sarah, and, besides, he didn’t need
overshoes to get around today. His boots were heavy-soled and as nearly
waterproof as any “guaranteed waterproof” boots ever are. During the
afternoon he made several inquiries for work. A photographer declined
his offer to do errands after three o’clock in the afternoon, a
haberdasher failed to discern the benefits to accrue――to him――from
giving employment to the applicant, and four other merchants of
different trades answered to similar effect. Just before dusk Joe
sought the office of the Amesville _Recorder_.



CHAPTER III

AUNT SARAH IS SURPRISED


The _Recorder_ was an evening paper and came off the press at half-past
three, and for that reason Joe had made it first choice over its
morning rival, the _Gazette_, which was delivered in the early morning.
Fortunately, he found the circulation manager still on duty when he
reached the office, and although that gentleman, who wore a nervous,
harassed look, scowled upon him fiercely at first, the scowl gradually
faded as Joe stated his mission. Unknown to him, Joe had timed his
application extremely well, since one of the carriers had that very
afternoon been given his dismissal, and it didn’t take more than four
minutes to secure what he was after. The route was not a long one and
paid less than Joe wished it did, but the manager promised to give
him something better if he proved satisfactory and the opportunity
occurred. Joe was supplied with a list of subscribers on Route 6,
told to be on hand promptly next afternoon at three-thirty, and took
himself away well satisfied. The work would bring him only three
dollars a week, which was much less than he believed himself capable of
earning, but the route would take but two hours from the time he left
the newspaper office and he would be through well before supper time.
Besides, Joe had no intention of delivering papers very long. Sooner or
later, he believed, a better chance would offer. Until then, though,
Route 6, with its resultant three dollars a week, would be a heap
better than nothing.

He told Aunt Sarah about it at the supper table and Aunt Sarah,
instead of expressing disapproval, appeared much pleased. Only, she
insisted, the work mustn’t be allowed to interfere with his studies.
Joe assured her that it wouldn’t, since he would have his evenings
free. After supper he went upstairs, opened the mahogany desk and wrote
a long letter to his mother. He tried to make it sound very brave
and cheerful, but I don’t think Mrs. Faulkner had much difficulty in
reading between the lines and reaching the conclusion that Joe was a
little bit homesick and lonely and that he missed her a lot. He told
about his interview with Mr. Dennison and about the employment he had
secured.

“It pays only three dollars,” he wrote, “but it won’t take more than
an hour and a half or two hours and I won’t have to work on Sunday
because the _Recorder_ doesn’t have any Sunday edition. I’m going to
pay two and a half of it to Aunt Sarah every week and so you won’t have
to send her very much, will you? I’d give it all to her, but I guess
I’d better keep a half-dollar out for pocket-money. Then you won’t have
to send me any money. After a while I’m going to get something to do
that will pay me more and maybe then you won’t have to send Aunt Sarah
a cent. Aunt Sarah looks like she would bite my head off if I brought
any dirt into the house on my shoes and she talks mighty crusty, but
I guess she’s a pretty good sort after all. She had Amanda cook me a
bully apple pudding for dinner today. I’m pretty sure she did it on my
account, because she didn’t touch it herself. Amanda is a funny old
woman who does the cooking and so on. She’s about sixty, I guess, and
hasn’t but three or four teeth and sort of mumbles when she talks. When
I say anything to her she looks scared and beats it.

“Mr. Dennison gave me a list of the books I have to have and I’ve got
them all but one. I can rent that and it won’t cost much. I’ve still
got nearly four dollars of what you gave me and you don’t need to send
me any more. I guess I’m going to like this place very much when I get
used to it. Aunt Sarah wanted me to get a pair of overshoes and charge
them to her, but I didn’t like to, and besides my boots are all right
without overshoes. Maybe I’ll get a new pair of rubbers some time. The
ones I brought with me are sort of leaky. But I won’t need any other
things like clothes or shoes or anything for almost a year, I guess, so
you’re not to worry about me.”

He spent all of an hour over that letter and used four sheets of Aunt
Sarah’s old-fashioned blue-ruled paper, and when it was finished and
ready for the mail his watch told him that the time was half-past nine.
He was opening his door to go downstairs and say good-night to Aunt
Sarah when he heard her coming up.

“I hope you’ll have enough covers,” she said as she came to the
doorway. “If you haven’t you’ll find another comfortable on the closet
shelf. Breakfast’s at seven, but if you’re very sleepy tomorrow I guess
it won’t matter much if you don’t come down right on time. Amanda can
keep something hot for you. ’Twon’t hurt her a bit. I suppose you’ll
be wanting a bath every morning, and I haven’t any objection to your
having it, only remember the water’s metered and don’t let the plug
slip out. It’s awful the way they charge for water nowadays! First
thing we know they’ll be putting the air on a meter, too, just as
likely as not! Well, I hope you sleep well and get rested, Joseph.
Good-night.”

“Good-night, Aunt Sarah.” Joe hadn’t had any intention of doing what he
did then, but writing to his mother had left him a little bit lonesome,
and――well, acting on the impulse of the moment, he kissed Aunt Sarah
on the cheek! I fancy he was almost if not quite as surprised as Aunt
Sarah when he had done it. That Aunt Sarah was surprised was very
evident. Indeed, something very like consternation was expressed on her
countenance.

“_Hmph!_” she snorted. “Hmph! Well, I declare!”

Joe, embarrassed himself, drew back over the threshold, smiling
uncertainly. Aunt Sarah, at a loss for further words, stared a moment,
said “Hmph!” again in more thoughtful accents and turned away. But
when she had gone a few steps she paused. “I told Amanda to boil you a
couple of eggs for breakfast,” she announced, “but maybe you don’t care
for eggs. Some folks don’t.”

“Indeed, I do. Thanks.”

“Well, all right, then. I don’t hold with humouring folks with finicky
appetites, but if there’s anything you’d rather have than the eggs――――”

“There isn’t, really. The eggs will be fine!”

“Humph! Good-night.”

Aunt Sarah’s door closed softly down the hall and Joe smiled as he shut
his own.

“I don’t believe she minded it at all,” he murmured. “I guess――I guess
she’s never had very many kisses!”

His first day of school passed without special incident. Several
fellows spoke to him at recess and satisfied their curiosity about
the newcomer, but none of them appealed greatly to Joe and he made no
effort to pursue the acquaintances. At half-past three he was on hand
at the _Recorder_ office, received his bundle of papers, slung them at
his side by a strap which he had bought on the way from school, and
started out. His route began nearly a mile from the newspaper building
and it would have saved time if he had taken a car on Main Street.
But to do that every day would cost him thirty cents, and thirty
cents taken from three dollars leaves quite a hole! So he tramped
the distance instead. He had already studied his route on a map in
a copy of the city directory and so had little difficulty. He did,
however, manage to leave out a block and had to go back to it, but
that wouldn’t happen the next time. The district was one well over on
the west side of town and was inhabited for the most part by factory
workers, although there were a few blocks of more prosperous patrons.
As a general thing the sidewalks were ill paved and held pools of slush
or water, and Joe’s “waterproof” boots belied their reputation by the
time he had tossed the last of his papers on the final porch. But damp
feet didn’t trouble him greatly and he made up his mind to change to
a pair of slippers as soon as he got home. It was quite dark by the
time he reached the little house in Brewer Street and Aunt Sarah had
begun to be concerned, and when he entered the front door, she appeared
quickly from the sitting-room.

“I was beginning to think one of those automobiles had got you,” she
said tartly. “It’s ’most six o’clock.”

“I’m sorry to be so late,” replied Joe, “but it took longer today than
it will the next time. I missed some houses and had to go back.”

“Well, I suppose I don’t need to get anxious about you, but――――” Aunt
Sarah paused, her gaze on his feet. “Joseph Faulkner, look at your
boots!”

“Yes, they’re sort of damp, aren’t they?”

“Sort of damp! Land sakes, they’re sopping wet! You go right upstairs
this very minute and take them off and change your socks and dry your
feet and――and don’t you dare come home tomorrow without those overshoes
I told you to get yesterday! First thing I know you’ll be down with
pneumonia! Tramping around through the slush with nothing on but a pair
of fancy shoes!”

“They’re supposed to be waterproof, Aunt,” said Joe meekly.

“Supposed to be! Maybe they are supposed to be, but they ain’t. Now,
don’t stand there arguing, but do as I say, Joseph. I may not be your
mother, but I guess I know wet shoes when I see them! And I don’t see
why you didn’t get those overshoes like I told you to yesterday.”

“I didn’t feel that I could afford them,” said Joe defensively, “and I
didn’t just like to take them as a gift.”

“Land sakes, you needn’t be so proud, Joseph Faulkner! I guess I’m
your mother’s own half-sister, ain’t I? And if that doesn’t give me
the right to buy a pair of overshoes for you――Hmph! I never heard such
foolishness. You take those wet shoes off directly and I’ll bring you
up a cup of ginger-tea. Fine thing it would be to have you sick on my
hands the very first week you’re here!”

Joe went up, smiling to himself, and obeyed directions. Only, when Aunt
Sarah passed a steaming cup of ginger-tea in to him he didn’t play
quite fair. He gave it a trial, to be sure, but he didn’t like it, and
if Aunt Sarah had been listening she might have heard one of the guest
room windows cautiously raised. Let us hope that the ginger-tea had no
ill effects on Aunt Sarah’s shrubs!

Damp feet did not affect Joe’s appetite, and, watching him eat, Aunt
Sarah dared hope that he was not in for a serious illness!

By Saturday he had settled down into his new life. He was relieved to
find that the few weeks away from school had not put him far behind
and during that first week he proved to his own and Mr. Dennison’s
satisfaction that he really belonged in the junior class. He found much
to like about the school. For one thing, the building, which was fairly
new, was quite a model school structure, with big, broad rooms lighted
by an almost continuous row of high windows through which the sunlight
fairly streamed. Sunlight in classrooms makes for cheerfulness, and
cheerfulness for better work, and better work for more cheerfulness!
That, at least, was the way Joe summed it up. The fellows seemed an
average lot, some nice, some rather objectionable, some neither one
thing nor the other. The same was probably true also of the girls, but
Joe, having no sisters of his own, was shy of girls and didn’t attempt
to decide as to whether they were nice or otherwise.

At home he and Aunt Sarah settled down into a very pleasant
companionship. Although her voice remained as acid as ever, it was
evident to Joe that she was prepared to be fond of him, and that, used
as he was to affection, was sufficient to make him fond of her. She
was sometimes fussily anxious about him, but she didn’t try to govern
his movements, and that he appreciated. Aunt Sarah’s bark, he soon
decided, was far worse than her bite. The newspaper route occupied
his afternoons between school and supper――which was more like dinner,
since he had only a light lunch in the middle of the day――and required
no great effort. On Monday he collected two dollars and a half for the
five days he had worked and handed the amount over to Aunt Sarah. His
board and lodging was, he learned, to cost three dollars a week.

“That,” said Aunt Sarah, “was the arrangement your mother made. I told
her she didn’t need to pay a cent unless she was set on it, but she
wouldn’t let you come unless I’d take some money. So I reckoned that
three dollars would be about right. I’ve never taken a boarder and I
don’t pretend to know. If that seems too much, though, I’d like you to
tell me.”

“It doesn’t seem enough, Aunt,” replied Joe. “I’ll bet I eat more than
three dollars’ worth of food, and that doesn’t leave anything for the
room.”

“I wasn’t calculating to charge for the room. The room’s there and it
might as well be used. I just meant to charge for what you ate, Joseph,
and I guess you won’t eat more’n three dollars’ worth of food a week.”

But that was on Monday, and today was only Saturday, and Joe had a
whole morning to dispose of as he liked. He had been given a fine new
pair of skates Christmas before last and had learned at school that
there was fair skating on the river and on one or two ponds around
town. After breakfast he got his skating boots and skates out of his
trunk and looked them over. The only thing missing was a new lacing,
and so he went across to Main Street in search of the article. But
the shoe store in which he had purchased the overshoes didn’t have a
leather lacing suitable and sent him to Cummings and Wright’s, further
down the street. This, he discovered, was the brilliantly-red hardware
store he had noticed one day. One side of it was given over to athletic
goods and when Joe entered two boys were in conversation across a
counter near the door.

“You can’t get to work too early, Sam,” he heard one of them say as he
drew near. “Start them going about the middle of February. Of course
there isn’t a whole lot to be done in the cage, but you can get in a
lot of batting practice, and your pitchers can find themselves, and――――”

He broke off and walked along behind the counter to where Joe was
standing. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “Is there something you
want?”

He was a well-built chap of seventeen, with red-brown hair, very blue
eyes and a smile that won Joe on the instant.

“I want a lacing for this boot, or a pair of them, please. They told me
at Rice and Perry’s that you kept them.”

“We surely do, and you can have one or two, just as you say.” He turned
away and pulled a box from the shelves. “There you are. Five cents
apiece.”

“I’ll take just the one, I guess.”

“All right. They say the skating’s best at Proctor’s Pond. Have you
tried it?”

“No, I haven’t. I was going down to the river, because I thought I
could find that. Where is this pond, please?”

“Take a Fair Grounds car at Myrtle Street. Or you can walk it in twenty
minutes. You’ll find it better than the river, I guess. You’re a
stranger here?”

“I’ve been here just a few days.”

“That so? I thought I’d seen you around somewhere.” He had taken one of
the skating boots and, despite Joe’s protest, was replacing the broken
lace with the new one. “I know now; I saw you at high school, didn’t I?”

“I guess so. I started there Tuesday. I――I’ve been living in Akron.”

“Akron’s a nice town. You’ll like Amesville, though, when you get
acquainted. Have you met many fellows at school yet?”

“N-no, I haven’t. That is, some have spoken to me, but I don’t really
know anyone yet.”

“You must, then. Start in by knowing me. My name’s Pollock.” He smiled
winningly and reached a hand across. Joe smiled back and clasped it.

“Thanks. Mine is Faulkner.”

“Sam!” called Pollock. The boy at the front of the store, who had been
gravely looking out into the street, turned inquiringly. He didn’t
resemble the other in build or features, but there was, nevertheless, a
similarity between them that Joe couldn’t explain. He wasn’t handsome,
but he had a nice pair of gray eyes and a generously wide mouth that,
although no smile curved it, somehow seemed to proclaim good nature and
kindliness. In build he was heavier than his friend, more sturdy, with
a resolute way of planting his feet that seemed to defy anything short
of an explosion of dynamite to move him until he was ready to move. He
approached in response to Pollock’s hail.

“Sam, I want you to know Mr. Faulkner,” said Pollock. “Faulkner,
this is Sam Craig. Sam’s our baseball captain and a gentleman of
much wisdom.” The two shook hands, Joe a trifle embarrassedly, Sam
Craig with a slight lifting of one corner of his serious mouth and an
accompanying lighting of the gray eyes.

“How are you, Faulkner? I’ve seen you around school, I think. Glad to
meet you.” The clasp was a very hearty one, almost painfully hearty,
and Joe worked his fingers afterwards to see that they were still whole.

“Faulkner,” continued Pollock, completing the lacing of the boot, “is
a stranger in our midst, Sam. He’s just come from Akron. He says he
hasn’t got acquainted much yet. What’ll we do about it? Our fair city
has a world-wide reputation for hospitality, you know, and it mustn’t
be marred.”

“I’ve only been here since last Monday,” said Joe. “I guess a fellow
can’t expect to make many acquaintances in that time.”

“Going skating?” asked Sam.

“Yes. He says the pond is better than the river.”

“It is. I was there yesterday; the river, I mean. It isn’t safe more
than fifty feet from shore. Proctor’s Pond is the best place just now.
I’m going down there myself. If you’d like to come along I’ll show you
the way.”

“Thanks, yes, I’d be glad to.”

“Do you play hockey?” asked Pollock.

“No. I’ve never tried it.”

“The team’s practising there this morning and I thought that if you
played you’d better get Sam to work you in with the scrubs for a
try-out.”

“Thanks, but I don’t. I’m not a very good skater, either.”

“That makes no matter. Neither is Sam, but they’ve got him playing
goal. That’s the reason, I guess. If Sam lets go of the goal he always
falls down.”

Joe smiled politely as he paid for the lacing. Sam paid no attention to
the slur.

“Tom wants to sell you a hockey-stick,” he said calmly. “Just the same,
if you’d like to try it, now’s the time. We need fellows.”

“I’d like to, but I’d be ashamed to,” laughed Joe. “What I’d have to do
first is learn to keep on my feet.”

“Just watch Sam, then,” said Tom Pollock. “If he does a thing one way,
you do it the other, and you’ll be all right. I suppose I can’t sell
you a pair of gloves or a sweater, Faulkner?”

“No, thanks. Not today, anyway. Maybe another time――――”

“Don’t promise anything,” interrupted Sam. “There’s a good store up the
street. Shall we start along?”

“I’m all ready. Thanks for putting that lacing in, Pollard.”

“Pollock is the name,” said Tom. “Think of a fish.”

“A fish?” asked Joe vaguely.

“Yes. A pollock’s a fish, you know.”

“And a mighty ugly, mean-looking fish, too,” said Sam with one of his
infrequent smiles. “Call him what you like, Faulkner. Anything’s good
enough for him. Where’s that stick of mine, Tom?”

“Just where you left it, on top of the case up there. Wish I could go
along with you chaps. I haven’t seen you crack the ice this Winter,
Sam.”

“I’m getting so I can fall soft now.” He picked a hockey-stick, to
which were attached boots, skates and leg-pads, from the showcase and
moved toward the door. “See you later, Tom. Come on, Faulkner.”

Joe nodded to Tom Pollock and followed his new acquaintance outside.



CHAPTER IV

JOE FINDS A FRIEND


“Walk or ride?” asked Sam, when they were on the sidewalk.

“Just as you like,” answered Joe. “Walk, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d rather.” And Sam set off along the street at a brisk pace. “That’s
the new Adams Building,” he said presently, nodding toward the tall
structure across the street. “We’re rather proud of it, as it’s our
only skyscraper. The old one――it wasn’t old, though――burned last Fall.
I’ve been working for the architects who are putting that up.”

“Really? It must have been a peach of a fire! Was the old building as
big as that one?”

“Bigger. It had fourteen floors and this has only twelve. The water
pressure here isn’t good enough yet for high buildings. That’s why we
left off seventeen feet this time. Still, this new building’s fireproof
from top to bottom and I guess you could start a fire in it and have to
lug fuel to keep it going! Rather good-looking, isn’t it?”

“Awfully,” agreed Joe.

“I suppose you’ve got office buildings in Akron that beat it, but we
think it’s some building. We turn off here.”

They left the busy part of town and walked briskly along a residence
street until, at last, open country was reached. Sam, having exhausted
the subject of the new Adams Building, didn’t have much to say and
conversation was desultory until Joe, hunting for a topic, remembered
baseball.

“Pollock said you were captain of the baseball team, didn’t he?” he
questioned.

Sam nodded. “Yes. Tom could have had it, but he wouldn’t. So they hit
on me.”

“Pollock, you mean?”

“Yes. He has charge of the sporting goods department there at Cummings
and Wright’s and thought he wouldn’t have time to look after the team.
Where have you played?”

“In Akron. Oh, you mean what position? Last Spring I played first base
for our Second Team. How――how did you know I played at all?”

“Felt that crooked finger of yours. Break it?”

“Yes, and didn’t know it for a couple of days. Thought it was just a
strain. Then when it came out of the splints it had an out-curve. I
guess I’ll have to have it broken again some day and set right.”

“Well, it didn’t _look_ so bad,” said Sam judicially. “I happened to
notice it when we shook hands. We’ll be glad to have another candidate
for the bases. You’ll have a couple of pretty good fellows to fight,
but I wouldn’t be surprised if you made good somewhere. How are you at
the bat?”

Joe shook his head ruefully. “Pretty rotten last year. I used to hit
pretty well when I was on the grammar school team, but I guess the
pitching was awfully soft. I suppose you begin practice indoors some
time next month?”

“About the middle. You’ll have a chance to get your batting-eye. We
usually put the fellows through a good deal of bunting work in the
cage. It seems to help a lot when they get outdoors. There’s the pond
over there. Let’s cut across here; it’s shorter.”

The pond was some three acres in extent, and was long and narrow,
curving back around the shoulder of a hill and looking at first glance
like a river. As Joe and his guide climbed a rail-fence and crossed a
snow-covered meadow, following a well-trodden track, the pond proved
to be well populated. Skaters were gliding and turning, many armed with
hockey-sticks, and at the nearer end of the ice two sets of goal-posts
were in place. Some of the hockey players had already thrown aside
their coats and were warming up, their blue-stockinged legs twinkling
over the glassy surface.

“We usually practise on the river,” explained Sam, “but it isn’t good
enough yet. We’ve got some nets, but there’s no way of getting them
out here, and so we just use the posts. They’re mean things, though;
always getting pushed out of place. Come over here and meet some of the
fellows.”

Sam’s appearance was vociferously hailed by a knot of boys at the edge
of the ice. Some of the younger fellows had started a fire there and
were scurrying around, far and near, for fuel. Joe was introduced to
seven or eight chaps, many of whose names he either didn’t catch or
promptly forgot. Those he did recall later were Arbuckle, Morris and
Strobe. Arbuckle proved to be the coach, although he was apparently no
older than several of the players, and Morris was the captain. Morris,
whose first name was Sidney and who was universally called Sid, was a
handsome chap, lean, well-conditioned, and a marvel on skates. He was
of about Sam Craig’s age. Arbuckle was a heavier fellow of eighteen
and bore signs on his upper lip of an incipient mustache. Strobe Joe
remembered chiefly because his name was unusual, although the latter
wasn’t certain whether it was Strobe or Strode at the time.

They were all far too interested in hockey to pay more than passing
attention to the stranger and Joe presently retired from the group
and donned his skates. By the time he was ready for the ice Steve
Arbuckle had blown his whistle and fourteen eager youths were racing
and twisting about after the flying puck. In front of the First Team’s
goal Sam Craig, sweatered and padded, leaned on his broad-bladed stick
and calmly watched. Then a Second Team forward somehow stole the puck
from under Captain Morris’s nose and, digging the points of his skates,
slanted down the rink, dodging and feinting, until only the point
remained between him and goal-keeper. Behind him the pursuit sped, but
he was due for a shot if he could fool the point, and fool the point he
did. Away slid the puck to the right, the charging Second Team forward
twirled, recovered as the point missed his check, got the puck again
before the coverpoint could reach it and charged straight at goal from
the right.

Sam Craig, still apparently calm and unflustered, refused the challenge
to go out and meet him. Instead, he closed his padded knees together,
held his stick across his body and waited. The Second Team player shot
from six feet away, shot hard and straight. There was a _thud_, the
puck slammed against Sam’s knee and was gently brushed aside as Sid
Morris, skating like a whirlwind, rushed past, hooked it expertly,
swung around behind the goal and set off again down the ice. The Second
Team forward, who had so nearly scored, was already back in line, quite
untroubled by his failure, and Joe identified him as Strobe. Sidney
lost the puck a moment later and the whistle shrilled for off-side. Joe
watched until the First Team had finally penetrated the adversary’s
defence and scored its first goal and then went off up the pond to
skate. Since most of the fellows were watching the hockey he had the
upper reaches of the ice practically to himself.

Joe was only a fair skater, and now, swinging along and following the
curving shore, he found himself envying the ability of those chaps on
the hockey teams. It must, he thought, be fine to be able to skate as
they did, to feel as much at home on steel runners as on leather,
and he wondered if any amount of practice would ever enable him to
duplicate their marvellous feats. He wished he could play hockey, too.
It looked mighty exciting. Experimentally, he turned and started to
skate backward, zigzagging as he had seen the Second Team’s coverpoint
do. All went well for a minute, but then he raised his hands to
the sky, followed them with his feet and went down on his head and
shoulders. He had quite a nice slide, but he wasn’t able to enjoy it
much, since he was too busy watching the vari-coloured stars that
flashed in front of his closed eyes. When he stopped sliding he felt
gingerly of his head, grinned and climbed carefully to his feet again.

“That’s what you get,” he murmured, “for trying to be smart.”

However, when he had got his breath again he was ready for more
experiments and tried the inner edge-roll with fair success, and,
becoming more ambitious, essayed a figure eight. But that didn’t go
very smoothly, and since by that time he had neighbours about him he
stopped his capers. One of the neighbours skated toward him, but Joe
paid no heed to him until he swung around and came to a stop a few feet
away.

“Do it slower and you’ll get it all right,” observed the boy
pleasantly. Joe saw then that he was Strobe. He had pulled a faded blue
sweater on and still carried his stick. He was a merry-faced fellow,
with good features, bright blue eyes and a good deal of colour in his
cheeks. He was evidently about sixteen and rather tall for that age. He
smiled in friendly fashion as Joe glanced up and stopped so awkwardly
that he almost fell into Strobe’s arms.

“It isn’t hard,” the latter continued. “Like this. See?” He described a
circle on the outer edge, changed to the inner and completed the figure
slowly and gracefully.

“I know very well it isn’t hard,” replied Joe, “but it’s hard for me
because I’m a perfectly punk skater.”

Strobe laughed. “Oh, well, practice is all you need. Can you do the
‘Figure 3’?”

“Pretty well. I guess you have to learn to skate when you’re about five
years old to do it decently. Like swimming. I never skated much until
two years ago.”

“I started when I was about eight, I guess,” laughed Strobe. “Know this
one?”

“This one” was a “Maltese Cross” so perfectly done that every loop was
the same to an inch. Joe watched and sighed in envious admiration.
“That’s dandy,” he said. “It’s like the ‘cross-cut’ only there’s more
of it.”

“Yes, the ‘cross-cut’ repeated three times. It isn’t hard, really. You
could learn it in an hour.”

“I couldn’t learn it in a month,” replied Joe disgustedly. “I can’t
even skate backwards without bumping my head on the ice.”

“Well, I’ve bumped mine often enough. That’s part of the education.
I’ve seen some perfectly wonderful stars in my time!” He started to
skate and Joe joined him.

“You’re not playing any more?” asked the latter, as the shrill sound of
a whistle from around the shoulder of the hill told him that the game
was still on.

“No. Sidell’s got my place for this half. There’s a half-dozen of us
all trying for a wing position on the Second, and Steve has his hands
full giving us each a show.” He chuckled softly. “He forgot in the
first half and let me play right through.”

“Hockey must be good fun,” mused Joe, secretly trying to copy his
companion’s ease of motion.

“Bully. I wish I could play better and make the First.”

“I thought you did finely when you skated down and tried that shot,”
said Joe.

“Mostly luck. Besides, tries don’t count; it’s only goals. And I ought
to have got that in that time. It was up to me to skate past and push
it in instead of whanging it. You can’t get the puck past Sam Craig
that way. I knew it, too, only I thought I’d be smart. Let’s go up and
watch them. Mind?”

“No, I’d like to,” replied Joe.

They joined the line of spectators along the side of the supposititious
rink, being frequently obliged to flee before the slashing sticks or
plunging forms of the players, and witnessed the final decisive triumph
of the First Team by a score of seven goals to two. A few of the
players remained to practise further, but most of them, accompanied by
a full half of their audience, crossed a field to where, a quarter of
a mile distant, a blue-sided trolley-car was waiting outside the board
fence of the Fair Grounds to start its noon journey townwards. Joe
found himself still in the company of Strobe, and was well satisfied,
since there was something about the other chap that drew him. They were
chatting quite intimately by the time the car was reached, and when
they got out at Main Street Strobe lengthened his own journey homeward
by several blocks in order to pursue the new acquaintanceship.

[Illustration: Joe found himself still in the company of Strobe]

Joe found out then and during the next meeting that Jack Strobe――his
full name was Jackson――was in Joe’s class at school, that he lived
on Temple Street, that he played left field on the nine, that he was
two months older than Joe, that his father was the senior partner of
Strobe and Wonson, whose big jewelry store Joe had noticed on Main
Street, and several other more or less interesting facts. It was only
when Joe was in the house that he recollected that he had failed to
take leave of Sam Craig. He had meant to thank him for taking him out
to the pond, but had been so absorbed in this red-cheeked, blue-eyed
Strobe chap that he had quite forgotten Sam’s existence. He hoped the
latter wasn’t thinking him uncivil, and resolved to make an apology
at the first opportunity. He had agreed to go around in the afternoon
and call on Jack Strobe, and at a little after two was being ushered
by a maid through the rather ornate front door of the Strobe mansion
and into a cosy sitting-room――or perhaps it was a library, since there
were two large bookcases flanking the fireplace, in which a soft-coal
fire was sputtering greasily. Jack came charging down the stairs and at
once haled the visitor up to the third floor, where, on the back of
the house, overlooking a wide vista of snowy roofs and distant country,
Jack had his own particular sanctum.

It was a big square room lighted by three windows set close together,
and at first glance looked like a museum or a curio shop. Almost every
inch of wall space was covered with pictures, posters or trophies of
some kind, with snowshoes, tennis rackets, foils and mask, Indian
moccasins, a couple of small-bore rifles, a battered lacrosse stick
depended against them. A long, cushioned seat stood under the windows
and was piled with brightly-coloured pillows. The floor was bare
save for a few scattered rugs. A brass bed, a chiffonier, an immense
study table, two comfortable armchairs and several straight-backed
chairs comprised the principal furnishings, but by no means all. Near
the windows was a smaller table, holding wireless instruments. A set
of bookshelves, evidently home-made――Jack referred to them as being
“near-Mission”――held a miscellaneous collection of volumes ranging
from “Zig-Zag Journeys” to the latest juvenile thriller, presented
last Christmas, and including all sorts of old school-books with worn
backs. An old seaman’s chest stood against a wall, the repository
for abandoned toys and devices. One end was decorated with the legend,
apparently inscribed with a brush dipped in shoe-blacking: “Captain
Kidd His Chest! Beware!!” One corner of the room held an assortment
of fishing-rods, golf-clubs and hockey-sticks, and another a pair of
skiis, two canoe paddles, and a camera tripod. The camera itself stood
nearby, neighboured by a jig-saw, and a stereopticon sat beside it. Joe
gazed and marvelled.

“You’ve got about everything there is up here, haven’t you?” he
exclaimed. “Is that a wireless set? How’s it work? I never saw one
near-to.”

The instruments were duly explained, not over-enthusiastically, since
Jack had lost interest in wireless telegraphy after a year of devotion,
and then Joe made a tour of the room, examining and questioning and
enjoying himself hugely. Later various scrap-books and stamp-books
were pulled from under the window-seat and looked over, and finally,
having still only partly exhausted the wonders, the two boys settled
down amongst the cushions and talked. That afternoon sped like magic.
Almost before they realised it the room was in twilight and from across
town came the hoarse sound of the five o’clock whistle at the carpet
mills. Whereupon Joe said he must go, and Jack, remonstrating, led him
downstairs, helped him on with his coat, and accompanied him to the
steps. There:

“What are you doing tonight?” he asked very carelessly.

“Nothing special,” replied Joe quite as disinterestedly.

There was a pause. Finally:

“I might run in for a minute,” announced Jack. “I’m going downtown
anyway and――――”

“Wish you would.”

“Your aunt won’t mind?”

“Of course not. I haven’t much to show you, though. My room’s just a
box, you know.”

“That’s all right. We can talk some more. About eight?”

“Before, if you can.”

“Half-past seven?”

“Yes. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t. So long, Faulkner.”

“So long. And thanks for――everything.”

Jack laughed shortly. “I haven’t done anything. See you later.”

“Sure!”



CHAPTER V

HOCKEY AND JUST TALK


That was the beginning of a friendship that lasted――well, so
far as I know, it’s still lasting and seems likely to continue
lasting indefinitely. In the course of time the inseparable chums
were facetiously referred to as the “two Jays” or the “Joejacks.”
Months later each acknowledged, a trifle shamefacedly, since the
acknowledgment bordered on sentiment, that he had taken to the other at
the moment of their first meeting. That was as near an expression of
affection as they came to, but within a week of that day at Proctor’s
Pond Joe would have jumped off the top of the Adams Building if by so
doing he could have benefited his friend, and Jack would have just as
readily plunged into the river from the railroad bridge had a similar
result impended. And since Jack at that time couldn’t swim a stroke,
his deed would have compared favourably with Joe’s as a token of esteem!

Neither, however, was required to undertake such feats of self-sacrifice.
Perhaps the nearest approach to them occurred when Joe stood about on
the ice, with the thermometer hovering around zero, his feet numb and
his fingers aching, while he admiringly watched Jack struggle for a
position on the First Team, or when Jack, as became his custom when
duties allowed, tramped by Joe’s side through slush or sleet or rain
over Route 6! They were together whenever it was possible, and when it
wasn’t they were either signalling across schoolrooms or using up Mr.
Strobe’s and Aunt Sarah’s monthly allowance of telephone calls.

January passed into history very happily for Joe. He was earning enough
to pay Aunt Sarah all but fifty cents a week for his accommodations, he
was doing well at his studies, he was getting cheerful letters every
few days from his mother, and he was enjoying the jolliest, finest
sort of friendship. When the hockey team journeyed to Preston Mills to
play the academy fellows and Jack went along as a possible necessary
substitute forward, Joe went along also and huddled in his coat on a
settee and held Jack’s ulster and saw the Brown-and-Blue go down in
defeat to the tune of four to three in an overtime contest, and mourned
with the others on the way back, and with them vowed dire vengeance
when Preston paid a return visit. That day a substitute delivered Joe’s
papers and he was short fifty cents the following Monday and went
without pocket-money for a whole week. But he didn’t mind――much. It was
worth more than that, much more, to accompany Jack to Preston Mills.

The hockey team didn’t meet with defeat on all occasions, however,
although it can’t be denied that, in spite of the best endeavours of
coach, captain, and players, they ended the season with fewer victories
than beatings. But they did overwhelm Preston Academy nicely the first
week in February and found the revenge sweet. The ice was in miserable
shape that afternoon, for there had been a thaw, and the visitors
suffered more in consequence than did the home team, for the latter had
cannily spent the forenoon practising under the adverse conditions.
The game was played on the river and inside a regular barrier and with
net goals. Jack had at last proven his right to a place amongst the
First Team substitutes, and in the second period that afternoon he went
further and showed that he was as good a right-wing as high school
could put on the ice. And Joe, excitedly and noisily admiring, was
filled with triumph.

The score was two to one in Amesville’s favour when the whistle started
the second half and Sid Morris faced off with the opposing centre.
Each seven had shown a good defence and Amesville’s second goal had
been rather in the nature of an accident, the puck slipping around
the corner of the net when four or five sticks had been poking and
hooking at it in a half-inch of water and the goal-tender’s skate had
for an instant slipped aside. It was still anybody’s battle from all
indications and both teams started in in whirlwind fashion. Preston’s
gray-legged warriors kept the Brown-and-Blue busy for the first five
minutes and hammered shot after shot at Sam Craig’s anatomy. Amesville
forgot team-play in the effort to keep the enemy away from the goal,
with the result that Preston fooled her time and again and forced
the playing until Sid’s shrill appeals to “Take it away from them,
High School!” rose high above the rattling of sticks, the grinding of
skates, and the inarticulate cries of the players. Only an off-side
play prevented a score for Preston four minutes after the whistle, for
a hard, low shot got safely past Sam’s shins and into the net. But on
the face-off it was Jack Strobe who stole the disc from between the
feet of the two opponents and who, passing once across the rink to
Captain Morris and drawing the coverpoint from position, took the puck
on the return, upset the point and slashed past the goal-tender for
Amesville’s third tally.

How Joe cheered and shouted! And how all the others did, too; all
save the handful of faithful Prestonians who had journeyed down with
their team! There was still nearly fifteen minutes of actual time left
and Amesville, encouraged, recovered from her confusion and took the
whip-hand. Time and again Jack and Sidney Morris, working together as
though they had played side by side for years, swept the enemy off
its feet and rushed down the ice with the puck, eluding the defence
more often than not, and making shot after shot at goal. That Preston
Academy was only tallied on five times in that second half was only
because neither Sidney nor Jack nor the other forwards, Hale and
Simpson, who infrequently found an opportunity to bombard the net, were
especially clever shots. But Amesville was well satisfied with the
final result of the game. Seven to one was decisive enough to more than
atone for the defeat at Preston Mills. Joe walked back with his hero
and was as proud as Punch.

It was that evening that Joe voiced a regret that had been troubling
him for some time. The two boys were in Joe’s room, and Jack, a bit
lame and more or less bruised, was stretched on the bed, something that
Aunt Sarah would not have approved of. Aunt Sarah, however, was getting
used to having boys around and was making the discovery that laws made
for grown-up folks cannot always be applied to youths. At first Jack’s
almost daily appearance at the door, followed by his polite inquiry,
“Is Joe in, Miss Teele?” was greeted by doubtful, sharp glances. Then
Jack’s smiles melted the ice, and Aunt Sarah confided to Joe one
day that that Strobe boy seemed real nice. A day or two later, Joe,
returning from his newspaper delivering, found that a strip of gray
linen had been laid over the stair carpet and continued along the upper
hallway to his door. Aunt Sarah, while reconciled to visitors, was not
going to have her carpet worn out.

“I wish,” said Joe this evening, “that I could do something.”

“What do you mean, do something?” asked Jack lazily, turning slightly
to take his weight off a lame hip.

“Something like other fellows,” explained Joe frowningly. “I can’t
play hockey or basketball or tennis or――or even skate! I can’t play
football, either. Most fellows can do two or three things well. I’m no
good at anything.”

“Piffle!” said Jack. “You play baseball, don’t you? And you can skate
pretty well.”

“Yes, like a ton of bricks! As for baseball, well, yes, I can catch a
ball if it’s thrown at me and I can bat a little and I’m fairly fast
on bases. But I’m no wonder at it. I want to play something decently,
Jack.”

“I suppose you’re making things out worse than they really are. Any
fellow can do those stunts if he tries hard enough. Funny you don’t
play tennis, though. Why?”

“I never cared for it. I guess the reason I don’t do things is because
I never wanted to much before. Beside, at home――in Akron――I was always
pretty busy with other things. I――I studied pretty hard――――”

“There you are, then!” said Jack triumphantly. “Don’t you know that
a fellow can’t be a grind and a great athlete, too? Look at me. You
don’t find me being pointed out as an example of conduct, do you? You
didn’t see my bookcase stuffed with prize volumes, did you? Ever hear
of me getting an A, or even a B-plus, in anything? Answer, _No_, with
a capital N! A chap simply has to choose, Joey, whether he is to make
his mark one way or the other. I chose the other. It’s more fun.”

“You’re talking a lot of rot. I happen to know that you were pretty
near the head in your class last year. And you never have any trouble
with your studies. Besides, I was reading not long ago that the
principal athletes at one of the colleges in the East――either Yale or
Harvard, I think――were ’way up in their studies; honour men and things
like that.”

“Oh, if you believe the newspapers――――”

“Newspapers are a heap more truthful than folks,” interrupted Joe.
“I’ve heard my father say that lots of times. Anyway, it’s silly to say
a fellow can’t study and go in for athletics, too. Look at Sam Craig.
He plays baseball, football, and hockey, you told me. And he’s ’way up
in his class.”

“Well, if you’re going to prove things I shan’t argue,” sighed Jack.
“It’s no fun arguing when the other fellow insists on proving he’s
right. It――it puts you at a disadvantage. Anyway, all that’s got
nothing to do with what we were talking about. You said you wished you
could do something. I say you can play baseball. That’s something,
isn’t it? I’d rather make the nine than the hockey team any day.”

“You’ve made both,” replied Joe disconsolately. “I don’t believe I’ll
ever make anything.”

“A couple of piffles! In two months you’ll be holding down first or
second base. I wish you’d beat out Frank Foley for first, Joe. If
you’ll do that I’ll present you with anything I own. I’ll give you an
order on dad for a diamond sun-burst or a chest of silver. Mind, I
don’t say you’d get the things; but I’ll give you the order.”

“Who’s Frank Foley?” asked Joe.

“What? You’ve never heard of ‘Handsome Frank’? For the love of lemons,
don’t let him hear you, Joey! Why, Frank is our Adonis, our Beau
Brummel, our――our――――”

“Well, what is he when he isn’t Brummeling?”

“There ain’t no such time. He’s always on that job. Frank is the life
of our little parties on all occasions. He has his nails manicured
every day and sends to Cleveland or Chicago or somewhere for his
neckties――only he calls them scarves. Frank is some swell, believe me!
You surely must have seen him.”

“Tall and sort of bored-looking? Wears a greenish Norfolk suit?”

“Yep, that’s Frank. You can’t always tell him by that green suit,
though, for he has half a dozen if he has one. I don’t see how he does
it, because his father hasn’t much coin, they say. He’s division
superintendent on the railroad. I’ll bet he keeps his father poor.
Anyway, he’s our best little dresser and we’re mighty proud of him.”

“You didn’t sound so a moment ago.”

“Well, I’ll tell you.” Jack changed his position with a suppressed
groan. “As a thing of beauty, so to speak, as a――a picturesque feature
of the local landscape――say, that’s pretty good, isn’t it? Picturesque
feature of the local landscape!――Well, as one of those things he’s fine
and we’re proud as can be of him. If a circus came to town we’d trot
Frank out and simply run away with the honors. But as a――a regular
fellow he won’t do. He’s too――oh, I don’t know what he is. I don’t like
him for so many reasons that I can’t think of the first one. I always
have a fearful temptation to walk on his shoes and take the shine off
or bang a snowball against his hat or tie him down and put a little
natural dirt under his finger-nails. Mind you, Joey, I love clean
finger-nails”――he shoved his hands under him as he spoke――“but I hate
to have a fellow dazzle my eyes every time he moves his hands! Besides,
I object to green Norfolks and green hats with the bows in the wrong
place and fancy vests――waistcoats, I mean! Gee, I’m glad Frank didn’t
hear me call ’em vests! The trouble with Handsome Frank is that he’s a
good-looker and someone’s told him about it. He can’t forget it for a
minute. Now, I’m a handsome brute, Joey, and you’re not as homely as
you might be, but we don’t go around throwing our chests out and trying
to look like――like a work of art, do we? And we don’t dress up like a
horse, do we? And we don’t polish our finger-nails till they shine like
nice little pink pearls, do we? Let’s see yours. No, we don’t!”

“Well, if he’s like that I shouldn’t expect him to play anything as
rough and rude as baseball,” said Joe.

“No, would you? And yet he does. And he plays football, too, which is a
degree and a half rougher and ruder. As a matter of fact, Joe, Handsome
Frank is a corking good first baseman, and no slouch of a tackle. He’s
the fellow you’ll have to fight hardest for first, if you’ve set your
heart on that position.”

“I haven’t. I’d be a silly chump to. I don’t believe I play well enough
to get a show with the Second Team.”

“Two more orders of piffle, and have them hot! Don’t assume that
attitude, Joey. Don’t tell folks you’re no good. They might believe
you. I’ve noticed folks are more likely to believe you when you tell
them you’re rotten than when you crack yourself up. You keep a still
mouth, old chap, and if anyone says ‘What was your batting average
last year, Mr. Faulkner?’ or ‘What was your fielding average?’ you
dust a speck off your sleeve and look ’em square in the eye and say,
careless-like, ‘I batted for three-twenty-seven and fielded for a
little over four hundred!’ They won’t believe you, but they’ll think
‘If he can lie as well as that he must play a pretty good game of
ball!’”

“Jack, you’re an awful chump tonight,” laughed his chum. “What does
your friend Frank do when he gets some dust on his hands fielding a
ball or soils his trousers sliding to base? Does he stop the game and
telephone for a manicure and a whisk-broom?”

“No. He bears it wonderfully. Oh, I suppose I’ve made him out worse
than he is. I just don’t like him. Still, I’m not the only one, by a
long shot. You’d have trouble finding many fellows who do like him. But
he can play baseball and he’s a peach of a baseman. He’s not much at
hitting, though. Are you, Joe?”

“Fairly rotten, thanks.”

“Well, that won’t do. You dig hard when practice begins. Find your
batting-eye, Joey. Then, if you can hold down first base decently well,
you might oust Mr. Foley. I’d consider it a personal favour if you did.”

“Seems to me it’s a good thing you don’t actually hate Foley. If you
did you’d insist on having him thrown into the river or browned in oil!
When you take a dislike to me, please let me know, Jack, so I can beat
it while the beating’s good.”

“Well,” replied Jack cheerfully, “I’m like that, I guess. If I like a
fellow I like him a lot. If I dislike him I haven’t any use for him. I
suppose it’s my ardent Spanish nature.”

“Your _what_?”

“Yep. You see, Joey, about three or maybe four hundred years ago I had
a Spanish ancestor. Spaniards, you know, are hot-blooded, desperate
rascals. Whenever I do anything real wicked I lay it to that ancestor.
It’s a convenience.”

“You and your old ancestor!” scoffed Joe. “Say, what sort of practice
do we do in the baseball cage?”

“Naturally, we do tatting and plain sewing.”

“Oh, cut it out, Jack! Honest, what can you do indoors? I never saw
anyone practise baseball in a cage.”

“Batteries get the most out of it, Joe. But we all go through a certain
amount of stuff. Bat’s a great believer in setting-up exercises, for
one thing. He keeps us at that for a week or so before we’re allowed
to touch a ball. Then the pitchers and catchers work together and we
have a batting session each day and we slide to base and――and pass, of
course.”

“Bat’s the coach, isn’t he?”

“Yep. Mr. Bennet A. Talbot; B, A, T, Bat. He’s a good sort, too. And
knows a baseball from a rosy-cheeked apple, if anyone should enquire.
He’s all right. I’m strong for Bat.”

“A good name for a baseball coach,” laughed Joe.

“The fact has been suggested before,” replied Jack with a grin.

“Oh, I didn’t suppose I was getting off a new one. But, look here, you
can’t do much hitting in a little old cage, can you?”

“Not if Tom Pollock’s pitching,” chuckled Jack. “Why, you see, my
ignorant friend, the idea is not to knock the ball through the wires,
but to tap it politely. Bat will tell you that if you can get your bat
against the ball in the cage you can do it when you get on the field.
I don’t know that he’s terrifically right about it, though. I don’t
believe it does any harm to roll bunts around in the gym, but I do know
that in my own case as soon as we move outdoors and I take a healthy
swing at the ball it isn’t there! And it takes me a week or so at the
net to find it.”

“They tell me you’re a peach of a batter,” said Joe admiringly and a
trifle enviously.

“Oh, I connect sometimes. When I do they travel. That’s all. I’m no H.
R. Baker.”

“Who’s he?” asked Joe innocently.

“Ball-player. I’m going home. Your ignorance may be catching. See you
in the morning. Who swiped my――Oh, here it is. So long, Joey!”



CHAPTER VI

JOE HAS AN IDEA


Joe’s circle of friends and acquaintances widened. He met many fellows
through Jack, and Jack seemed to know most of the better sort of boys
in the town. What sometimes puzzled Joe was how it had happened that
Jack, with so many friends to choose from, had remained without a
special chum and had finally chosen him. Joe got on very friendly terms
with Tom Pollock and became a great admirer of that youth. Anyone with
such a reputation as a pitcher and all-around ball-player as Tom had
would have won Joe’s respect and regard in any case, but Tom was a
very likable chap besides. Sam Craig he saw less of, although Sam was
nice when they met, and more than once reminded him of the approaching
fifteenth of February, on which day baseball practice was to start
indoors.

By the beginning of February Joe was quite at home in Amesville and
had grown to like the place thoroughly. He and Aunt Sarah were getting
on finely. Aunt Sarah was outwardly still the same stern-visaged,
sharp-voiced person, but Joe had discovered that under that rather
forbidding exterior lay a very kind heart. Nowadays Aunt Sarah’s
principal mission in life appeared to be the finding of new ways to
please Joe, without, if possible, allowing him to suspect it!

Joe’s only cause for dissatisfaction was his after-school work. In less
than a fortnight indoor practice would begin for the baseball squad,
and that meant that either he would have to give up his newspaper route
or abandon his hope of making the nine. Consequently, he began to look
around harder than ever for some labour that he might perform in the
evenings. He consulted Jack, of course, and Jack, while eager to aid,
had nothing to offer in the way of practical suggestions. In the end,
Joe solved the problem without assistance.

He and Jack happened to be in Pryor’s stationery store one afternoon.
Jack was buying some fountain-pen ink and Joe strayed over to the
counter that held a not very large assortment of magazines, together
with the local newspapers and a few papers from other cities of the
State. While he was turning the pages of a magazine a well-dressed,
middle-aged man came in and asked for a Chicago _Tribune_. He was
a travelling salesman, Joe concluded. Whether he was or not, he was
contemptuously impatient when the clerk informed him that they didn’t
keep Chicago papers.

“Don’t, eh?” he demanded. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t! I ought to
have known it. You folks in this town don’t seem to know there’s any
other place in the country. Still, you might have heard of Chicago.
It’s a little village in Illinois, down near the lower end of Lake
Michigan. There’s a tree in front of it. They were talking of building
a horse-car line when I left. Got a Cleveland paper, then?”

The sarcasm was quite lost on the youthful clerk. He only gazed in a
puzzled fashion at the annoyed customer and shook his head.

“There ain’t any left,” he said indifferently. “We had one this
morning.”

“You did? Think of that! One whole paper! Say, you folks take a lot of
risks, don’t you? Just suppose you hadn’t sold it!” The irate gentleman
left the store abruptly and Joe followed his departing figure with
thoughtful eyes. A moment later Jack completed his purchase and they
left the shop. It was well after five and, although it was the custom
for Joe to walk home with Jack, this afternoon he pleaded duties and,
promising to go around after supper, watched his friend lose himself in
the throng. What Joe did next would have occasioned Jack some curiosity
had he been there to see. Joe crossed the street――the other side of the
thoroughfare was less congested at this time――and went slowly northward
for six blocks, his eyes busy all the way. Then he crossed again and
returned on the first side. His travels took him over the busiest
portion of the street and left him finally four blocks below the Adams
Building. But what he was looking for he hadn’t seen, and he shook his
head as he turned his steps northward again. In front of the Adams
Building a small newsboy was selling the evening paper and Joe stopped.

“Got a Cleveland paper?” he asked.

The boy shook his head. “I don’t carry ’em,” he said.

“Columbus?”

“Ain’t got nothin’ but the _Recorder_.”

“That all you ever carry?”

“Yep.”

“Do you know where I can buy a Cleveland or a Columbus paper?”

“You might get ’em at Pryor’s, three blocks up.”

Joe retreated to the front of the building and again looked about him.
From the entrance beside him quite a stream of folks were emerging to
hurry homewards. At least every other one stopped to purchase a paper
before going to the car or walking away.

“Hm,” said Joe thoughtfully. “I wonder, now!”

He entered the lobby of the office building and studied it. On one side
were the elevators. Behind them a broad marble stairway started upward,
turning behind the cages, to the floor above. The lobby was not large,
but it was large enough for the purpose Joe had in mind, and presently,
when the occupants of one elevator had pushed out through the revolving
doors, he stepped off the little space between the first elevator and
the front wall of the building. A little less than three yards he made
it. The depth was five feet. Joe half closed his eyes and studied it.
Then, jostled by another carful of departing occupants, he made his way
across to the directory beside the elevators. It was evident that many
of the offices, and Joe decided that there must be some two hundred of
them, were still unoccupied, although the building was now complete
as to its interior. A placard near at hand notified the public that
offices were to be rented of Joseph Adams, Room 129. At that moment an
elevator descended and emptied itself, and the operator, observing Joe
at the directory, asked who he was looking for.

“Strobe,” replied Joe, giving the first name that came to his mind.

“Not here. Maybe he’s coming later. If you mean John P. Strobe, his
place is across the street there, on the opposite corner. Jeweler, is
he?”

Joe said he was and thanked the youth for the direction. Then, looking
about him at the unsurfaced walls: “This is a pretty good building,” he
observed. The other nodded.

“Best in this town, anyway. It wouldn’t cut much ice in Cincinnati, I
guess, but it’s pretty good for Amesville.”

“Are there many in it?”

“Sure, and it’s filling up fast. The old man’s renting two or three
offices a day, I hear.”

“I suppose there’ll be a news-stand here, won’t there?”

“News-stand? Search me! I haven’t heard of any.”

“I should think you’d need one. You must have two or three hundred
people in here.”

“Easy! There’s two hundred and eight offices, and some has two or three
people in ’em. Course, they ain’t all rented yet, but――――”

The signal buzzed and the operator slammed the door and shot out of
sight just as another car arrived. Joe made his way out with the throng
and hurried homeward, his mind very busy all the way. At supper he was
so preoccupied and silent that Aunt Sarah tried to get him to describe
his symptoms and watched him depart for Jack’s house with misgivings.
Up in the big room on the third floor Joe laid the scheme before his
chum. Jack was instantly enthusiastic.

“It’s simply great!” he declared. “How’d you ever think of it? But
you’d sell other things besides newspapers, wouldn’t you, Joey?”

“Yes. Cigars, candy, magazines――anything I could. You see, Jack, if
folks who work in the building know they can get such things right
there they’re pretty sure to deal with me. I ought to sell a lot of
cigars――――”

“And chewing-gum,” laughed Jack.

“And newspapers, too. And I’d make a specialty of carrying the
Cincinnati and Cleveland and Columbus papers, and the Chicago, too; and
maybe one of the New York papers. The trouble is, though, that I’d
have to have money to start with, and I haven’t got it.”

“That’s so.” Jack’s face fell. “How much would you need?” he asked
after a minute.

“It’s hard to tell. Of course, I don’t know what rent Mr. Adams would
charge me, in the first place. In fact, I don’t know yet that he will
rent the space at all. I wondered if your father knew him well enough
to speak a good word for me, Jack.”

“Of course he does! They’re thick as thieves. I’ll get dad to go and
see him with you if you like. Want to go down and ask him now?”

“No; wait a while. I was wondering――――” Joe was silent a minute. Then:
“Have you any money, Jack?”

“Me? About a dollar. Want it?”

“I wondered whether you had any in the bank or――――”

“I have! I’d forgotten it. I’ve got about sixty dollars, I think. But I
don’t know whether dad would want me to take it out, Joe. I’d lend it
to you in a minute if he’d let me, though.”

“I wasn’t thinking of borrowing it,” said Joe. “I was going to suggest
that we go in together. I think we could start with about fifty
dollars. We needn’t put in much of a stock at first, you know. There’d
be a month’s rent, say twenty dollars, and we’d have to buy a few boxes
of cigars and we’d have to have a counter built. Maybe we’d better say
sixty dollars, to be on the safe side. I haven’t figured on it yet, but
I believe we could do it for sixty. I thought that if you’d put in half
and take half the profits until you were square――――”

“I get you, Joey! Half would be only thirty dollars, wouldn’t it? I
don’t believe dad would mind my taking out that much. But could you get
the other thirty, Joey?”

“I think so. I――I’ve got an idea that may work. Anyway――――”

“Why couldn’t I put in the whole sixty if dad will let me? In that way
you wouldn’t have――――”

“It wouldn’t be wise,” said Joe. “I’m pretty sure I can make the thing
go and pay a good profit, Jack, but if I happened to be wrong you’d
stand to lose your money. And sixty dollars would be too much to drop.
Besides, your father wouldn’t let you put in that much when I wasn’t
putting in any.”

“Maybe not. Let’s go down and talk to him about it.”

“No, let’s go over it first. There may be something I’ve missed. Now,
say Mr. Adams lets us have the space for twenty a month; that’s
enough, although he may not think so; then we’ve got to have a counter
built and that will cost, say, ten dollars. It’ll have to be made to
look pretty neat, you know; maybe it had better be imitation mahogany.
Then we’d arrange with the news company for a small list of magazines.
We’d have to pay cash for those at first, but they don’t cost much.
Same way with the papers. There’s good money in the _Gazette_ and the
_Recorder_ at two cents if you sell enough of them. Then we’d want to
put in some confectionery, like gum and chocolate and package things.
We can buy that in Cincinnati and get as little as we want to start on.
At the end of the month we ought to have enough for the next month’s
rent and enough to put in new stock. My idea would be to make the stock
bigger all the time, as we could afford it. There wouldn’t be any other
expenses, would there? Can you think of any?”

Jack couldn’t. “It looks perfectly safe to me,” he said, “because the
rent is the only thing we’d have to worry about, isn’t it? I mean, we
needn’t have more cigars and other things at a time than we could sell
right away.”

“That’s the idea. We’ve got to begin in a small way and expand. We
won’t lay out a cent more than we have to. Then, if it shouldn’t
prove a go we wouldn’t be stung very much. The papers, you know, are
returnable, so we wouldn’t get stuck on those. Some of the magazines
are, too, I think.”

“Hold on!” exclaimed Jack suddenly. “Who’s going to tend shop? We’ll be
in school all day up to three o’clock. Bet you hadn’t thought of that!”

“You must think I’m a good deal of an idiot,” laughed Joe. “I’ll tell
you my scheme. I thought I could go down there in the morning and get
things fixed. We’d have a box on the corner with a slot in it and when
anyone bought anything they could drop the money in the box. Then,
after school――――”

“Suppose they didn’t!” interrupted his chum. “Seems to me that’s pretty
risky!”

“I don’t believe so. You put folks on their honour like that and
they’ll appreciate it and act square. I’ll bet we won’t lose half a
dollar a month, Jack.”

“Well, you’ve got a lot of faith, Joey. Still, you may be right at
that. Come to think of it, I guess you are. All right. And then after
school we could go down there and tend shop, eh?”

“When we didn’t have to practise.”

“That’s so. I’d forgotten practice. Well, on Saturdays we could be
there all day, eh? That would be a lot of fun. I’ve always wanted to
be a merchant and sell things. ‘Cigars? Yes, sir. I think you’ll like
these. We make them ourselves and know just what goes into them, sir.
Two for five, please. Thank you, sir. Come again if you live!’ That’s
the stuff, isn’t it?”

“Fine!” laughed Joe. “Now let’s go down and hear what your father
says.”



CHAPTER VII

PARTNERS


Five days later the news-stand in the lobby of the Adams Building was
ready for business.

It had all been extremely simple and easy. Mr. Strobe had not only
consented to use his influence with Mr. Adams, but had declared that
he believed the investment of thirty dollars in the enterprise to be
a good stroke of business. In fact, Jack’s father became the most
enthusiastic of the three that evening when the matter was broached
to him. If, he said, Jack didn’t want to go into partnership with Joe
he’d be glad to take a half interest himself! A news-stand in the Adams
Building ought to be a money-maker, and he wondered that someone hadn’t
thought of it before. Thereupon Joe suggested anxiously that perhaps
someone had, and wasn’t satisfied until Jack’s father had called Mr.
Adams up on the telephone and ascertained that the privilege had not
been disposed of and that Mr. Adams was quite willing to confer with
them tomorrow in the matter.

Mr. Joseph Adams was president and principal owner of the big carpet
mills and held title to much residence and store property throughout
the town. He was about forty-two years of age, a much younger man than
Joe had expected to find when, led by Mr. Strobe, they entered his
office in the new building early the next morning. The business was
completed in rather less than five minutes. Mr. Strobe stated what was
wanted, Joe answered a question as to proposed location of the stand,
they all descended to view the spot, and Mr. Adams then said: “I’m
agreeable. Rent free until the first of March. After that, eighteen
dollars a month. Keep everything clean and neat. Come around this
afternoon and I’ll have a lease ready for you.”

When they returned at half-past three Mr. Adams said: “One thing I
neglected to speak of, boys. About your counter and showcase, now;
better let me attend to those, I guess. I don’t want anything that
clashes with the finish down there. I’ve got Mayer coming here in about
ten minutes. He’s the boss-carpenter. I thought we’d decide what was
wanted and he could go ahead and put it up. The walls are cream white
down there and I think we’d ought to have the stand to match. That
suit you? What had you thought of?”

“Mahogany, sir,” replied Joe. “That is, imitation mahogany. But I think
cream white would look better.”

“I guess so. Now, look here.” Mr. Adams drew a sheet of paper towards
him and sketched roughly. “A row of shelves across to here; sliding
doors at the back; panelled in front. Then a flap counter the rest of
the way; lift it up to get in, you know; crawl under if you’d rather.
Now what about shelves at the back? Need them? They wouldn’t look well,
I guess.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Joe. “I guess we’d have room for everything
on the counter and in the showcase. I――I hadn’t thought about a
showcase, though, Mr. Adams. Won’t it cost a good deal?”

“Twelve dollars and sixty cents. I priced it. That needn’t worry you,
though; I’m paying for the whole thing.”

“Oh!” murmured Joe. “I didn’t understand.”

“That’s great!” exclaimed Jack.

Mr. Adams smiled. “Doing it for my own protection. I’d rather have
something that looked solid and substantial there. I don’t want
anything cheap, you know. Here’s Mayer now,” he added as a clerk
appeared at the door. “Let’s go down and see what’s to be done.”

Joe thought he had never encountered anyone who could rush a thing
through as Mr. Adams could. It took him about three minutes to explain
his ideas to the carpenter and when he had finished, that gentleman,
a taciturn man with a long head and a Scotch burr, could suggest no
improvements.

“All right, then,” said Mr. Adams briskly. “Get right at it, Mayer.
Have it done――when do you want it, boys?”

“Whenever it’s convenient, sir. There’s no――――”

“This is Saturday. Get it done by Wednesday, Mayer. See that you get a
good dull enamel on it, like the walls. Make a good, finished job.”

The boss-carpenter nodded. Then: “How about the light, sir?” he
inquired.

“Light? That’s so. Ought to be one back of the counter. See Purley and
Ferris about that and tell them to put up a small dome light, same
design as the others here. That’s all, I guess.”

A moment later he was being shot upwards in an elevator, Mr. Mayer was
silently measuring with a pocket rule, and Joe and Jack, their lease
in Joe’s pocket, sought the sidewalk. Outside, Jack capered gleefully.
“Nearly a month’s rent free, Joey,” he exclaimed, “and we don’t have to
pay for building the stand! He’s a brick, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” agreed Joe. “I’m wondering――――”

“What?” demanded the other impatiently.

“Well, we won’t need so much money as we thought, you see. I guess we
can get started on about half of it.”

“We’ll buy more stock!”

“N-no, we’d better start easy, as we agreed to. What I was thinking was
this, Jack. When I said I thought I could get hold of my half the money
I had Aunt Sarah in mind. I think she’d loan me thirty dollars if she
had it. But I don’t know whether she’d have that much, you see, and――――”

Jack interrupted with a laugh. “Not have thirty dollars!” he cried.
“Why, your Aunt Sarah is one of the richest women in Amesville, you
booby! Everyone knows that!”

“She is?” asked Joe in surprise. “I didn’t know it. She’s always so――so
careful――――”

“Stingy, you mean, don’t you?” laughed Jack.

“No, I don’t mean that, really. She isn’t a bit stingy. She’s just
careful. About putting the light out when you’re not using it, and
bargaining with the tradespeople, and――and like that, you know. Well,
anyway, I’d rather not ask her for the money. I’d much rather borrow it
from you. If we only need thirty dollars altogether, your share would
be fifteen and mine would be fifteen. Well, if you can take thirty out
of the savings bank you might put fifteen into the business and loan
the other fifteen to me at the regular rate of interest. Would you be
willing to do that? No matter whether the business got along or not,
I’d pay you the fifteen back, of course, because I could get it from
Aunt Sarah.”

“Sure! That’s the ticket! Only I don’t want any interest, you old
Shylock!”

“I’d rather, though. I’d pay Aunt Sarah interest, and why not you?”

Jack was hard to persuade, but Joe ultimately got him to agree. “We’ll
ask your father about it, though. If he says it’s all right――――”

“He will,” laughed Jack. “Dad thinks you’re a sort of young Napoleon
of Finance, Joey, and anything you do is all right. Fact is, I believe
he’s a bit sore because we didn’t let him in on this.”

During the succeeding four days――with the exception of Sunday――the boys
spent most of their spare time in the lobby of the Adams Building
watching the construction of the news-stand. Mr. Mayer called it a
“booth,” and since they had every wish to keep him good-humoured, they
adopted that name for it themselves. On Tuesday morning it was in place
and had received its first coat of paint. The enamel went on Tuesday
afternoon and a second coat was to be applied two days later. But as
the final application could be made while business was going on, the
boys decided to open the stand Wednesday afternoon.

Joe had already ordered a small assortment of package candies,
chewing-gum, and such things from Cincinnati, had made arrangements
with the news company for current magazines and certain out-of-town
papers, had arranged with the two Amesville journals for fifty copies
to be delivered daily, and had spent the larger part of their principal
in the purchase of cigars, cigarettes, and tobacco. Although he brought
as little of everything as he could, he discovered to his dismay that
on Wednesday morning he had but seven dollars of the original thirty
left. I don’t think either Joe or Jack did very well at lessons that
day. It was frightfully hard to keep their minds on their school work,
so impatient were they to get to the stand and start business. Joe
went over his newspaper route on Tuesday for the last time. He had some
slight misgivings about abandoning that employment, for although it
brought him but three dollars, the money was certain. However, nothing
venture, nothing have; and he was pretty certain, too, that he could
find work again with the _Recorder_ if necessary.

So just as soon as school was dismissed the two boys hurried down town
to their place of business, as Jack importantly phrased it. The counter
shone freshly white and the handsome showcase, three feet in length
by twenty-two inches in breadth, nickel-trimmed, with mirrors set in
the sliding panels at the back, had been cleaned and polished until it
was speckless. They raised the hinged end of the counter and stepped
inside. Joe turned a switch and a flood of mellow light shone down
from the neat ground-glass dome above. Many bundles had already been
unpacked and their contents stowed on the shelves under the counter,
but others awaited them, and they set to work. There was not much room
between counter and wall, but there was enough to move about in. The
counter was two feet wide, leaving the space behind it not quite three
feet. The showcase had been placed midway between wall and hinged
flap and there was two feet of solid counter on each side of it. If
necessary they could make use of the hinged portion as well and pass
under it instead of lifting it up. But at present there was plenty of
room for all their goods without availing themselves of that section.
The shelves underneath were roomy and the sliding doors were supplied
with a neat Yale lock. Joe inserted his key in it, pushed aside a panel
and revealed their store of smokers’ articles. It was a quarter to four
and they worked busily to get things in shape against the time the
occupants of the building began to leave. They expected to sell no more
today than a few evening papers, but they wanted the public to know
that the stand was opened for business.

The cigars and tobacco and cigarettes went into the case. Joe had to
do a lot of arranging before he managed to make them occupy enough of
the space to satisfy him. Even then the showcase looked pretty empty.
“We ought to have about a dozen boxes of cigars,” he said, “to make a
showing. I’ll have to spread everything out in here or else it will
look as if we didn’t have anything!”

Jack, struggling with a bundle of confectionery on the counter, grunted
assent. Joe, finally closing the showcase, pulled out a dozen or so
magazines from underneath and arranged them on the counter. Then came
the candy, most of it in half-pound boxes, and a varied assortment
of gum and enticing confections put up in tiny tin boxes. There was
some discussion as to where these things should be placed. In the end
some were put on top the showcase and the rest ranged between the
magazines and the wall. The space at the other side of the case was
reserved for newspapers and a few minutes later the fifty copies of the
_Recorder_ arrived, were paid for, and spread on the counter. With them
were a half-dozen copies of morning papers from Cleveland, Columbus,
Springfield, Sandusky, Cincinnati, and Dayton. At last everything was
in place and the boys emerged into the corridor to view the result. It
certainly looked attractive and business-like, and they were hugely
pleased. Joe rearranged the boxes of candy so that the colored tops
would show better and then Jack went back behind the counter and
between them they distributed the price cards. These were small squares
or oblongs of gray cardboard with black lettering and had been done
by the man who performed such work for Strobe and Wonson. A number of
small, weighted holders had been purchased――an extravagance that Joe
had resisted at first――and the cards were slipped between the wire
loops. Jack again emerged to view the effect.

“Looks swell, doesn’t it?” he asked. Joe agreed that it did, and one of
the elevator boys, who had been an interested observer at intervals,
now stepped from his car and joined them. He was a tall, raw-boned
youth of seventeen or eighteen, by name Martin Olson, but generally
known as Ole. Ole had a shock of carroty red hair and an unattractive
flat face liberally sprinkled with large freckles that matched his
hair. Neither Joe nor Jack had taken to Ole much, but his praise of the
news-stand now inclined them more favourably toward him.

“Best looking little shop in town,” he announced enthusiastically.
“That’s a swell glass case you’ve got there, too.” He examined the
contents. “You ought to have some Dobbins, though. Dobbins are the best
five-cent smoke there is. What kind of cigarettes have you got? Uh-huh,
I see. There’s lots of fellows in the building smokes Scimitars,
though. You’d ought to lay in some of those, I guess.”

“We’ll find out pretty quick what’s wanted,” replied Joe. “What we
should have, though, is a lighter. Guess we’d better have some matches
on the showcase until we can get a lighter. You tend shop, Jack, and
I’ll go and get some.” When he returned from a trip around the corner
to the nearest grocery Ole had departed, but the second elevator
attendant had taken his place. He was a younger lad, short and stocky
and red-cheeked, with a wealth of assurance and a fine command of
slang. His name was Walter. There was probably more to it, but the boys
never learned it. Walter was equally complimentary.

“Some stand, kiddoes, believe me,” he affirmed. “All to the cheese.
Say, what kind o’ cigs do you handle? Got any Moorish Beauties?”

“No, we haven’t,” said Jack.

“You ought to, then. They’re the best. Lots o’ fellers smokes Beauties.”

“We’ve got six sorts there,” laughed Joe, “and it seems we haven’t the
right ones yet. Ole says we ought to keep Scimitars.”

Walter sniffed. “Huh, they ain’t no good. Punk! Beauties is the brand
for you. Got any novels?”

“Novels? No. Just magazines.”

“I mean nickel novels. ‘Dick Dashaway’ and ‘Bull’s-Eye Bob’ and them.
Ain’t you goin’ to have none o’ them?”

“I think not,” replied Joe drily. “You see, if we kept them we might
not attend to business we’d be so busy reading them.”

The irony was lost on Walter, however. “That’s so. They’re swell
novels, take it from me. There’s one of ’em――Oh, gee, there’s a guy
wants to be dropped!” And Walter disgustedly returned to his car,
slammed the door and shot upward.

“What time is it?” asked Jack. “My watch has stopped.”

“Nearly half-past four,” replied Joe. “I wonder who will be our first
customer.”

“Maybe there won’t be one! Say, we’ve forgotten the money box.”

“I know. But we don’t need to put that out except when we’re not here.
We――we might see how it looks, though.”

Joe went behind, produced a japanned tin box with a slot in the lid and
a small brass padlock on the hasp and set it on the showcase. On the
front of the box was printed in white letters: “Help yourself and drop
the money here.”

“How does it look?” he asked.

“All right. But, say, Joey, wouldn’t it be a joke if someone
absent-mindedly walked off with the box some day?”

“The funniest kind of a joke!”

“How would it do to chain it?” continued Jack.

“Well, it would look a bit funny, wouldn’t it, to trust folks as to put
their money in the box and then chain the box down?”

“I don’t see――――” began Jack. But just then an elevator descended, the
door opened, and out walked Mr. Adams.

“Ready for business, eh, boys? Well, you look very nice, very nice,
indeed. Hm; cigars, cigarettes, magazines, candy――quite a stock of
goods. Got any Vista de Isla cigars? I see you haven’t, though. It
might pay you to keep a box, boys. I run out of them now and then
and I might as well get them from you as send around to the club for
them. Well, I’ll take a _Recorder_, I guess. Have to patronise home
industries, you know.”

Mr. Adams laid down his two pennies and took a paper from the pile.
Then:

“Hello,” he said, “you’ve got the Springfield paper, eh? Good idea.
I’ll take that. And Cleveland and Cincinnati and――Well, you’re
enterprising! Are these today’s? Guess I’ll take the Cincinnati paper,
too. Will you have these regularly?”

“Yes, sir, and others besides; Chicago and Pittsburg and probably New
York.”

Mr. Adams viewed Joe curiously across the counter. “You ought to get
on, my boy,” he said finally as he counted out an additional ten cents.
“You’re the first person in this city ever thought of keeping a Chicago
paper. I don’t know that you’ll ever sell one, but you certainly
deserve to. Business good so far?”

“Well,” replied Joe, with a twinkle, “we’ve sold three newspapers for
twelve cents.”

“Eh? Oh, then I’m the first customer, am I? Quite an honour, I’m
sure. I’ll have to continue my patronage, boys. Good luck to you and
good-night.”

A few minutes later the exodus from the building began and no one
passed out of the building without pausing to look at the news-stand,
whether he purchased or not. But many did purchase. The pile of evening
papers went fast and long before the building had emptied itself Joe
had to make a hurried trip down to the _Recorder_ Building and get a
new supply. Several sales of cigars and cigarettes were made as well,
while a young lady typewriter smilingly purchased a box of candy. The
only department of the establishment not patronised was the magazine
department, and when, at six, they closed up shop for the night, Jack
remedied that by buying a copy of a monthly devoted to scientific
achievements.

Before they went they counted their receipts and found that they
totalled three dollars and ten cents. Just how much of that amount
represented profit they could not reckon off-hand, but they were
very well satisfied with the result of a little more than an hour’s
business. After everything had been stowed away under the counter and
locked up for the night the partners took themselves off, arm in arm,
looking as much as possible like prosperous merchants.



CHAPTER VIII

MR. CHESTER YOUNG


The Adams Building News Stand prospered from the first. There was
never a doubtful moment. On Thursday business started off with a rush
and when, just before half-past eight, Joe and Jack had to hurry
unwillingly away to school, even Joe, now the more pessimistic of the
two, had to acknowledge that success seemed assured. After school they
flew back again to discover that the stand was well-nigh exhausted
of aught save magazines and that even those were half gone! They
had placed what they supposed to be a sufficient supply of cigars,
cigarettes, and tobacco on top of the case, but one cigar-box was
utterly empty, another held but three cigars, all but two packages of
cigarettes had disappeared, and the candy was down to the final layer
of boxes! The morning papers had been pretty nearly sold out before
they had left, and so the sight of the empty counter to the left of
the showcase produced no surprise. But the inroad made on the rest
of their stock brought gasps of astonishment. An awful fear assailed
the partners and with one accord they grabbed at the cash-box. But its
weight and the pleasant clinking sound it gave out reassured them, and
when, after they had taken account of stock and had reckoned up the
contents of the box, they discovered that not only had every purchase
been honestly paid for, but that someone had dropped in five cents too
much, they viewed each other triumphantly.

“Eight dollars and fifty-five cents!” exclaimed Jack awedly. “What do
you know about that? And it’s not four o’clock yet!”

“What’s troubling me,” replied Joe happily, “is how we are to stock
up again by morning! We can get the cigars, all right, but we’ve got
to have more candy and it takes a day or two to get that. And the
magazines are more than half gone, too.”

“Couldn’t we telegraph to Cincinnati for the candy?”

“Yes, but I guess we’d better buy some here meanwhile.”

“But there won’t be any profit on it!” wailed Jack.

“No, but we can’t help that. We’ve got to keep the stock up. We’ll
telegraph the Cincinnati folks to send fifty pounds this time.”

“Fifty!” exclaimed Jack doubtfully. “Isn’t that a lot?”

“Yes, but we’ve sold five pounds already and we don’t want to have to
order oftener than a week. The way they pack it, it keeps fresh for a
long time. Maybe it would be a good idea to put in a few pound boxes of
a better grade. Guess I’d better go around to the cigar folks now and
get a couple more boxes. What was that brand that Mr. Adams mentioned?”

“Mister Dyler, or something like that,” answered Jack. “I didn’t get
it.”

“Neither did I. But I guess they’ll know what I’m after. And we ought
to have some more magazines, I suppose, if only for show. It’s most
time for the March numbers to come out, though, and we don’t want to
overstock on the February. I’ll telephone to the news company and ask
them to send a half-dozen with the out-of-town papers. I’d better
hurry, too, or they’ll be here. Where is the nearest telephone? Look
here, Jack, Mr. Adams ought to have a public booth down here in the
lobby.”

“That’s so. It would be sort of handy for us, wouldn’t it? Do you
suppose he would if we asked him?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not afraid to ask. Maybe, though, we could
afford one of our own.”

“At thirty-six dollars a year? You must be crazy!”

“Is that what it costs? How about a two-party line? Or――――” Joe stopped
and regarded his partner thoughtfully.

“Out with it!” demanded Jack.

“Why couldn’t we have a public ’phone――one of those drop-a-nickel
affairs, you know, and set it here by the wall? I wouldn’t be surprised
if we made enough to get our own calls for nothing.”

“We might,” agreed Jack hesitantly. “How much would we have to pay the
telephone company?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow I’ll go around there and ask. Well, I’m off.
Pay the news company when they come. And pay for the _Recorders_, too.
I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Why don’t you go across to the store?” asked Jack. “The telephone’s in
the outer office. Just tell them I said you were to use it.”

“Too cheeky. I’d rather pay for the call myself. Out of the firm’s
money!” he added laughingly as he disappeared through the revolving
doors.

He was back some twenty minutes later. “Anything doing?” he asked as he
deposited two bundles on the counter.

“Lots,” replied Jack. “I sold two cigars, a package of cigarettes, one
_Recorder_, and a box of these mints. And I paid for the evening papers
and a dollar and twelve cents to the news company.”

“Did you put down what you’d paid out?”

“No. Should I?”

“If you don’t we’ll get all mixed up. I’ve got a small blankbook
here and I guess we’d better start in and keep a careful account of
everything. What papers did the news company bring?”

“All sorts. There’s one from New York. We’ll never sell that, Joey.”

“I don’t believe we will, but it doesn’t matter. After a week or
so we’ll find out just what papers we can sell, and how many, and
then we’ll confine ourselves to those. They brought the magazines I
asked them to? Oh, I see. All right. Things begin to look a bit more
business-like again. Undo this candy, will you, while I get the cigars
out. By the way, what do you think? That cigar that Mr. Adams smokes is
called Vista de Isla and it costs seventeen dollars and twenty cents a
hundred!”

“Great Scott! You didn’t buy any, I hope?”

“Twenty-five; four dollars and thirty cents. Here they are.”

“Well, but, say, Joey, that’s pretty steep! Suppose he doesn’t buy any?”

“He will. He said he would. And the chap who sold these says we must
have a wet sponge in the case to keep the cigars moist. So I got one.
Also a five-cent glass dish to put it in. Run upstairs and get it wet,
will you, while I arrange these?”

“All right. How much do those cigars sell for apiece, Joey?”

“The man said twenty-five cents, but I don’t suppose Mr. Adams pays
that much at his club for them. I thought I’d ask him. We can sell them
at twenty cents and still make a good profit.”

“Twenty-five cents!” murmured Jack. “Think of paying that much for one
cigar! And they don’t look much, either.”

“You happen to be looking at the ten-centers,” laughed Joe. “The others
are here.” He opened the lid of the flat box and revealed a row of
greenish-black cigars quite different from the others in appearance
and aroma. “I guess these are something extra, eh?”

“Must be, but I think anyone’s a chump to pay a quarter for a cigar,”
responded Jack. “Where’s your old sponge?”

Business that evening was brisk and the seventy-five copies of the
_Recorder_ disappeared like magic and Jack had to hurry out on the
sidewalk and buy extra copies from a newsboy. “Tomorrow we’ll get
a hundred,” said Joe. “If we don’t sell them they can go back.” By
closing time three dollars and thirty-four cents had been added to
the amount in the box, swelling the total sales for the day to over
fourteen dollars!

That evening, in Jack’s room, they tried to figure their profits. They
had taken in in the two days exactly seventeen dollars and forty-four
cents. Since, however, they had not been able to enter each sale as
made, it was difficult to arrive at the desired result. They knew
that on each morning or afternoon paper they made a profit of one
cent, that on each half-pound box of candy they made eight cents, that
magazines netted from four to six cents, and that cigars, cigarettes,
and tobacco sold for from ten to twenty-five per cent. above cost.
After much figuring they came to the conclusion that their profits
were represented by about one-quarter of the amount taken in, or
practically four dollars and thirty cents.

“And at that rate,” said Joe, “we ought to make a monthly profit of
about one hundred and twelve dollars!”

Jack stared unbelievingly. Then his face fell. “But we’ve got to pay
the rent out of that,” he mourned.

Joe laughed. “You’re getting to be a regular Shylock, old man! The rent
is only eighteen and that leaves us ninety-four. And besides that we
haven’t to pay any this month.”

Jack brightened again. “That makes forty-seven dollars a month for each
of us, doesn’t it? And that’s nearly twelve dollars a week! Joey, we’ll
be millionaires before we know it!”

“Well, it pays better than carrying that newspaper route! Another
thing, Jack; there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do better as time goes
on. We can keep other things, you know, like post-cards and――Look here,
why not get a good line of Amesville views?”

“Views? What sort of views?”

“Why, you know; the City Hall and First Presbyterian Church and the
Adams Building, of course, and City Park and all the rest of the
show places. Have them made into post-cards, I mean. There’s a firm
in Detroit that’ll print them for us, and they don’t cost much of
anything.”

“Sounds all right. I guess there are lots of things we could sell that
we haven’t thought of yet.”

“There’s one thing I’d like to do,” said Joe thoughtfully, “and that’s
have a special brand of cigars made for us. That is, we don’t have
them made for us exactly. We just select a good brand and then the
factory puts a special label on them. See what I mean? ‘Adams Building
Perfecto’ or something like that. If we got a real good quality,
Jack, and sort of pushed it we might get quite a trade. As far as I
can see there’s no reason why we should depend on the folks in the
building for our trade. If we carry things people want they will come
in from outside for them. It’s just as easy to drop into the Adams
Building lobby as it is to go into a regular store. We might run an
advertisement in the paper after we get ahead a bit. ‘Try the Adams
Building Perfecto, the best ten-cent smoke in the city. Sold at the
Adams Building News-Stand.’”

“You can think of a lot of ways to spend our profits,” said Jack sadly.

“Advertising pays,” replied Joe. “Anyway, we haven’t fairly started
yet, Jack. You wait until we’ve been there a couple of months and
I’ll wager our sales will be double what they were today. For one
thing, the building isn’t filled yet. There are lots of offices still
vacant. Every time one is let we get one or two or maybe a half-dozen
prospective customers. Come to think of it, Jack, there’s no reckoning
that, for it isn’t only the folks who occupy offices in the building
who will trade with us, but the folks who have business in the
building, folks who come in and out. I’d like to know, just for fun,
how many go through that door every day. Bet you there’s nearly five
hundred of them, or will be when the offices are all rented! Suppose,
now, that only one out of ten stopped and bought from us, and that they
only spent five cents apiece. That would be――fifty times five――two
dollars and a half right there, besides our regular trade. And I guess
they’d average nearer ten cents apiece than five, too.”

“How much,” asked Jack, “would we have to pay a clerk to tend the stand
for us?”

“I’ve thought of that,” replied Joe, “and I guess we could get a young
chap for about six dollars a week.”

“The fellow we’d get for that price wouldn’t be worth having,” said
Jack sensibly. “I think it would pay us, perhaps not just now, but
after we’d got going well, to hire a real clerk and pay him ten dollars
a week; some fellow who had sold cigars and things like that and who
could make sales; talk things up, you know, and hustle.”

“I guess you’re right,” answered Joe, after a moment’s thought. “And I
believe it would pay us to do that. I dare say there will be times when
folks won’t have just the right change with them and we’ll lose sales.
Besides, when we get to playing baseball we won’t either of us be able
to be at the stand except just for a few minutes in the morning and
evening. Well, we don’t have to think of that quite yet.”

“Indeed, we do, though, Joey. In another week we’ll be staying in the
cage until five o’clock or so. Of course, that scheme of putting folks
on their honor has worked all right so far, and I don’t say it wouldn’t
always work, but someone’s got to be at the stand to receive the papers
and pay for them.”

“We might have a monthly account with the papers and the news company,”
said Joe thoughtfully. “I guess they’d be willing. Still, you’re right,
Jack. We’ll start out and see if we can find a clerk. How would it do
to advertise?”

“I suppose that’s the only way. Or, hold on, why not look at the
advertisements? Some fellow may be advertising right now for a job like
this. I’ll go down and get the paper and we’ll have a look.”

They found nothing promising that evening, but two days later they
did, and in response to their reply, left at the _Recorder_ office,
Mr. Chester Young called on them Sunday afternoon. Mr. Young was
a well-dressed, dapper youth of twenty-one or -two who consumed
cigarettes voluminously and had a pair of somewhat shifty black eyes.
The boys didn’t fancy his personality much, but he convinced them
that he knew how to sell goods and presented recommendations from a
former employer in Youngstown that read extremely well. They dismissed
the applicant with a promise to let him hear definitely from them on
Tuesday, and Mr. Chester Young, tucking his bamboo cane under his arm,
took himself smilingly out.

“What do you think?” asked Jack when the front door had closed.

“I think,” replied Joe, “that I wouldn’t trust that chap around the
corner.”

“Me, too. But he looks smart, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. I think he’d be just the fellow for us if――How much does a small
cash register cost?”

“Search me! But if we had one of those――――”

“Yes, I guess Mr. Chester Young wouldn’t have much chance to get
absent-minded with the cash. First of all, though, we’d better get
that man he worked for on the long distance and see what he has to say
about Chester. Then, if it’s all right, we can price a cash register. I
suppose we could get one for twenty-five dollars, don’t you?”

“I should hope so! Where’d we get the twenty-five?”

“We’ll have it in another day or two. We’re pretty well stocked up now
and won’t need to buy much for a week, I guess. I wish, though, that
Mr. Chester Young could look you in the eye for more than a thousandth
part of a second!”

“So do I. And did you see the number of cigarettes he smoked in the
time he was here? Do you suppose he’d help himself from stock?”

“If he did there wouldn’t be any stock very long,” laughed Joe. “Let’s
go through the advertisements in today’s paper again and see if we
missed any. Seems to me there must be more fellows than Mr. Chester
Young looking for work.”

“Yes, but most of them want to be book-keepers or chauffeurs. We
may want a chauffeur some day, but not quite yet, and as for a
book-keeper――――”

“We need one, but can’t afford him,” ended Joe. “You’re right. There’s
nothing here. I guess Chester’s the only thing in sight.”

Five days later Mr. Chester Young was installed behind the counter in
the Adams Building and at his elbow reposed a neat cash register. The
former employer of Mr. Chester Young had reported most favourably on
that gentleman; indeed, to hear him one could not help wondering why he
had deprived himself of Mr. Young’s services! Joe left the telephone
booth rather puzzled, but there seemed no good reason for doubting the
Youngstown man’s veracity, and they decided after some hesitation to
give the applicant a trial――if they could find a cash register they
could afford to buy! Fortune favoured them. The proprietor of a fruit
store whose business was expanding had one to sell and they closed the
bargain with him at seventeen dollars, thereby securing a machine that
had originally cost forty-five.

Mr. Chester Young started out well. The sales during his first day at
the stand were better than for any other day, and neither Joe nor
Jack could see that the supply of cigarettes had fallen off unduly.
Perhaps, as Jack pointed out, this was because they did not carry the
kind affected by their clerk! They did not find that Mr. Young improved
much on acquaintance, but since he was attending to business and seemed
to take a genuine interest in the venture they tried to be fair to him
and to like him. In any event, it was lucky that they had found someone
to tend shop, for on the fifteenth day of the month Captain Sam Craig
called the baseball candidates together in the cage in the basement
of the school building, and for a long time after neither Joe nor his
partner had much leisure to devote to their business venture.



CHAPTER IX

IN THE BASEBALL CAGE


The High School building stood by itself in the centre of a block in
the newer residence district of Amesville. It was a handsome structure
of mottled, yellow-brown brick and sandstone, four stories in height.
On the top floor was a large hall used for meetings and for morning
drill. When, some six years before, the building had been planned those
in charge of the work had believed that in providing that hall and
supplying it with a modest amount of gymnastic paraphernalia they were
providing liberally and for all time. To their surprise, no sooner was
the building occupied than demands came for additional contrivances,
and no sooner had those demands been satisfied than that troublesome
body, the Alumni Association, put forth a plea for a baseball cage in
the basement! It was over a year before the cage materialised, and
another year before shower-baths and lockers were installed, but at the
time of our story those things were long-established facts and youthful
Amesville was deriding the cage as too small and the shower-baths as
out of style!

The basement of the school building was but half underground, and
numerous windows supplied light on one side and one end of the cage.
But in February the days were still short and the light did not last
long, especially when, as on the fifteenth, the sun was hidden by
dull clouds. Since, however, the first week of baseball practice was
confined to setting-up exercises and dumb-bell work, light was not of
great consequence.

Exactly thirty-two boys reported that afternoon at a quarter to four in
the cage. Of this number some fourteen or fifteen were holdovers from
last season’s First and Second Teams, fellows like Sam Craig, “Buster”
Healey, Sidney Morris, Toby Williams, Gordon Smith, and Jack Strobe.
Tom Pollock was not present, since his duties at the store in which
he was employed frequently kept him from participation in preliminary
work. The coach, Mr. Talbot, was a wide-awake-looking man of some
twenty-eight years, a former high school player and now a lawyer who,
in spite of a growing practice, found time every year to take the
baseball players in hand. Today Mr. Talbot gathered the candidates
together and spoke energetically and to the point.

“I’m sorry not to see more candidates,” he said. “Some of the fellows
think that they can keep away until we get outdoors and then report.
Well, they can, but I give them fair warning that they will find
themselves handicapped. This indoor work isn’t designed just to keep
you fellows out of mischief in the afternoons. It’s real stuff. It’s
important. You can’t go out on the field and make any sort of a showing
if your muscles are bound. That’s what this indoor practice is for, to
limber up your muscles, train your eye, get your brain working. Some
few of you have been playing hockey, and that’s good preparation for
what’s ahead, but most of you haven’t done a thing since last Fall
and your muscles are tied up in knots. First thing, then, is to get
so you can use them without hurting them, and so, before you touch a
baseball or a bat, you’ll have a week――maybe two――of setting-up drill
and dumb-bell exercises, and, now and then, a run outdoors when the
ground gets in shape. It isn’t interesting, I know, but it’s necessary,
and every one of you can help yourself a lot if you’ll keep in mind
all the time that what you’re doing you’re doing for a purpose and not
just to pass the time. When you stretch a muscle I want you to keep
your mind on that. Don’t merely go through the motions thinking about
the moving picture show you saw last night or wondering how soon you’ll
get through. Put your mind on what you’re doing. Say to yourself, ‘I’m
flexing these muscles to make them strong and supple.’ It will tell
later on. If you don’t believe me, ask the fellows who have tried it
before. Now I’ll ask you to form in lines across the floor, just as you
do upstairs for morning drill. That’s the idea. I guess most of you
know the drill. Those who don’t will watch me and learn it. All right,
fellows. Attention!

“I can see that a good many of you don’t know the position called
for. It’s the position of the soldier. I supposed you learned that
in morning drill. Heels on a line, now, and close together, and feet
turned out at an angle of forty-five degrees. Knees straight, but not
locked. Stand straight from the hips. Put your shoulders back, arching
your chest a little. Let your arms hang naturally, elbows back, hands
slightly to the rear of the trousers seam. Some of you look as if you
were frozen. Get out of it! Ease up! You, third from the left in the
second row, relax a little. That’s better. Now, then, heads erect,
chins in, eyes ahead. There you are. Probably some of you are finding
the position a bit uncomfortable, which shows that you need just the
exercise you’re going to get here. First exercise, fellows. Remaining
at attention, bend the head back as far as it will go and then forward.
Exercise! One――two――three――four――five――six――seven――eight! Attention!
Now, from side to side, keeping the neck muscles tense. First to the
right as far as you can comfortably go and then to the left. Exercise!
Right――left――right――left――right――left――right――left! Attention!

“Keep your stomach in, Williams. That’s better. Second exercise,
fellows. Raise your arms in front of you, palms down. Now stretch them
sidewise, turning the palms up, keeping the muscles tense always.
Exercise! One――two――three――four――five――six――seven――eight! Attention!
Now relax the muscles and swing the arms backward and forward like
this. Exercise!... Now your shoulders. Muscles tense. Move them
forward, then up, then back, then down into position again. Get that?
Try it. Exercise! One――two――――”

And so it went for thirty minutes, until, in spite of numerous brief
intervals of rest, more than half of those present were out of breath
and aching in all sorts of unaccustomed places! Joe, for one, had
never realised that he had so many muscles in his body as were called
into play this afternoon! The exercises ended with the body-lift while
lying face-downwards, and by that time even the more seasoned of the
candidates were ready to quit. Mr. Talbot viewed the flushed faces with
satisfaction.

“That’s all for today. Tomorrow we’ll try more. After that we’ll use
the bells. Now give your names to Mifflin――Oh, he isn’t here? Well,
I’ll take them. After that get under the shower and don’t stand around
too much. It’s easy to take cold when your pores are open. Tomorrow
we’ll start promptly at four. Try not to be late, please. Names, now.”

So it went every afternoon for a week. A half-dozen more martyrs joined
the squad in that space of time. Gradually some of the first exercises
were eliminated from the programme and the dumb-bell drill took their
place. That dumb-bell work certainly gave surprising results, as Joe
confided to Jack one evening as they hurried from school to the Adams
Building. “I can turn my wrists in all sorts of ways,” laughed Joe.
“They’re beginning to feel as if they didn’t have any bones in them!”

“A few days ago I felt as if I didn’t have anything but bones,” replied
Jack. “We’re almost through with this business, thank goodness. If the
weather is all right about Saturday morning you’ll see us loping across
the landscape, Joey. Bat is foxy about that.” Jack chuckled. “He always
has a press of business when it comes to taking a hike!”

“So would I if I was coaching,” laughed Joe. “Wonder if he wouldn’t
like me to stay behind and help him!”

“Ask him! I dare you to!”

Jack’s prediction proved right. On Thursday of that week the weather
turned warm and windy and the ground, which had been like a wet sponge,
dried so that it was possible to set foot to it without going in to the
ankle. Sam Craig took charge and, lightly attired, the squad followed
him over the better part of a two-mile journey that led across fields
and over walls and, finally, back to town by the road. They alternated
walking with jogging, but there was no let-up save for some five or six
fellows who gave out before the romp was over. On the following Monday
the first baseball appeared in the cage, and after a short setting-up
drill and a brief session with the wooden dumb-bells the candidates
were lined up on opposite sides of the cage and the ball was passed
from side to side.

“Swing your arms, fellows,” instructed the coach. “Act as though you
were going to throw the ball over the building. Get all your muscles
into play. Don’t hurry it, Smith. Slow and easy. That’s the idea. I
want you all to get so you can put the ball squarely into the next
fellow’s hands without making him move out of place for it.”

Later two more balls were started going, and then the idea was to
pass back and forth as quickly as possible, trying to catch the other
fellows unawares. That was fun, and the cage was soon ringing with
laughter. Mr. Talbot, taking his place at one side of the floor,
enjoyed it as much as any of them. A few days after that the battery
candidates were given a half-hour to themselves and practice for
the rest began at four-fifteen. Occasionally Tom Pollock reported
and pitched to Sam Craig or to Jack Speyer, who was slated as Sam’s
understudy. With Tom in the pitching practice were Toby Williams and
Carl Moran. Toby Williams was an able substitute for Tom, but Moran,
who was only sixteen, had a lot to learn. Joe frequently went early to
the cage and watched the pitching staff at work, and his admiration for
Tom Pollock increased vastly as he noted the ease and certainty with
which that youth shot the ball into Sam Craig’s waiting glove.

Batting practice began about the first of March. A net was stretched
near the further end of the cage and the candidates took turns facing
either Williams or Moran; infrequently, Tom Pollock. They were supposed
to merely tap the ball, but sometimes they became over-eager and the
sphere would go crashing into the iron netting at the other end of
the cage and the pitcher, arising from the floor, would pathetically
request the batters to “Cut out the slugging!”

One or two of the early volunteers dropped out of the squad for one
reason or another and their places were taken by newcomers. By the
first week in March, at which time, if the spring was a normal one,
they usually got out of doors, the baseball candidates were in hard and
fit condition. Already Coach Talbot was able to form a fairly correct
idea of the possibilities of most of the forty-one or -two fellows who
now comprised the squad. George Mifflin, the manager, was custodian of
a mysterious book, in which, opposite the various names, was set down
much interesting information which the fellows would have given much to
read. In this, at Bat’s command, Mifflin set down each day little marks
and figures after the names, memoranda practically understandable by
Bat alone. Now and then came one of those cross-country jaunts――there
were five of them that season――and now and then the squad was taken
outside, where the footing was not too soft, and allowed to throw and
catch. But with these exceptions, no outdoor work was indulged in until
the second week in March, for on the fifth a miniature blizzard swept
down the valley, undoing the good work performed by a fortnight of mild
weather and drying winds. That blizzard had a lot of harsh things said
about it. It was probably as unpopular a visitation of snow and sleet
and ice and, subsequently, rain and slush as ever visited Amesville!
But there was nothing for it but to wait for better conditions and, in
the meanwhile, continue the drudgery of indoor practice, a drudgery
that had grown distasteful to everyone by this time.

Joe firmly believed that the work in the cage had done him a lot of
good, even aside from the matter of physical conditioning. He had
found that he could meet the ball in front of the batting net and
roll it across the floor about as often as most of the fellows, and
he was perhaps more impatient than any of them to get out on the turf
and discover whether his hitting ability had really improved. Jack,
himself a clever batter, predicted that Joe was destined to become one
of the team’s best hitters that Spring.

“You’ve got it all over ‘Handsome Frank’ already,” Jack declared. “If
you can cover the bag half as well as he can you’ll stand a James H.
Dandy chance to cop that position, Joey.”

“Foley’s been doing fully as well as I have at the net,” responded Joe
doubtfully. “I don’t believe I can beat him out, Jack. He looks like
a pretty good player. He’s built for a first baseman, too, with his
height and reach and――and everything.”

“Well, I don’t see that he’s got so terribly much on you in height, old
man. And as for reach, why, even if your arms aren’t quite as long as
his, you’re a lot spryer on your pins. You’ve got a mighty nice, easy
way of pulling them in to you, Joey. I hope you make it, that’s all I
hope.”

“So do I, but, as I say, Foley――――”

“Oh, Foley’s no wonder, after all. That’s what you want to get into
that solid ivory dome of yours. You’ve begun to think that you _can’t_
beat him; that’s your trouble. What you want to do is to make up your
mind that you’re better than he is and that he’s got to prove the
contrary. That’s the way I beat out Joe Kenney, last year. Joe had been
holding down the job for two years when I got it into my head that I’d
like to play out there in the left garden. So I said to myself, said
I: ‘Jack, you may not think it now, but you’re a perfectly marvellous
left fielder, one of the best, regular first chop, whatever that is!
Try and accustom yourself to the fact and hold your head up and stick
your chest out. And if anyone asks you don’t hesitate to tell them.’
Well, sir, in a little while I had myself hypnotised into acting like a
regular fielder! When I’d meet Kenney I’d look at him pityingly and say
to myself, ‘You poor old has-been, you haven’t the ghost of a chance
this spring. I’m sorry for you, but it’s my turn.’ I got to believing
it, and so did Kenney! About the middle of the season Kenney was
sitting on the bench and I was pulling ’em down out there. Of course,
a slight ability to hit the ball now and then had something to do with
it, but a lot of it was just conning myself into thinking I was the
real goods. You try it, Joey. It’s a great little trick.”

“You’re a silly ape,” laughed Joe. “The reason you ousted the other
chap was because you batted around three hundred and he didn’t. If I
bat over two hundred I’ll be doing well.”

“Of course, you will! How many on the team last year hit for over
that, do you suppose? I don’t believe there were four altogether. Two
hundred, say you, slightingly! Two hundred’s good batting for chaps of
our age, and don’t forget it. And my average last year wasn’t three
hundred; it was two-ninety-three. I want credit for those seven points
you stuck on!”

“Foley doesn’t like me,” observed Joe after a moment’s silence. “You
can see that.”

“Why should he?” Jack demanded. “Don’t you suppose he knows that you’re
after his place and that you stand a pretty good chance of getting it?
What do you expect him to do? Hug you?”

“No, but――Oh, well, let’s forget it. I wish, though, we could get out
of doors. When do you suppose we will?”

“In exactly four days,” responded Jack without hesitation. “You see if
I’m not right. Predicting’s the easiest thing I do.”

The prediction proved correct.



CHAPTER X

STRIKING A BALANCE


It is not to be supposed that devotion to baseball dulled the partners’
interest in their business venture. That was still absorbingly
exciting. Every morning at a little before eight either Joe or Jack, or
sometimes both of them, went to the Adams Building and superintended
the opening of the stand for the day’s business. The counter was
dressed with its magazines and boxes of confections and newspapers,
the cash register set up and unlocked, and business was talked over
with Young. In the afternoon, usually a little after five, both boys
returned and Young, giving an account of his stewardship, went off.
Young had turned out very satisfactorily and his employers were a
little ashamed of their suspicions regarding his integrity. It only
proved, Joe declared, that it didn’t pay to judge a fellow by his
looks. Young was a smart salesman, polite in an off-hand way, and, so
far at least, had neither caused shrinkage in the cigarette stock or
made away with a penny of cash. Consequently both Joe and Jack tried
to be friendly with him. That they couldn’t quite succeed was not for
the want of trying. There was just one thing that they found objections
to, and that was the fact that the news-stand was fast becoming a
favourite loafing place for a number of the town’s “sports,” men and
boys of about Young’s age who had no apparent occupation save that of
smoking cigarettes. They had spoken to Young and he had agreed to do
what he could to keep the fellows away, but matters did not seem to
mend and the partners daily feared to receive a protest from Mr. Adams.

Meanwhile the stand had branched out into new avenues of trade. The
“Adams Building Cigar” had appeared on the market and had met with
favour and rapidly increasing sales. A small advertisement in the
morning and evening papers had drawn attention to the cigar and to the
news-stand and the latter was no longer dependent on the occupants of
the building alone for patronage. The little shop became a popular
place and trade increased until, especially during the noon hour, it
was all Young could do to attend to customers.

A week or so after they had started in business they had been called
on by a young man who had proclaimed himself rather importantly to
be a representative of the _Evening Recorder_. The result of his
visit had been a half-column story in the next day’s paper of the
novel store where customers helped themselves and paid on honour. It
was a big advertisement for the little establishment and for several
days afterwards folks came in just to see it and, usually, purchased
something if only because of the novelty.

Post-cards, too, were added, a series of six views of Amesville scenes,
and attained such popularity that Joe’s original order had to be
quickly duplicated. The picture of the Adams Building especially sold
like hot cakes. Puzzles were another addition to the stock, ingenious
contrivances of metal or wood or tin that could be dropped in the
pocket and that sold for exactly double what they cost when purchased
from the news company. The cigar trade, however, was what accounted
for most of the business done. The little showcase was no longer too
large for its contents. On the contrary, it became more of a problem
every week to find room in it for the goods they wished to display.
Instead of five brands of cigars they now offered twelve, and of each
brand they had to keep in stock from two to four sizes. Cigarettes and
smoking tobaccos had also multiplied, while the top of the showcase
held an assortment of gum, candies, and small confections, as well as
the revolving post-card rack. In fact, the small space was already
overcrowded and the boys had been for some time contemplating making
a request to Mr. Adams for a shelf across the back to hold the cash
register and the overflow from the case.

One evening Joe and Jack arrived at the building in a pelting rain
which had appeared without warning, and the exclamations of dismay
which he overheard as the feminine population of the building faced
the alternative of getting wet or being late for supper put a new idea
in Joe’s mind. The next day a sign appeared over the stand: “Umbrellas
for Rent.” They put in a dozen cheap cotton umbrellas which, if not
much to look at, performed their mission satisfactorily. Customers, if
they worked in the building, merely left their names, paid a quarter
and were supplied with protection from the rain. In the course of time
the dozen dwindled to five or six, but by that time each had paid for
itself thrice over and instead of wasting effort in recovering the
missing ones Joe bought more. About this time an automatic telephone
instrument was installed on the counter and proved a great convenience
to the boys and to others as well.

At the end of the first four weeks of business the partners went over
their books――or book, to be more accurate. They found that they had
expended for stock, rent, clerk’s wages and incidentals the sum of
$226.50, that they had taken in $324.17, and that their net profit was
$97.67. While less than the estimate Joe had made, the amount was held
to be satisfactory, for Joe’s estimate had taken no account of clerk’s
wages and they were paying Mr. Chester Young ten dollars a week.
Something like thirty per cent. profit ought to have satisfied anyone!

They paid off all indebtedness――there were no accounts save that with
the news company, which they settled weekly――set aside the amount due
Mr. Adams for rent to date and halved the balance, each receiving as
his share the sum of $48.83. The odd cent was left in the treasury!
Then Joe paid back to his partner the borrowed thirty dollars, with
interest at six per cent., although Jack insisted that Joe should
wait until the end of the next month at least. But Joe preferred to
get square, he declared, and proceeded to do so by paying most of the
eighteen dollars remaining to him to Aunt Sarah for board and rent.

Jack’s father laughingly told them that he thought they had been in
rather a hurry to divide the profits and that it might have been a good
idea to have left a portion of the money in the business. Joe, however,
explained that they would have to buy nothing for nearly a week, except
the newspapers, and by that time they would have accumulated more
profits. “You see, sir, we’re taking in about fifteen dollars a day on
an average, and of that nearly four dollars and a half is clear profit.
So we won’t have to keep any balance on hand.”

“I see,” said Mr. Strobe gravely. “And what do you intend to do with
all the money you make, boys?”

“I’m going to put mine in the bank, I guess,” answered Jack. “I’ve
tried to think of something to spend it for, but I can’t!”

“And how about you, Joe?”

“I think I’ll start a bank account, too, sir, but I won’t be able to
for another month at least. I pay three dollars a week to Aunt Sarah,
you know, and I’d like to send a little money to my mother.”

“You could have done that now if you hadn’t paid back that thirty,”
said Jack reproachfully.

“I know, but I like to feel that I’m squared up with everyone. When I
get, say, five hundred in the bank, if I ever do, I’d like to invest
it in something, Mr. Strobe. Could I, do you suppose?”

“Certainly. An excellent idea, Joe. You might find a small mortgage
through the bank, or you could buy a few shares of some safe stock that
would pay from four and a half to five per cent. You’ll get only three
and a half from the savings bank. When you get ready to invest you let
me know and I’ll help you find something.”

One Saturday evening Joe boarded a train and went to Columbus to visit
his mother, spending a very pleasant Sunday with her and returning to
Amesville late that night.

If there was anyone even distantly connected with Joe’s business
venture who did not thoroughly approve of it, it was Miss Sarah
Teele. Aunt Sarah was doubtless pleased that Joe was earning money;
she had a very healthy admiration for folks who could do that, and a
correspondingly poor opinion of those who couldn’t; but the fly in
Aunt Sarah’s ointment was the fact that her nephew’s prosperity was
due to the sale of cigars and cigarettes and tobacco. That rather
spoiled it all in her eyes, for she was a fervidly outspoken foe to
tobacco in all forms, and considered the use of it closely akin to
the use of intoxicating liquors. Aunt Sarah made one exception. A
decoction of tobacco and water was an excellent preventive of bugs on
her window plants! If she could have had her way she would have limited
its use to that purpose. Consequently, from the first, she had viewed
Joe’s venture askance, hinting darkly that money earned by catering
to the vice of smoking was tainted money and would bring no benefit
to its possessor. Joe argued with her politely, but was quite unable
to shake her conviction. In the end they agreed to disagree, Aunt
Sarah comforting herself with Joe’s solemn promise not to allow the
association with what Aunt Sarah termed “the filthy weed” to undermine
his morals to the extent of causing him to smoke. For some weeks Joe
frequently found Aunt Sarah regarding him anxiously as though seeking
for signs of moral degeneracy produced by traffic in the obnoxious
article. Not discovering any, however, Aunt Sarah accepted the state
of affairs with the best philosophy she could command, and, to Joe’s
satisfaction, said no more about it. When he announced the result of
that first month’s balance his aunt’s struggle between pleasure and
disapproval was almost ludicrous.



CHAPTER XI

HANDSOME FRANK


The Saturday forenoon following their conversation regarding Frank
Foley found Joe and his chum leaning against the counter in Cummings
and Wright’s hardware store. Jack was purchasing a new sweater and Joe
was assisting at the task. Joe would have liked just such a garment
as Jack was choosing, himself, but the next division of profits was a
long way off and until that occurred he was bound to be in straitened
circumstances. Jack had virtually decided on a handsome brown sweater
with a broad band of blue across the chest and Tom Pollock, who had
momentarily absented himself to sell a “Junior League” ball to a
grammar school youth, returned to inquire:

“This one, Jack?”

Jack nodded doubtfully. “I guess so, Tom. It’s sort of heavy for
spring, but I suppose I’d better buy one that’ll be all right for next
fall, too.”

Tom agreed, adding: “The new uniforms will be along next week, I think.
They’re going to be the best ever. I’m getting them from a different
maker this year and he’s putting a lot better material into them.
You’ll need one, I suppose, Faulkner.”

Joe smiled “I’d like to think so,” he replied, “but I’m not counting on
it.”

“You might as well,” said Jack. “You’ll get in as a sub, anyway. Don’t
you say so, Tom?”

“I hope so. I haven’t seen Faulkner work, as a matter of fact, Jack.
Anyhow, with all due respect to Bat, I think it’s the outdoor work that
shows a chap up.”

“That’s what I say,” agreed Jack. “Fellows who can lay down the cutest,
darlingest little bunts on the cement floor swing like gates when they
get out on the turf and have the sky in front of them instead of the
wall of the cage. I’ve seen it happen often.”

“Still,” demurred Joe, “it seems to me all that work indoors must be of
some value. Don’t you consider it is, Pollock?”

“Oh, yes, I do. I think it’s fine for getting fellows in shape and on
edge, especially for the new chaps. What I mean is that when it comes
to actual playing the conditions out of doors are so different that a
fellow has to practically start all over again. At least that’s been
my experience. I’m talking of batting and fielding, you understand,
and not pitching. A pitcher can get his wing in shape anywhere there’s
room. Although, at that, I think working in the air is away ahead of
working down there with the steam pipes.”

“Do you think we’ll get out next week?” inquired Jack.

“Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if we started Monday. Sam tells me the
field’s in pretty good shape; a bit soft in places, but nothing much.”
Tom chuckled as he snapped the string around the bundle and laid it in
front of Jack. “Mr. Hall told a funny yarn one day in here, fellows.
You don’t know him, maybe, Faulkner, but you will soon. He’s a dandy
chap, and a double-dyed ‘fan.’”

“I’ve seen him,” replied Joe. “He knows the right place to buy cigars.”

“Well, he told one day about a coach they had at college when he was
a freshman. I forget what college he went to; Sam could tell you.
But it seems that they had an awfully wet spring that year and the
diamond was on a rather low piece of ground, anyway, and it wouldn’t
dry out for them. So this coach got the idea of having the players
wear rubbers! Said it would be dangerous to have them work on such wet
ground without them because they might get rheumatism and sciatica and
grippe and various other things, and he didn’t intend to lose half his
team through illness just when it was needed most. So he sent in a
requisition to the athletic committee or whoever attended to purchasing
supplies――probably the manager――for three or four dozen pairs of
rubbers of assorted sizes. There was a lot of argument about the
expense and finally the coach got his dander up and bought the rubbers
himself, and one day the fellows put them on and went out for their
first practice on the field. The field was as soft as mush and whenever
you put your foot down it went out of sight as far as your shin-bones!
Mr. Hall said it was the funniest thing he ever saw. About every man in
college was out to see what they called the ‘Gumshoe Nine,’ and they
almost laughed themselves to death. Every time a fielder started after
a ball he’d leave one or both of his rubbers sticking in the mud and
have to go back and hunt for them. Mr. Hall said that at one time there
were three pairs of rubbers sticking out of the base-path between
second base and the plate where the runners had left them in their
hurry to get around! Finally the coach sent back to town and got a box
of elastic bands and made the fellows snap them around their ankles
over the rubbers. Practice went better after that, but there was almost
a riot once, when one chap, who had stolen second, went back to get his
rubbers and the second baseman tagged him out!”

The laughter of Tom’s audience was interrupted by the opening of the
door and the advent of Frank Foley. Handsome Frank quite deserved
the title this morning. For a day or two there had been unmistakable
indications of spring, and Foley had responded to them today by donning
a Norfolk suit of very light homespun material with knickerbockers, a
pair of very green golf stockings, and a cap that matched his suit. A
pale heliotrope “sport shirt” from under whose flaring collar emerged
a vividly green scarf completed the costume, except that he was,
naturally, appropriately shod with brown rubber-soled shoes. Even Tom
was a bit taken back by the radiance of the vision which sought the
athletic goods department, and his “Hello, Frank,” sounded rather
feeble. The other boys nodded, Jack adding a murmured salutation to
the nod. Foley returned the greetings with a remarkable absence of
self-consciousness and joined the group.

“What about a baseman’s glove, Tom?” he asked. “Anything new in that
line this spring?”

“No, nothing much different,” was the answer as Tom pulled some
boxes from a shelf. “You had one of these last year, didn’t you?”
he continued, placing a glove on the counter. Foley examined it
indifferently.

“Yes, that’s like the one I’ve got now. I thought maybe there was
something new on the market. How’s everything, Jack?”

“Pretty good, Frank. My eyes are troubling me a bit, though.”

“What’s the matter with them? They seemed all right at practice
yesterday.”

“I don’t know.” Jack gravely blinked. “They seem sort of weak. I guess
it’s the glare that hurts them, Frank. You couldn’t turn your coat
collar up, could you?”

“Oh, that’s the idea?” said Foley calmly. “Don’t you like what I wear,
Jack?”

“Oh, I like it, all right, but my eyes sort of go back on me. What are
you impersonating, Frank, a custard pie?”

“You chaps have a lot of fun with my clothes, don’t you?” inquired
Foley good-naturedly enough. “I don’t mind, though. I’d certainly
hate to go around looking like a tramp, the way some of you do.” Foley
seated himself on the counter, swinging his brightly-hued legs, and
viewed Jack smilingly. “Any come-back to that?” he inquired.

“There’s a come-back from me,” said Tom quietly. “Gentlemen will not,
others must not, sit on the counters, Frank.”

“Oh, all right; I’ll try to stand up a bit longer. I don’t believe
you’ve got anything there I want, Tom.” He glanced unenthusiastically
at the several gloves displayed. “I’ll use the one I’ve got. It went
all right last year and I guess it’s still good.”

“You won’t need a glove much this spring,” said the irrepressible Jack.
“They’re not worn on the bench, Frank.”

Foley winked untroubledly. “Don’t worry about me, old chap. I may not
be any McInnes, you know, but I never noticed much resemblance between
you and Tris Speaker. You watch out that you don’t keep that bench warm
yourself.”

“Frank, you know very well,” replied Jack severely, “that when it comes
to playing baseball I’ve got it all over you. You’re not a bad first
baseman when you’ve got time for it, but you know mighty well you
can’t bat over a hundred. I like you, Frank; I appreciate your many
fine qualities, and I just love your picturesqueness, but I don’t just
see you holding down that first sack beyond the middle of March. I’m
saying this to you so you won’t be too awfully disappointed when you
lose your job.”

“Thanks.” Foley laughed amusedly. “Just who is the coming wonder that
gets my position, Jack? Is it Faulkner here? Is he telling you how good
you are, Faulkner?”

“He’s just talking,” replied Joe uncomfortably.

“I’m not saying who it is, Frank,” said Jack. “There are two or three
who look good to me in your place. I’d be sorry to see you go, though.
I certainly do like you, Frank.”

“Yes, you do――like poison,” responded Foley with a grin. “Tell you what
I’ll do, Jack. I’ll bet you anything you like that I’ll play in more
games――contests with outside teams, I mean――than you do this spring.
Want to take that?”

“Ger-ladly, old sport! I’ll bet you”――Jack’s eyes twinkled about the
cases and shelves――“I’ll bet you one of those nice leather bat-cases,
Frank. I’ve always wanted a bat-case. How much are they, Tom?”

“A dollar and a quarter and two seventy-five.”

“I mean the all-leather ones.”

“Two seventy-five.”

“That’s the idea. How does that strike you, Frank? Feel like spending
that much to make me happy?”

“Yes, but I don’t happen to want a bat-case, thanks. Think of something
else.”

“Then I’ll buy you a couple of pairs of lavender gloves to wear to the
parties.”

“Quit fooling and say something. What do I get if I win?”

“What do you want that doesn’t cost more than the bat-bag?”

“I don’t know. Leave it that I’m to pick out anything I like up to that
amount, eh?”

“Certainly. Gentlemen, you’ve heard the terms of the wager. If, at the
end of the season, Frank has played in more games than I have he comes
in here and goes the limit――up to two dollars and three-quarters. If,
on the other hand――――”

“Why do I have to buy the thing here?” asked Frank.

“Because I want to see my friend Mr. Pollock make a little money. Tom
ought to get something out of it, Frank.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll find something I want, I guess.”

“As I was saying when so rudely interrupted,” resumed Jack, “if, on the
other hand, Frank plays in no more games than I do he comes across with
one of those perfectly beautiful and useless bat-bags which Tom prices
at two dollars and seventy-five cents and which you can get from the
mail-order house for a dollar sixty-nine.”

“You try it,” laughed Tom.

“I don’t need to. The cost doesn’t interest me a bit. Well, that is the
wager, gentlemen. May the best man win――so long as it’s me. Come on,
Joey. So long, Tom. Bye, Frank. By the way, which way are you going
from here?”

“You wait around and find out, old chap.”

“Won’t tell? Sorry. I wanted to stand on the corner and see you go by.”

“What did you do that for?” remonstrated Joe when they were on the
sidewalk again.

“Do what? Make that bet? Oh, just for fun. Besides, I’m pretty sure to
win it.”

“I didn’t mean the bet, you chump. I meant why did you rag him like
that? He thinks you meant that I’m the one who’s to beat him out at
first.”

“So you are,” answered Jack calmly. “As for why I did it, I did it
because I couldn’t help it, Joey. Frank gives me a severe pain every
time I meet him and I just can’t resist the temptation to have a little
fun with him.”

“He took it all right,” said Joe. “He’s good-natured, I guess.”

“You guess again,” said Jack grimly. “He’s good-natured when he knows
it would look silly to get mad, but he’s got a disposition like
a――a――What is it that has a disposition?”

“You!” laughed Joe. “You’ve got a nasty one at times.”

“Meaning just now? Was I specially rude, Joey? Maybe I was a bit nasty.
Well, never mind. You can’t really hurt Handsome Frank’s feelings. If
you could he’d be black-and-blue by this time!”

“Black and blue are the only things he wasn’t,” said Joe. “He was about
every other colour; buff and green and purple and lavender――――”

“Shucks! He was dressed real quietly today; almost unostentatiously, so
to speak! You ought to see him when he’s really dolled up! Now, look
here, Joey. If you don’t buckle down and play ball and beat him out of
his position at first I’ll never forgive you.”

“But, Jack, I can’t play first the way he can!”

“How do you know? You’ve never seen him play. Besides, you can out-hit
him. Leastways, if you can’t you ought to be ashamed. And it’s batting
that’s going to count this spring, old man. Petersburg has got a line
of good pitchers this year and Bat will be going on the policy that
hits mean runs. So you get your eye peeled, Joey, and win that bet for
me.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be much of a batter,” said Joe sadly.

“Poppycock and piffle! You can hit the merry sphere just as well as
anyone can if you’ll only tell yourself so. Look here, what you want to
do is to go out there and when the ball comes say to yourself, ‘It’s so
big I can’t miss it if I try! Why, it’s a cinch. _Bing!_ That for you,
Mr. Ball!’ Try it and see how well it will work.”

“You’re great on the psychology stuff, aren’t you?” laughed Joe.

“I don’t know the gentleman,” answered Jack serenely. “I only know that
no chap ever became a decent batsman by telling himself that he was no
good! Confidence, my friend, confidence! That’s the――er――the password,
no, the keynote, to success! Think it over. Now, let’s go in and see
how much money we’ve taken in this morning. Ah, as usual, Young has his
Roman mob around the place. If he doesn’t make those loafers stay away
we’ll get notice to quit, I’m thinking.”



CHAPTER XII

OUTDOOR PRACTICE


                              _BASEBALL_

    “Candidates report at the field dressed to play at 3:30.

                                                     “CRAIG.”

This notice met the gaze of Joe on Monday morning as he paused in front
of the bulletin board in the school corridor. Sidney Morris and a
companion came up and read the announcement over his shoulder.

“That’s good news, Faulkner,” said Sidney. “Last year we were out a
week earlier. By the way, do you know Toby Williams?”

The boys shook hands and the trio walked together along the corridor.
Williams was a nice-looking chap of about Joe’s age, rather solidly
built, with a natural talent for pitching a baseball that had won for
him the position of Tom Pollock’s understudy, Tom, it was said, showing
Toby everything the former knew in the science so that next year Toby
might come as near as possible to filling Tom’s shoes. There was
still, however, a fairly long road for the younger boy to travel before
he attained Tom Pollock’s standing.

“You’re trying for the infield, aren’t you, Faulkner?” Toby asked.

“Yes, but I don’t believe――――” He paused, recalling Jack’s oft-repeated
advice. “I don’t believe I’ll get what I want,” he resumed with assumed
assurance. “The bases look to be pretty well occupied, and I want to
play first or second.”

Toby seemed impressed, but Sidney laughed as he said, not ill-naturedly:
“There’s nothing like knowing what you want, Faulkner.”

“And going after it?” asked Joe smilingly.

Sidney nodded. “That’s right. How’s the business getting on?”

“Very well, thanks.”

“We were talking about you the other day, Tom Pollock and Sam Craig and
I,” said Sidney, “and Tom said he thought you were the luckiest chap he
knew, and I guess I agree with him. You’ve been here in Amesville only
a couple of months and you’ve got a good business and are making money
at it. Sam said he guessed luck had less to do with it than pluck,
though.”

“I think Tom Pollock was nearer right,” replied Joe modestly. “It’s
been mostly luck, I guess.”

“Jack Strobe’s in that with you, isn’t he?” inquired Toby.

“Yes, it was Jack put in most of the money to start. About all I had
was the idea!”

“And the luck,” laughed Sidney. “‘Lucky’ Faulkner is your real name, I
guess. Well, I hope your luck keeps on. If it does, maybe you’ll get
what you want on the team!”

The gong put an end to the talk and they hurried off to their rooms.
Whether that was the beginning of it Joe never knew, but a month
later he suddenly awoke to the fact that he was very generally known
throughout school as “Lucky” Faulkner! He was inclined to dislike the
nickname at first, since to him it seemed to preclude more desirable
attributes, but Jack insisted that to be called lucky was a great
compliment because, after all, what was called luck was in reality the
reward for skill or forethought or some other quality of merit. Jack
didn’t put it in quite those words, but that was the idea he managed to
convey, and Joe, considering it, became reconciled. It was perhaps just
as well he did, for by that time the nickname had come to stay, and
his approval or disapproval would have had small effect.

That Monday afternoon it was a gay-hearted lot of fellows who gathered
at the field, which lay some ten blocks north of the high school. To
be out of doors again filled everyone with delight and neither coach
nor captain had any cause for complaint that day on the score of
laziness. The way the ball was sped around was a fair indication of the
candidates’ eagerness. Practice was rudimentary. There was some batting
at the net, with Toby Williams and Carl Moran doing the tossing, a
half-hour of fielding, Coach Talbot hitting to the infield, and Manager
Mifflin knocking fungoes to the outfield, and, finally, a short period
of work on the paths. The weather gave them of its best. The March sun
shone warmly and, although there was still a tinge of winter in the
air, spring was genuinely in possession. The sod was not yet dry and
the base-paths were pretty soft, but no one minded a bit; not even
“Buster” Healey when, in a desperate attempt to get from second to
third on the throw to the plate, he lost his footing and reached the
bag flat on his back. Practice was delayed while most of the infield
scraped the mud from him.

Joe had a session with Tom Pollock in front of the backstop. Sam Craig
was catching at the plate, Speyer taking the throws for Mifflin, and so
Bat told Joe to get a glove and let Tom pitch to him. Joe was doubtful
of his ability to hold the redoubtable Mr. Pollock, but he got along
very well. Tom used little speed and, although some of the breaks and
hooks were at first confusing, Joe soon discovered that the ball might
be depended on to straighten out before it reached him. After that he
was put on second and handled Sam’s throw-downs fairly well and found
that his own throwing arm was quite equal to the task of snapping the
ball across to first or third or back to the plate. Frank Foley held
down first base today and Joe secretly admired and envied the easy,
finished way in which that tall youth with the long reach handled the
throws. The work was pretty crude, which was natural enough, and Coach
Talbot had plenty to say, but when practice ended at a little before
five everyone was in the best of spirits and the fellows, as they made
their way back home, discussed eagerly the first game of the year,
which was due in less than two weeks. This contest was to be, as usual,
with the Amesville Grammar School nine, and while it was not looked
on as more than an opportunity for practice, still it was anticipated
with pleasure. Grammar School was already predicting what it would do
to High School, and was awaiting the fray with equal eagerness.

High School had arranged a schedule calling for seventeen games this
Spring, eight of which were to be played away from Amesville. Aside
from Petersburg High School, Amesville High’s real rival in athletics,
whom she played the final game with the last of June, the only notable
foes were Lynton High School and Crowell Academy. There were two games
scheduled with Lynton and one with Crowell. Besides the scheduled
contests there were others which might or might not eventuate; as,
for instance, a game with the nine from the carpet mill and a second,
possibly a third meeting with the grammar school. Until the middle of
May only Saturdays were scheduled, but after that midweek games were
down for the balance of the season.

Outdoor practice continued uninterruptedly for the rest of the first
week. Then, on Sunday, began a four-day stretch of wretched weather
and the fellows went disgustedly back to the cage. On Sunday it blew
a gale and swept a hard rain from the southwest. On Monday the rain
turned to snow for a while, later changing to sleet and, finally, back
to rain again. Tuesday it drizzled. Wednesday was a day of mist and
fog. Thursday noon the sun came out. But by that time the field was a
quagmire again and all hope of playing the game with Grammar School on
Saturday had to be abandoned. Consequently the contest was put over
until Tuesday at four, and Manager Thad Mifflin, who was popularly
believed to be accountable for weather conditions and the state of the
diamond, found life a burden.

Meanwhile Joe had performed, if not brilliantly, at least satisfactorily
as a substitute baseman. He had been tried at first, second and third
bases, and, on one occasion, had pulled down flies in centre field. At
the bat he had so far signally failed to distinguish himself. Perhaps he
did as well as most of the substitutes, but he found that trickling
bunts across the floor of the cage was not the same as standing in front
of Tom Pollock, or even Carl Moran, and trying to connect with their
various offerings. The best Joe could expect, or, so he told himself,
was a place on the Second Team――The Scrubs, they called them――when that
was formed. Jack was plainly disappointed in the proficiency of his
chum, although he tried not to show the fact, and never ceased to offer
encouragement.

“You’ll find your batting eye presently,” Jack would assert stoutly.
“A fellow can’t play decent ball, anyway, until the weather settles
down and gets warm. I never could. Along about the middle of May――――”

Joe interrupted with a laugh. “Along about the middle of May,” he
replied, “will be a bit late, Jack. If I’m going to do anything this
year I’ll have to do it pretty quick, I’m thinking.”

“Ye-e-es――I’ll tell you, Joey, the trouble is you don’t go at it right;
batting, I mean.”

“I suppose I don’t,” owned Joe. “Anyway, I don’t accomplish much.”

“Try swinging slower. I watched you yesterday. You start your bat away
around behind you and then swing like lightning. Maybe if you’ll take a
short swing and a slow one, just meet the ball, as they say, you might
do better.”

“Just meeting the ball doesn’t get you hits, though,” demurred the
other.

“That’s where you’re wrong, old man. Even if you only hold your bat out
still, a hard-pitched ball will bound off it away across the infield.
I think it’s a mistake to try to slug at first; before――well, before
you’ve got where you’re certain, if you see what I mean!”

“You mean that I ought to get so I can hit the ball before I――before I
hit it!” laughed Joe.

“Before you try to knock the cover off it, yes. Between you and me,
that’s the reason a lot of chaps don’t hit better than they do,”
continued Jack. “They want to make home-runs or three-baggers, and they
don’t stop to think that a short hit that gets you to first is a lot
better than a home-run that doesn’t happen!”

“You talk like one of those little blue books,” jeered Joe. “‘How to
Become a Ball-Player’ or ‘The Art of Batting’!”

“I’m telling you what I’ve learned,” replied Jack unruffledly. “I’m
not much of a player myself, but I’ve kept my eyes open. Look here,
Joey, I’ll tell you what we might do, you and I, and it wouldn’t hurt
either of us a mite. Let’s go down to the cage at recess every noon and
practise. We’ll keep a bat and ball at school and I’ll pitch to you
and you bat, and you can pitch to me and I’ll bat. I don’t mean really
pitch, of course, because I can’t do it; nor you, either; but just
serve ’em up, you know, and let the other fellow see how many he can
hit. Bet you anything you like if we do that long enough we can get so
we can connect with anything! It’s the eye that does the trick, Joey.
It’s getting the eye trained so that, no matter where the ball comes,
you can put the bat in front of it. Want to try it?”

“I’ll try anything,” responded Joe. “Still, it seems to me all that
batting practice I had in the cage before we went outdoors didn’t do me
much good.”

“This’ll be different. You know the way you do when you take a tennis
racket and try to keep the ball bouncing against a wall or a floor?
Well, that’s the same idea. It teaches you quickness and sureness,
doesn’t it?”

“I guess so. All right, we’ll have a go at it tomorrow. Have you a bat
at home?”

“Yes, and some old balls. I’ll bring them down tomorrow and we’ll try
the scheme. We’ve got to do something to beat Handsome Frank, that’s
certain!”

“You do hate him, don’t you?” laughed Joe.

“No, I don’t hate him one mite,” replied Jack seriously. “I even have a
sort of sneaking liking for the chump. But I do love to take him down a
notch or two whenever I can. Besides, I want that bat-case!”



CHAPTER XIII

THE FIRST GAME


The game with the grammar school team came off the following Tuesday
on extremely damp grounds and under weather conditions far from ideal.
Although it was the first of April, the wind was in the northeast and
it blew across the playing field with a most unfriendly ferocity. The
game didn’t begin until ten minutes past four, and by that time the few
spectators who had courageously turned out to witness the team’s début
were shivering with the cold and had deserted the stands to keep their
blood in circulation by moving about.

Joe, wrapped in a sweater, hands in pockets, sat with a dozen other
substitutes on the home bench and tried to keep his teeth from
chattering. It had been agreed that, because of the weather conditions
and the lateness of the starting time, the game was to go but six
innings. High School presented a batting-list composed, with two
exceptions, of seasoned material. Gordon Smith, shortstop, led off,
followed by Sidney Morris and Jack Strobe. Sidney played centre field
and was a good hitter. Smith could be relied on to get his base five
times out of ten under ordinary circumstances, and Jack was in third
place as cleanup hitter. Buster Healey, second baseman; Steve Hale,
third baseman; Frank Foley, first baseman, batted in that order,
following Jack. Healey was a good but erratic hitter, Foley at best
could be called fair, and Hale, a newcomer on the team this spring,
was still an unknown quantity. Captain Craig followed Frank Foley.
Then came Walter Cummings, another unproved hitter, and, finally, the
pitcher, who today happened to be Toby Williams.

Toby got himself into a bit of a mess in the very first inning when
he allowed the second grammar school batter to walk and followed that
by offering a straight ball to the opposing team’s captain, who had a
local reputation as a hitter. Captain Gandy sent that ball straight
down the alley between shortstop and third baseman and took two bases
on the hit, promoting the man ahead to third. Toby struck out the next
boy, and with two gone, the prospect of escaping being scored on became
brighter. But a glaring error by Healey let in two runs and put the
fourth batsman safely on first, from whence he departed for second a
moment later and was thrown out, Craig to Smith.

The handful of grammar school youths shouted and exulted and swaggered,
reminding each other that “I told you so!” But their delight didn’t
last long, for High School fell on their pitcher and swatted the ball
all over the lot, filling the bases with no one out. Buster Healey
tried to redeem himself by cleaning them off, but only fouled to third
baseman, and Hale struck out, more because of a lack of confidence
than because the pitcher’s offerings were in any way difficult. When
Foley went to bat there seemed but slight chance of scoring and so Tom
Pollock, who was coaching behind first, sent out orders for a triple
steal. Strangely enough, Foley not only connected with the ball as the
runners sprinted, but actually hit it out safely for two bases! That
took the heart out of Grammar School’s twirler and he passed Sam Craig,
in spite of the captain’s very evident desire to earn his way, and
repeated the compliment in the case of Cummings. That advanced Foley
to third, and when Toby came to bat he performed very nicely, just as
he was told to, trickling a bunt along first base line and beating the
throw to the bag. Foley scored unchallenged.

Grammar School began to despair of ever getting that third out! Gordon
Smith hit safely, scoring Craig and Cummings and putting Toby Williams
on second, Sidney Morris drew a pass, and, living up to his reputation,
Jack Strobe cleaned the bases with a long line-hit that didn’t touch
the ground until it was able to strike the right field fence on the
first bound! But Jack, although he barely managed to reach third on
what should have been only a two-bagger, died there a minute or two
later when Buster again failed to distinguish himself.

High School jeered and flung derisive remarks in the direction of
the small but devoted band of grammar school youths, who, in their
dejection, found successful repartee beyond them.

The second inning found a new pitcher in the points for the grammar
school, but he was only slightly more puzzling than the deposed
twirler, and, after turning the enemy down in one, two, three order,
High School proceeded to indulge in another batting-fest. But this time
she scored only three runs, bringing her total to twelve. By the end
of that inning only the more enthusiastic “fans” remained, the others
seeking warmer surroundings. With a lead of ten runs, Coach Talbot
decided to begin on his second-string players and made substitutions
right and left during the remainder of the game. Toby Williams gave
place to Carl Moran in the fourth, and Moran, heartened by the lead his
team possessed, pitched a very pretty article of ball. When Amesville
took the field in the fifth inning only four regulars remained in the
line-up――Sam Craig, Sidney Morris, Frank Foley and Carl Moran. Buster
Healey gave way to Joe, who was secretly hoping to be allowed on
first. When, however, Foley did drop out, in the final inning, it was
young Farquhar who took his place. Joe wasn’t worried by the rivalry
of Farquhar, who was as yet by no means varsity material, but how, he
wondered, was he ever to convince Coach Talbot or Captain Craig or
anyone else that he could play first base if he never was allowed to
get there?

On second Joe played a steady game, but had little to do, since Moran
held the visitors in check throughout the two innings. The contest
finally ended with the score 17 to 3, the grammar school’s third run
having been scored in the fourth by a combination of two scratch hits
and an error by shortstop. By the time the last man was out in the
sixth the players and the handful of spectators who remained were
chilled to the bone and heartily glad to get away. On the whole, that
first baseball game of the season had proved just about what Jack
dubbed it, a “frost.”

Perversely, the weather changed its tune the next day, and for a week
blue skies and soft breezes held sway, and practice was once more
enjoyable. They worked hard, all of them, from Captain Sam himself
down to the youngest and newest tyro, but it was work they liked. By
the time another week had passed into history improvement was plainly
visible. The team was finding itself. Batting was gradually ceasing to
be a lost art, wild heaves were becoming fewer, and on the base-paths
the fellows began to show what Coach Talbot called almost human
intelligence.

The noonday practice in the cage was producing results for Joe and
Jack. It would have been strange if it had not, for when you put in
from fifteen to twenty minutes six times a week doing nothing but
trying to bring a poised bat against a thrown ball you’ve simply got to
learn something! And Joe learned that the time to judge a pitched ball
was just before it reached the plate and not when it left the pitcher’s
glove, and that “the shorter the swing the surer the hit.” They took
turns standing in front of the wall at one end of the baseball cage
and trying to hit everything that came. At first they made no special
effort to direct the hits. The game was to let no ball get past. It was
fine training for the eye, there could be no doubt of that, and very
soon the one who pitched had to use all his cunning to get the ball
by the bat. Then the batter tried to put the ball always toward the
pitcher, and after he had gained proficiency at that he attempted to
hit it to the left or the right.

Naturally enough it was Jack who showed the most cleverness at this,
and when they had been holding these batting practices for some three
weeks his ability to hit every offering and tap it away to any corner
of the cage he liked was almost startling. The boys usually had an
audience of from one or two to a dozen, who, coming first to make fun,
finally watched with interest and admiration. Many were the requests
from the spectators to be allowed to try their skill, but Joe and Jack,
by then very earnest at their work, refused to be interfered with.
Two other fellows appeared one day with bat and ball and insisted on
sharing the cage. But their enthusiasm was short-lived. They came the
next day and the third day following that, but never again.

For a time Joe was deeply disappointed, even disgruntled, because that
practice in the cage failed to bring about any improvement on the
field. The fact puzzled Jack, too, and he had no very good explanation
to offer. The best he could do was to lay it to the difference of
conditions. Joe agreed that that was probably it and wanted to know
what use there was in keeping on with the cage stunt. But he did keep
on, nevertheless, and at last, just when he was reaching a stage of
abject hopelessness, the practice bore fruit.

It was one Wednesday afternoon, two weeks after the grammar school
game. Two other unimportant contests had been won and in three days
Amesville was to play the first of its two scheduled games with Lynton
High School. Joe, with a half-dozen others, was at the batting-net and
Williams, a bit bored and listless, was pitching. Buster Healey had
finally managed to line one to the equally bored substitutes who were
fielding the balls, and had stepped aside, giving place to Joe. Joe had
already been up once and had had a hard time getting his hit in spite
of the fact that Toby was putting very little on the ball. And now he
was just as hopeless as ever he had been as he hitched his trousers and
gripped his bat.

“Soak it, Faulkner,” said Cummings lazily. “I want another whack at it
before Toby’s arm gives out.”

Toby, picking up one of the half-dozen balls that surrounded him,
grinned: “If he hits before I get three over on him I’ll chase it
myself.”

“That’s a sporting proposition, Faulkner,” exclaimed Hale. “Go to it!
I’d love to see Williams trot over to the fence and back!”

Toby was a little more crafty now, took a full wind-up and shot a drop
over the base-bag which did duty as a plate. Buster, leaning on his bat
behind the net, announced a strike.

“It was a peach, Toby. Now don’t let him work you again, Joe. Watch for
a slow one.”

“This is going to be a beaner,” laughed Toby. “Look out!”

But it came waist-high, broke to the left, and failed to win Buster’s
approval.

“Ball, Toby,” he said. “Too wide. Come on, now, show your goods!”

Toby’s reply to the challenge was a fast ball with a slight curve and
Joe guessed it right. Bat and ball met and, although Joe made only
a half-swing, the sphere sped straight over Toby’s head――he ducked
involuntarily, to the delight of the batters――and travelled far back
down the field.

“Don’t touch it!” bawled Buster. “Let it alone, Loomis! Now, then,
Toby, shake a leg, old scout! You said you’d field it, you know.”

Toby smiled wanly and kept his promise, jogging far down the field to
the surprise of the fielders and the gleeful chortles of the batting
squad.

“That was a peach,” declared Steve Hale as Joe, as much surprised
as Toby Williams, measured the hit and relinquished his place to
Cummings. Joe looked indifferent, but secretly he was as pleased as
Punch. There’s something delightfully heartening in the feel and
sound of a good, clean hit, and as Joe moved back he still felt the
tingle in his palms and experienced an inward glow of satisfaction.
That, he reflected, was the first hit he could remember that he had
been entirely satisfied with! Of course, it had been made in practice
instead of in a game, but still Toby had really been trying to fool him
and some measure of credit was due him.

Toby came back, hot and perspiring, from his jaunt, with the recovered
ball in his hand, and proceeded to wreak vengeance on Hale. The fellows
at the net still guyed him, however, and Hale speedily found a hit.
When Buster’s turn came again he asked: “Will you field it, Toby, if I
get to you inside of three?”

But Toby had had enough and shook his head, which proved fortunate in
the light of succeeding events. Buster, after fouling two, sent a long
fly arching out.

When Joe stepped in front of the net Toby waved a hand in sarcastic
greeting. “Hit ’em as hard as you like, Faulkner,” he called. “All bets
are off!”

Nevertheless, it was soon evident to Joe and the others that Toby
didn’t intend his offerings to be hit hard, for he used all his skill,
“mixing them up” bewilderingly. One went as a ball, the next was a
foul-tip, the third was a doubtful strike, the fourth was another foul.
Joe was matching his skill against the pitcher’s, and for the first
time he was confident of the result. He let a second strike go past
because, although he was certain he could have taken it, it was too low
to hit any distance. Again he fouled, going after the ball just as he
had been doing down in the schoolhouse basement, and still again. Toby
showed impatience.

“Oh, hit one, Faulkner! I’m giving ’em to you soft!”

“Yes, you are!” jeered Buster, behind the improvised plate. “You’re
putting everything you’ve got on them! I dare you to put one in the
groove, Toby!”

Toby took the dare, launching a straight, fast ball to the net that
looked like a white streak. But Joe glued his eyes to it, swung short
but from the shoulders, and there was a fine, resounding _crack_! Toby
turned slowly and watched the ball streak far into the field. Then he
held up both hands and grinned at Joe.

“You win!” he said.

That was the beginning of Joe’s batting success. After that day
he faced the pitcher, whoever he might be, with a confident smile
reflecting the inward conviction that he could hit. There was nothing
remarkable about his batting that season and he was never spectacular.
Usually his contribution proved a single, infrequently a double. He
was in no danger of being dubbed “Home-Run” Faulkner. And frequently
enough, more frequently than he approved of, you may be sure, he struck
out just as ingloriously as anyone else on the team. But, somehow, he
showed a reliability that began to be talked about toward the end of
the season. It was a fair wager, when he went to the plate, that he
would deliver a hit. Often he didn’t; more often he did. And what made
his hits go safe was that practice in the baseball cage, for through
that he had attained an almost uncanny ability to place them. Few
pitchers could make him hit where he didn’t want to. Jack once declared
that Joe, who was a right-handed batter, could hit a fast ball to right
field and a slow one to left any time he wanted to! This was somewhat
of an exaggeration, but certain it is that Joe was a clever batter when
it came to “putting them where they ain’t,” and his title of Lucky
Faulkner was felt to have been wisely bestowed. But I am ahead of my
story, for Joe’s batting prowess, although it came into being that
April afternoon at the net, was of gradual growth. When all is said,
the way to learn to bat is to bat. And that is the way Joe learned.

Amesville played Lynton one warm, cloudy afternoon on the former’s
grounds and took her first beating. Lynton had a way of winning from
Amesville when all the signs pointed toward defeat. She never played
remarkable ball; never, in fact, won from any other club of Amesville’s
ability. But, somehow, almost every year Lynton managed to secure
the decision in one or another of the two games played. And every
year there came a loud and impatient demand for a third and deciding
contest. But the third contest seldom occurred, seldom when it was
demanded, because by that time both teams had filled their dates, and
never by arrangement at the beginning of the season because at such
times Amesville smiled confidently and said: “Well, this year we won’t
have any fooling. We’ll take ’em both!”

Lynton’s perversity had secured for her the compliment of being looked
on by Amesville as second only to Petersburg as a worthy foeman.
Sometimes Lynton won by virtue of her enemy’s errors, caused by
over-eagerness. Sometimes she won by sheer luck, as when, two years
before, with the score 7 to 6 in Amesville’s favour in the ninth
inning, the Amesville pitcher had let down long enough to allow two
tail-enders to get to third and second bases, and then, with two down
and two strikes on the batsman, had pitched a wild ball that had sent
the batter staggering away from the plate and had seen in amazement
the ball hit the shouldered bat, bound away to just behind first base,
and land fair a yard beyond anyone’s reach while the runners crossed
the home plate with enough tallies to take the game! That contest had
become famous in Amesville legends, and nowadays it was the usual thing
for someone to shout at a crucial moment in a game: “Don’t hit his
bat, Tom!” Amesville had remained sore over that game for a whole year
and had only regained her composure when, the following spring, she had
tied the first Lynton contest and then routed her enemy in the second
struggle by the generous score of 17 to 6!

This year Amesville appeared a trifle less confident of winning the
two battles, although she perhaps secretly expected to do so. At all
events, she took no chances in that first game. Tom Pollock started in
the box and remained until the seventh inning, at which time Amesville
had a satisfactory lead of four runs. Toby Williams relieved him, and
Toby had an off-day if ever pitcher had! For two innings he escaped
real punishment, although one of several passes resulted in the eighth
in a tally for Lynton. But in the first half of the ninth, with the
score then 8 to 5 in the home team’s favour, Toby simply laid down
in the traces. Afterwards some of the blame was laid at the door of
coach and captain, for it was said that Jack Speyer, who was put in
Sam Craig’s place behind the bat in the eighth, showed poor judgment.
In any case, after getting through the next to the last session at
the expense of but one run, Toby went to the bad completely. Twice,
when the batter had three balls and no strikes against him, Speyer and
Toby met in consultation between plate and mound and Lynton howled and
hooted. In that disastrous ninth Toby gave two passes, hit a batsman
and was punished for four hits with a total of six bases! Before Carl
Moran could even peel his sweater off preparatory to warming up the
mischief was done. When Carl did go in the score was tied and there
were runners on second and third, with two men out. The only wonder was
that Lynton had managed to score so few runs! Carl did his best, which
was not a very good best, but he was facing a desperate situation and
was plainly nervous. The next batter hit safely past Hale and two more
runs were scored. Then Carl gave a pass, just to show that Toby was not
the only generous pitcher on the team, and, after Speyer had overthrown
second in an effort to kill a steal and one more runner had scored,
he persuaded the Lynton catcher to send a long fly to Jack Strobe’s
waiting hands.

When that fatal half-inning was over the score told a far different
tale! Lynton was in the lead, eleven runs to Amesville’s eight. Coach
Talbot used all his science and shifted and substituted bewilderingly
in the last of the ninth, and it was then that Joe made his début.
Foley, while playing a clean game at the bag, had been hitting
miserably all the afternoon, and when Mr. Talbot looked about for
someone to bat in his stead Joe was about the only fellow left on the
bench eligible to play. By that time Morris had struck out, Jack was
on second and Healey on first. Joe faced the Lynton pitcher calmly
and smilingly, but he confessed afterwards to Jack that he was a bit
weak in the knees! However, that weakness didn’t prevent him from
out-guessing the pitcher on the first delivery and driving the ball
down the alley between first and second basemen, scoring Jack, putting
Buster on third, and reaching second himself on his stomach with no
time to spare! But that was the last sputter, for Loomis, rushed into
the breach to bat for Speyer, took the count without a swing, and once
more Lynton, the incorrigible, pesky varmint, had won!

The visitors went off with laughter and song, cheering and jeering,
leaving Amesville to comfort herself with the knowledge of a future
meeting and to once more raise the cry of “_Give us a third game!_”



CHAPTER XIV

A TRY-OUT AT FIRST


The Second Team was formed the third week in April. Joe found, rather
to his surprise, that he was to be retained with the first squad as
substitute infielder and was not to be relegated to the second. That
was, certainly, a compliment to his playing ability, and he was duly
pleased, but there were moments during the succeeding fortnight when
he almost wished that he had been placed on the scrub, since in that
case he would undoubtedly have been put at first and would be playing
there regularly instead of sitting half of the time on the bench and
trying not to hope that Frank Foley would break a finger or sprain an
ankle! When Joe did get in it was more likely to be at second base than
first, since Buster Healey, the regular incumbent of that position,
was playing a decidedly erratic game and Coach Talbot was becoming
discouraged with him and was constantly pulling him out in favour of a
substitute. Buster had it in him to play fine ball, but this spring he
was badly off his game. Joe was always glad to get a chance to play,
and would have gone behind the bat, had he been told to, or even into
the outfield, rather than remain on the bench, but he did wish that Bat
would give him a chance at first.

Jack suggested once when Joe was mourning the lack of opportunity to
exhibit his skill at the first sack that they enter into a deep, dark
conspiracy against Handsome Frank. “We might,” said Jack thoughtfully,
“decoy him to the soda fountain and slip poison in his drink. Or we
might wait for him outside his house some night and stab him full of
holes. If we did that it might be best to leave a Black Hand note
attached to the stiletto in order to avert suspicion. They’d probably
arrest Tony, the bootblack, and might hang him. Tony never did anything
to me, and――No, I guess it wouldn’t be fair to have Tony hung. How
would a bomb do? We could put it under his seat at school and――――”

“And blow ourselves up, too?” asked Joe. “No, I don’t like that idea so
much, Jack.”

Jack acknowledged that it had its drawbacks. “Just the same,” he
asserted decisively, “something must be done. Frank has a nasty way
of grinning at me nowadays, and yesterday he wanted to know if I was
feeling well. Said I looked a bit pale. And the funny thing is, Joey,
that I don’t feel awfully smart; haven’t for nearly a week. I suppose
it’s the warm weather, but if I caught scarlet fever or anything
and had to lay off for a couple of weeks I’d lose that bet sure as
shooting!”

“Well, I guess you needn’t count on me to help you win it,” replied
Joe hopelessly. “Bat seems to think that I’m only good on second, or,
sometimes, third.”

“If Buster doesn’t take a brace you’ll find yourself on second for
keeps,” said Jack. “I’d like to know what’s the matter with that
chap. Last year, and the year before, too, he was a mighty good
second-sacker, but now――Great Scott, did you see that heave of his to
Frank yesterday? It went three yards wide of the base if it went an
inch, and Buster declares that he threw straight as an arrow! And even
his hitting is punk. I don’t see Bat’s idea of trying to make a first
baseman of Farquhar this season. The kid’s too green for it.”

“Maybe if Healey would brace up,” said Joe, “I’d lose my job at second
and might get a chance to substitute Foley. I sometimes wish they’d let
me go to the Scrubs.”

“Piffle! At least, you’re a member of the First Team, even if you don’t
play all the time, and you’ll get your letter, too, before the season’s
over. Next month Bat will be putting you in somewhere for four or five
innings at a whack. Then, if you get into the Petersburg game you’ll
get your A.”

“Yes, but what’s to keep Bat from getting tired of seeing me sitting
around and letting me go long before that?” asked Joe dismally.

“Everything! He’s got to have at least two substitute infielders,
hasn’t he? And you’re one of them, aren’t you? Anyway, if you keep on
batting as well as you’ve been doing it he won’t dare to let you go.
Speaking of that, Joey, I guess we’ve done about all we can with that
parlour baseball stunt of ours in the cage. We might as well call that
off, I think.”

“Especially as we’ve missed about every other day lately,” Joe laughed.

“I know. It’s too warm now to feel ambitious. All a fellow wants to do
at recess is lie on his back and watch the clouds go over and wonder
where they get the energy to do it! You can’t say, though, that that
scheme of mine hasn’t worked.”

“I don’t try to. It did me a lot of good, Jack. I――I almost think that
by next year I’ll be a fairly good hitter.”

“You’ll be that this year if you keep on improving. Tom is the only
fellow you can’t hit about as you like. And that’s no disgrace to you,
because Tom Pollock is about as good a pitcher as you’ll find in the
State, and I’m not excepting professionals, either!”

“Toby told me the other day that Tom has a chance to go to a league
team whenever he wants to.”

“I should say he had! Why, three or four teams have been after him. He
could get a try-out with Detroit tomorrow if he wanted it. But Tom says
he’s going to college next Fall, and, of course, he wants to play ball
there.”

“I should think he would. I wish I thought I could go to college, Jack.”

“Why can’t you? In another year you’ll have so much money saved up that
you’ll be able to do as you like! The stand’s doing better every month,
and the first thing we know we’ll be millionaires!”

“We fooled ourselves about Young, all right, didn’t we? Honest, Jack, I
expected long before this that he’d have shown a yellow streak.”

“Me, too. And the funny thing is that I still don’t altogether trust
him. But everything seems perfectly straight, doesn’t it?”

“Absolutely. I don’t believe he’s done a thing shady except swipe a box
of cigarettes now and then. I guess he’s about as good a fellow as we
could have found for the job.”

“He sure is. By the way, when we engaged him we said something about
giving him a raise, didn’t we, if he got along all right?”

“Yes, we did, and I suppose we’d better be thinking about doing it.
Still, he’s been working only about two months. We’ll let it go until
next month, Jack.”

“All right. I dare say he isn’t looking for a raise just yet. He hasn’t
made any hints to me, anyway. The thing that puzzles me, though, is how
he can wear the flossy clothes he does on ten dollars per. He’s almost
as beautiful as Frank Foley!”

“I can answer that,” replied Joe drily. “He has accounts with a lot of
the stores. A chap came in the other day when I was at the stand and
wanted me to pay a bill of sixteen dollars for underwear and ties and
things. Thought I was Young. I told him to try again. If he has many
bills around town like that one he won’t be with us much longer, I
guess, and that’s one reason I think it’ll be just as well to wait a
bit longer before we make that raise. It doesn’t do much good to raise
a chap’s wages and have him leave you in the lurch a few weeks later.”

“Well, if he’s got creditors after him,” laughed Jack, “he needs the
raise pretty badly right now! But I guess you’re right. We’ll wait
and see what happens. He’s an idiot to blow in money like that for
pink-striped shirts and things. I’d love to hitch him and Handsome
Frank up and drive them tandem down Main Street some afternoon!” And
Jack chuckled merrily.

“Do you suppose,” asked Joe, after a minute’s silence, “that it would
do to ask Bat for a try-out at first? I mean, tell him I’ve played
the position and think I could do it again; make a bid for the job to
substitute Foley.”

“Don’t do it. Bat wouldn’t like it a bit, old man. Bat’s peculiar
that way. Tell you what you might do, though. You might sort of hint
something of the sort to Sam. Sam wouldn’t mind it, I guess. I believe
I’d do that, Joey, some time before long. As I’ve previously remarked,
something’s just got to be done about Mr. Foley if we don’t want him to
cop that bet we made.”

“I don’t see,” said Joe innocently, “how that interests me any. _I_
didn’t bet with him.”

“Why, you――you――you ungrateful chump!” exclaimed Jack. “Do you mean to
say that you’re going to leave me in the lurch? Didn’t you agree to
oust Frank from first base? Didn’t you――――”

“No, I didn’t,” Joe laughed. “That was your idea entirely. Besides,
what would I get out of it? You couldn’t cut that bat-case in half,
could you?”

“I’ll let you use it on Sundays,” replied Jack generously.

Joe pondered for several days the plan of confiding to Sam Craig his
desire to become a first baseman. Once he got his courage almost to
the sticking-point, but a troublesome conviction that Sam would think
him “fresh” held him back. And then, before he again reached the
determination to take the plunge, events made it unnecessary.

During the last half of April, Amesville played three games, one with
Grammar School on a Thursday and two with outside teams of no great
importance. In the Grammar School contest High School was again easily
victorious, although the score was somewhat more even than in the
first meeting. The Grammar School pitcher who had been so unmercifully
drubbed came back strong and proved rather a hard nut to crack,
holding High School to eight hits for a total of twelve bases in the
seven innings he pitched. The score at the end was 8 to 3. The team
journeyed to Sinclair one Saturday and played the high school team
there, winning easily, with Tom Pollock pitching five innings and Toby
Williams four, by the tune of 11 to 5. On the last Saturday of the
month Corby High School came to Amesville and was walloped 14 to 6,
Carl Moran presiding on the mound for eight innings and pitching very
good ball until a tired arm threatened to bring his downfall, and Tom
Pollock was hurried to the rescue.

Every afternoon, save when an outside team was to be played, the First
Team and Scrubs came together and some very close, hotly-contested
battles ensued. Oddly enough, Joe’s first opportunity to show what he
could do as a first baseman found him playing with the Scrubs. One
afternoon the Scrubs’ regular first baseman was missing and when its
shortstop got mixed up at second with Sidney Morris and was helped off
the field with a badly-wrenched knee, the Scrubs’ coach, a high school
graduate named Meyers, was in a quandary and was forced to borrow
a player from the First. The choice fell on Joe, and as Joe was a
stranger to the shortstop position Meyer put his third baseman there,
transferred his first baseman to third, and put Joe at first. Joe was
rather too nervous during the first inning to make much of a showing,
but, fortunately, Carl Moran, who was pitching for the Scrubs, held the
First fairly tight and Joe was able to get by without anything worse
than a doubtful error when he failed to get a wide throw in time to
make the out. But in the succeeding innings, five in all, he covered
the bag in a style which opened Mr. Talbot’s eyes and brought good
words from his friends. If he did not have the reach that Frank Foley
had, he was so much quicker than that other youth that he quite made up
for the fact, while at bat he was easily the superior of that player.
Joe did not, however, greatly distinguish himself with the stick that
afternoon, for Tom Pollock pitched the whole six innings for the First,
and Tom, when he tried, could hold any fellow on the team helpless.
Still, Joe did do better than any other member of the Scrubs, getting
two hits, one of the scratch variety, as his earnings. The First Team
nosed out of the game with a two-run lead, but had to work hard that
day for their victory.

The result of Joe’s exhibition with the Scrubs that afternoon was
that two days later he was substituted for Foley in the fifth inning
of a game with the Second Team, much to Foley’s surprise and, I fancy,
disgust. Again he got through creditably, although a poor heave
from Buster Healey got past him on one occasion and led him in the
subsequent confusion to himself make a hurried and ragged throw to
third. But the misplay did not appear in the results and he more than
atoned with two stops that brought applause from the stand and the
benches and by lacing out a two-bagger in the fourth inning that sent
two runs across.

Jack was jubilant as they walked back to town after that game. “You’ve
been and gone and done it, Joey!” he said. “You’ve shown Bat at last
that you’re the man for the job! I saw him and Sam put their heads
together when you cracked out that two-bagger, and I’ll bet you
anything they mean to find a place for you. Why shouldn’t they, anyway?
Don’t they need all the batting strength they can get? And don’t you
hit a lot better than Foley, or three or four others, for that matter?
What Bat’s trying to do now, I guess, is to figure out some way of
getting you in the line-up. Well, he will either have to put you at
first or second. Hale has made good at third, all right. If I were he
I’d switch Buster and Gordon Smith around. Gordon’s a good shortstop,
of course, but I dare say he could play second just as well. That would
give Buster a chance to redeem himself, you see. Still, that wouldn’t
make a place for you, Joey.” Jack frowned intently a moment and then
continued: “No, sir, the only thing to do is to shelve Frank!”

“Don’t be an idiot! Why should he shelve Foley? Foley can play first
better than I can.”

“That’s all right. With a week’s practice you could do just as well
as he’s doing. And when it comes to batting you’re away ahead of him.
And I want to tell you, Joey, that what this team is going to need
when we run up against Petersburg is fellows who can roll the pill!
Well, anyway, you wait and see. Something will happen to Handsome Frank
before long, mark my words. I’m a prophet, Joey!”

“You’re a chump, you mean. Walk up and let’s get somewhere. Speaking of
profits, I’d like to find out what ours have been today.”

“All you think of is filthy money,” mourned Jack.

“And all you think of,” Joe retorted, “is that old bat-case!”



CHAPTER XV

BUSTER DROPS OUT


The following day the team went to Crawford Mills and played a nine
made up of the youths of that small but busy town. About half of the
members were high school boys and the rest were from the offices of the
steel mills, many of the latter youths of twenty or even twenty-two
years. In the field the Crawford Mills aggregation presented a
peculiar spectacle, for their shortstop was a chubby youth of no more
than fifteen, while their catcher was at least twenty-one, and their
pitcher, a sort of human bean-pole, wore a mustache! Lack of practice,
however, was against the “Millers” and, although Amesville had
difficulty with that pitcher, she nevertheless won out in the seventh
inning with a mixture of hits, daring base running, and errors, the
latter by the opponent.

Joe, who had had hopes since the day before of getting another chance
at first base, was considerably disappointed at being left idle on
the bench until the eighth inning, when he was put in to run for Tom
Pollock, that youth having turned his ankle at first base. That was
all the playing Joe did, and he sat disgruntledly during the rest of
the game and watched Amesville hold her lead and ultimately emerge the
victor, eight runs to six.

The “Millers” were good losers and cheered the visitors heartily when
the contest was over, and their captain, the tall, mustached pitcher,
shook hands with Tom Pollock and hoped his ankle wasn’t hurt much. Tom
was able to reassure him. Then a request was made for a second game at
Amesville, and Sam Craig agreed to see what could be done about one.
High School journeyed home at dusk, very well satisfied with an almost
errorless performance――Buster Healey had alone sinned――and very hungry.
Joe was wedged in between Jack and Walter Cummings in the trolley car
going back, with Frank Foley directly in front on the next seat. Jack,
who had outshone himself that afternoon in left field, was feeling
especially cheerful and, before they had been buzzing across country
very long, began to heckle Handsome Frank, to the amusement of the
others within hearing.

“Say, Frank,” he began, leaning over, “we’ve got a fellow working for
us at the news-stand who makes you look like a faded leaf, old top.
Honest, Frank, he’s got it all over you as a swell dresser. You’ll have
to look to your laurels right smart. That’s no josh, either. Why, that
fellow’s got a pink-and-green-striped shirt that would simply fill you
with envy!”

“Hello, Jack,” was the response. “You jabbering again?”

“Yep, jabbering again, Frankie. Listen. You’re months behind the style,
old chap. They’re not wearing those all-leather shoes any more. You
want to get some with cloth tops. They’re the only proper dress for the
Johnnies. I’m afraid you haven’t read your fashion journal this month!”

“The trouble with you and Faulkner,” replied Frank over his shoulder,
“is that you dress so like tramps that when you see a fellow with a
clean collar on you don’t know what to make of it!”

That produced chuckles from the nearby seats. Jack smiled serenely.
“Yes, there’s something in what you say. That’s where you have it on
the rest of us, Frank. Your collars are so plaguey high that no one
can see whether they’re clean or not on top! But what I’m telling you
about the cloth-top shoes is right as rain. They’re positively the
last cry. Get after ’em, Frank.”

“Don’t worry about my shoes,” was the reply. “Look after your own,
Jack. There’s a place down town where you can get them shined for a
nickel. You and your partner had better drop in there some day.”

“They’d never do Jack’s for a nickel,” remarked Buster. “His feet are
too big.”

“Oh, I shine mine at home,” said Jack cheerfully. “I save a nickel
every week or two, you see. When I get a quarter saved up I’m going to
get one of those manicures like Frank’s. They’re great! Every time he
puts his hand up you get blinded.”

“Every time you put your hand up,” chuckled Frank, “I think someone’s
dead!”

“Now what’s he mean by that?” asked Jack, as the others laughed.

“You’d better dry up,” advised Joe amusedly.

“Good advice, Faulkner,” Foley commented. “Wash his hands when you get
him home. Your own, too.”

“I’ll leave it to the crowd if my hands aren’t clean,” exclaimed
Jack indignantly, holding them up for inspection. “I washed them
only yesterday. Frank, you’re almost insulting. For two cents I’d
disarrange your scarf and break your heart!”

“Oh, cut it out,” growled Foley. “You’re not smart; you just think you
are. I wear whatever clothes I please, and it doesn’t concern you.”

“Doesn’t it, though? My word! It concerns me a lot, old chap. Many’s
the time I’ve got up in the morning feeling blue and depressed and then
seen you glide by in a pink shirt and a green hat and white spats and
perked right up, Frank! Why, you’re our little blob of local colour,
that’s what you are. We’re all better for you, Frank. Amesville would
be pale and commonplace without you. Why, just the other day I walked
along a block or two behind you inhaling the aroma that floated back,
and life seemed different right away. That was the day everyone was
calling up the gas company and complaining of leaks!”

This sally brought a burst of laughter that dissipated the final
remnant of Foley’s good-temper, and he turned to face Jack with an
angry countenance. Unfortunately, he caught the grin on Joe’s features
and straightway transferred his attention to that youth.

“What are you smirking about, you fresh kid?” he demanded. “You go and
sell your five-cent cigars and let me alone. You’re a joke, anyway,
and you’re the biggest joke when you try to play ball. You grin at me
and I’ll reach back there and wipe it off!”

“Cut it out, Frank,” said Tom Pollock from the seat behind Joe’s. “Keep
your temper, old man. No one’s hurting you.”

“Well, those cheap guys can keep their mouths closed, then. I wasn’t
saying anything to them, was I?”

“You began it,” retorted Jack mendaciously. “You’re jealous because I
told you there was a fellow in town with cloth-top shoes. I only said
it for your own good, and――――”

“Dry up, Jack,” commanded Tom. “You’re tiresome.”

“All right,” grieved Jack. “That’s all the thanks I get for trying to
be kind and helpful!”

Just then they had to pile out and change to another trolley, and when
they were reseated Jack discovered that Foley had placed himself the
length of the car away. He sighed. “No more fun,” he murmured. “I shall
go to sleep.”

That incident, unimportant as it seemed, bore results. Frank Foley
evidently reached the conclusion that it was Joe and not Jack who was
at the bottom of the heckling, for whenever they met Joe was regarded
with scowling dislike. It didn’t bother Joe much, but it amused Jack
immensely. “Honestly, Joey,” he would chuckle, “you oughtn’t to put
me up to saying things about Frank. It isn’t nice. If he speaks to me
about it I’ll just have to tell him that I don’t approve of it a bit.”

“I wish you and your Frank were at the bottom of the river,” replied
Joe vigorously. “It’s bad enough being after a fellow’s position
without having a lot of ill-feeling besides. If I should beat him
out, either this year or next, he’d always think I did it unfairly, I
suppose.”

“I’m afraid he would,” grieved Jack. “Try and be decent to him, Joey.
Don’t make fun of him the way you do. The things you say――――”

“Oh, dry up!” muttered Joe. Jack obeyed, chuckling wickedly.

High School continued to win most of her games, coming a cropper now
and then, however, as when she received a decisive beating at the
hands of Lima. Amesville was shut out for the first time that season,
while her opponent managed to get seven runs. Toby Williams started
for Amesville, but lasted only three innings. By that time Lima had
four runs to her credit. Tom Pollock kept her at bay until the sixth
inning, when an error by Healey, coming on the heels of a dropped fly
by Cummings, let three more runs across. Amesville was utterly unable
to bunch the few hits she managed to make off the Lima pitcher and so
travelled home with banners trailing. The direct outcome of that game
was the replacing of Buster Healey at second base with young Farquhar.
Farquhar, however, only lasted through three days of practice and was
then relegated to the Scrubs. In his place Coach Talbot requisitioned
George Peddie, and Peddie was tried at third while Hale went to second.
Healey was heartbroken. It was understood that he was to have his
position again as soon as he recovered from his present slump, but
Buster viewed the situation hopelessly.

One afternoon when he and Joe were together on the bench during the
first inning of a game with the Scrubs he confided his perplexities.
“I don’t know what the dickens is the matter with me, Joe,” he said.
“I didn’t use to have any trouble. Last year I played through with
only fourteen errors all season, and that’s not so bad, is it? But
this spring”――he shook his head puzzledly――“I can’t even seem to bat
any more. It’s funny, too. I hit where the ball looks to be and never
touch it. Same way in fielding. I see the old thing shooting along
to me and make a grab for it and as often as not it gets clean past.
The other day, when I plugged to Frank that time, I aimed as straight
as you please and got the ball away all right. I _know_ that! But
when it got to first it was two yards to the left!” He examined his
hands as if seeking a solution to his trouble there. Joe, interested
in the new batting arrangement that Mr. Talbot had introduced that
afternoon, heard Buster’s lamentations with but half an ear. He nodded
sympathetically, though, when young Peddie had been retired at first,
making the third out.

“It’s too bad,” he said. “What do you suppose the reason is?”

“I’m telling you I don’t know,” replied Buster a trifle impatiently.
“Maybe I’m not well. I――I have headaches sometimes.” He made the
acknowledgment rather shamefacedly. Buster didn’t have much sympathy
for fellows with ailments.

For the first time Joe’s interest was really aroused. “Whereabouts?” he
asked quickly.

“Whereabouts what?”

“Whereabouts are the headaches?”

“In my head, of course! Oh, you mean――Well, sort of up here.” He
placed his hands over his temples. “Maybe,” he added with a grin,
“maybe I’m studying too hard.”

“You get a ball,” said Joe, “and come over here with me.”

“What for?”

“Never mind what for, Buster. Come on.”

Buster borrowed a baseball from the bag and followed Joe across to the
stretch used by pitchers when they warmed up. “What’s the big idea?” he
asked.

“Shoot it to me,” said Joe. He held his hands in front of his chest.
“Don’t curve it, Buster. Just put it to me straight.”

“It’s got to curve some,” objected Buster. “Here you are.”

Joe made a stab well to the left of him and saved himself a trip down
the field.

“Try again,” he said, throwing the ball back. “Try to hit my hands,
Buster. See if you can’t throw right into them.”

“Come a little nearer. I can’t see your hands so well. That’s better.”

Buster sped the ball off again, and again it went wide, although not
so wide as before. When the ball came back to him he made rather an
awkward task of catching it. Joe followed the ball.

“Let’s have it,” he said quietly. Buster yielded it, troubledly.
“Catch,” said Joe and tossed the ball to the other from some four feet
away. Buster put up his hands quickly, his forehead a mass of wrinkles
and his eyes half-closed, and the ball tipped his fingers and struck
his chest.

“What are you scowling for?” asked Joe.

“Scowling?”

“Yes, your forehead’s all screwed up. Your eyes, too. Can’t you catch a
ball without doing that?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“Try it.” This time Buster caught, but, as before, he frowned and
squinted terrifically over the operation.

“That’ll do,” said Joe. “You go and see an oculist, Buster.”

“Oculist!”

“Surest thing you know. Something’s wrong with your eyes. You can’t
see, Buster!”

“Great Scott!” murmured the other. “I――I believe you’re dead right,
Joe!”

“I know I am. I had headaches like yours a couple of years ago and my
mother sent me to a doctor. He snipped a couple of muscles and I was
all right.”

“Snipped! Say, didn’t it hurt?”

“Mm, a little; not much. Maybe your trouble’s something else, though.
Maybe you need glasses, Buster.”

“Glasses! Gee, wouldn’t I be a sight with glasses? Do you really think
that’s what’s wrong, Joe?”

“Positive! You can’t throw a ball straight because you don’t see what
you’re throwing at plainly. Now, can you?”

Buster considered a moment. Then: “I don’t believe I do, come to think
of it. Things are――are sort of indistinct at a distance. You don’t
suppose”――Buster faltered――“you don’t suppose I’m going to be blind, do
you?”

“Blind your granny! You go and see an oculist and he will fix you up
right as rain. Do it tomorrow, Buster. I’ll wager you’ll be playing
second again in a fortnight.”

“Honest, Joe? Say, why didn’t I think of my eyes? Why, now when I think
of it, I know mighty well that I don’t see like I did a year ago. Why,
last Spring I could see to the end of the field as plainly as anything!”

“Can’t you today?” asked Joe.

“No, I can’t. I can see, all right, but things are sort of hazy. What’s
a cataract like, Joe?”

“I never had one. Neither have you. Don’t be an idiot, Buster. Just do
as I tell you.”

“You bet I will!” They were back on the bench now. “What gets me, Joe,
is why I never thought it might be my eyes!”

“I guess a fellow thinks of his eyes the last thing of all,” replied
Joe wisely. “I know when I was having those headaches――――”

But a further account of his experiences was interrupted by the coach.

“Faulkner, you take first. That’ll do for today, Foley. Hale, you go
back to third. Peddie, see what you can do at second.”

Joe played four innings at the first sack that afternoon, conscious
all the time of Frank Foley’s malevolent glare from the bench. But he
didn’t allow that to worry him much and covered the base in good shape.
The following afternoon it was Joe who started at first and Foley who
took his place later on. Perhaps the fear of being superseded began to
wear on Foley, for he played poorly during the three innings he was on
duty, and Jack exulted on the way home.

“You’ve got him on the run, Joey,” he said. “Keep it up, old man!
Remember that bat-case is yours every Sunday!”

“Hang your old bat-case, Jack! I wish they’d put me on the second. This
thing of taking a chap’s job away isn’t funny.”

“To the victor belong the spoils,” replied Jack untroubledly. “Frank
won’t let sentiment interfere with getting his place back if he can,
Joey, so why should you――――”

“But he had it first.”

“And couldn’t keep it!”

“Just the same, I don’t like it. I think I’ll quit.”

“You think you’ll quit!” exclaimed the other in horrified tones.
“You’re crazy underfoot like a radish! Quit nothing! What about that
bat――――”

Joe turned on him menacingly. “If you say ‘bat-case’ again I’ll punch
you,” he threatened.

“Oh, all right. I won’t. I was only going to ask what about that
receptacle for――――”

Joe chased him half a block. When peace had been restored Joe asked:
“Have you seen Buster Healey today?”

“No, he wasn’t out,” replied Jack.

“I know he wasn’t. I’m sort of worried about Buster. I didn’t say
anything about it yesterday, Jack, but I’m afraid he’s got something
wrong with his eyes.” He told of the incident of the day before, ending
up with: “I don’t know much about cataracts, Jack, but I wouldn’t be
awfully surprised if that was the trouble.”

“You’re a cheerful little chap, aren’t you? Fellows don’t have those
things, Joey. Old ladies have ’em when they’re about eighty. My
grandmother had ’em, and I know.”

“Well, maybe. I hope you’re right. Anyway, I’m going to call him up and
find out what the oculist said.”

Events, however, proved that unnecessary, for when they turned into
the Adams Building there was Buster leaning against the counter in
conversation with the sprightly Mr. Chester Young.

“I was waiting for you, Joe,” he announced. “Thought you’d like to know
you were dead right yesterday. I went to the doctor man this afternoon
and he says I’ve got my――my――――Oh, thunder, I’ve forgotten it!”

“Myopia?”

“That’s it! He says I’m so blamed near-sighted that’s it’s a wonder I
can blow my nose! But it isn’t cataracts, anyway. Say, honest, Joe, I
was scared blue last night. I told my mother what you’d said and she
was certain sure I had cataracts!”

“I’m glad you haven’t. What’s the oculist going to do about it?”

“He says he can cure me in a few months. I have to go every day for a
while and look through a sort of machine he has. And I may have to wear
glasses, too. And”――and by this time Buster’s cheerfulness was ebbing
fast――“he says I can’t play ball any more for a while. Isn’t that the
limit?”

“Too bad, Buster. But if he can cure the trouble――――”

“He says he can. Says when you catch them young, these myopias, you can
chase ’em out of the system, or words like that. I suppose I oughtn’t
to kick, because it might have been a heap worse, but it’s hard having
to give up playing baseball.”

“No use troubling about that,” said Jack, who had joined them. “You
couldn’t play anyhow, Buster, until you got your eyes fixed up right.
Much better give it up this spring and go back to it next.”

“I suppose so. I haven’t any choice, anyway. Say, Joe, I’m certainly
much obliged to you for tipping me off. What gets me――――”

“Joe’s a wise guy,” said Jack. “What he doesn’t know isn’t worth
knowing.”

“Yes, but what gets me――――”

“Oh, that was nothing for Joey! Solomon in all his glory had nothing on
Joseph!”

“For the love of mud, Jack, shut up! Buster’s trying to tell you――――”

“I was going to say,” began Buster patiently again, “that what gets me
is why I didn’t realise myself what the trouble was. That’s what gets
me! You’d think that when a fellow couldn’t see decently he’d take a
tumble and――――”

“Sure, it’s a wonder you haven’t tumbled lots of times,” agreed Jack
solicitously.

“Oh, you make me tired,” grumbled Buster. “You can’t be serious a
minute. If you had my――my――――Say, what is it again, Joe?”

“Myopia, Buster.”

“From the Greek, Buster; myo, close, and opsis, sight. My word, I wish
old Dennison could have heard me!”

“Yes, you’re a swell Greek scholar!” jeered Buster. “Well, I just
thought you’d like to hear about it, Joe. And I hope you get my place
at second――if you want it.”

“Give it to Foley,” said Jack. “Joe doesn’t need it. But, honestly,
Buster, I’m dead sorry you’re out of it this year. We’re going to miss
you, old man. But you’ll be in better shape for next, eh?”

“If Frank’s going to have my place,” replied Buster dismally, “I’m
sorrier than ever!”



CHAPTER XVI

FOLEY IS WORRIED


The next day Joe found himself playing third base. Gordon Smith was
changed from shortstop to second and George Peddie was at short. But
this arrangement lasted only a few innings. Peddie was out of place at
short and Joe was equally miscast as third baseman. Then Steve Hale
was put in at short and Joe and Frank Foley were instructed to change
places. The game with the Scrubs was finished with that arrangement of
the infield, and, while it produced better results than any previous
combination, still it was far from perfect. After all, Hale was a third
baseman first, last, and all the time, and Foley was not fast enough
to fill his shoes. Joe secretly hoped that the arrangement would last,
for he was in possession of his coveted position at first, and, in
order that it might, he played the very best he knew how that afternoon
and won applause more than once. Now that there were no wild pegs from
Buster Healey to be stopped the position was far easier.

But the next day Foley was back at first in practice and Hale was
once more cavorting around third. Gordon Smith was reinstated to his
old position at short and the task of covering the middle bag fell to
George Peddie. That, of course, put Joe once more on the bench, and
once more Joe gave way to discouragement and Jack about made up his
mind to lose that wager. But neither Coach Talbot nor Captain Craig was
satisfied with a line-up that left out the hitting possibilities of
Joe Faulkner, and when the two teams had battled through four innings
Foley was taken out and again Joe went to first. By now the school in
general, or as much of it as followed the fortunes of the baseball
club, was watching the struggle for first base position with much
interest. It seemed as though Coach Talbot had decided to give the two
contestants equal chances and let them decide the matter themselves!
Every day Joe and Frank Foley divided the position. It is not to be
denied that Foley was still a more brilliant first baseman than his
rival. Foley had a long reach that helped him considerably, had more
experience, and was, in fact, a first-class man for the position. It
was at the bat that he was forced to play second fiddle. Joe could
outhit him two to one. Not only that, but on bases Foley was awkward
and slow. He had a positive genius for being caught off the bags, and
his attempts to slide were sad failures. Each of the boys had his
following amongst the “fans” and whether Faulkner or Foley was to play
first base in the Petersburg game became a question that was hotly
argued.

Foley had at last realised that, contrary to his early season
conviction, he did not hold the position securely; that if he meant
to retain it he had to play his hardest and, if possible, improve his
batting. It was something of a blow to Foley’s self-conceit, for last
year he had faced no real rival and had come to look on the place as
his. He was no “quitter,” and he made a hard fight of it. He tried his
level best to increase his batting average, but without much success.
He had heretofore considered that it was enough to field his position
and leave the hitting to others, and now he discovered that batting was
not a trick to be learned in a few short weeks.

Amesville played every Saturday save one until the middle of May,
reaching that period with a showing of seven wins, three defeats, and
one tie. The missed game was with Curtis School, rain prohibiting.
Of the regular schedule of seventeen games nine remained, and after
the middle of the month Wednesday afternoon contests began. The
“Millers” secured their return game, coming to Amesville on less than
a day’s notice when Arkwright High School announced its inability to
fill her date. The “Millers” were again beaten, 9 to 3, Tom Pollock
pitching most of the game for the home team. Joe played five of the
nine innings at first, getting six put-outs, an assist, and no errors
as his share, thereby bettering Foley’s record for one less inning by
two put-outs and an assist. At bat Joe had a gala day, being up three
times and securing as many hits. Foley, as usual, failed to come across
with anything. It was after that Wednesday contest that Joe’s stock
arose appreciably and Jack got Tom Pollock to put that bat-case on
the counter for him to examine! Perhaps, however, that game with the
“Millers” was mainly notable for bringing into prominence young Peddie.
Peddie, now regularly established at second, performed in a way that
was little short of marvellous, taking part in two doubles and working
with Smith even more smoothly than Buster Healey had ever done. He also
secured a timely hit to add to his laurels. George Peddie, in short,
was the hero of that encounter.

The weather settled down to warm days that made playing a delight and
that brought out the best in everyone. High School’s batting improved
remarkably during the last two weeks in May, and the pitchers began
to come into their own. Toby Williams showed more improvement than
either of the others, but was still far from being the pitcher that Tom
Pollock was. Carl Moran went through six or seven innings occasionally
without misadventure, but was not yet equal to twirling a full game.
Behind the bat Sam Craig was still the same reliable, heady player as
ever, while Jack Speyer was rapidly getting experience as a substitute.
Amesville had a fine outfield in Sidney Morris, Jack Strobe, and Walter
Cummings. Sidney and Jack were especially clever players, with Cummings
promising to be quite as good with more experience. On the whole,
the school looked forward to the Petersburg game on the twenty-first
of June with more confidence than usual. Petersburg had won a scant
majority of the annual contests to date and was always considered
dangerous. But this year, with a fast, smoothly-working infield, two
first-class pitchers, and an outfield of proved excellence, Amesville
considered that she was more than the equal of her old rival. Someone,
however, has said that baseball is two-thirds skill and one-third
luck, and that one-third has often upset the wisest calculations.

So far Jack and Frank Foley were nip-and-tuck in their race. Neither
had missed a game. Jack tried to say that since Foley scarcely ever
played an entire contest through he was already defeated, but Handsome
Frank――more handsome than ever now that Summer was at hand, with its
better opportunities for sartorial display――reminded his rival of the
terms of the wager. “I said I’d play in more games with outside teams
than you would. I don’t have to play a game through from start to
finish.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t, then,” laughed Jack. “If you did I’d be
carrying my bat around in that nice leather case right now! All right,
old chap. Go to it. But you’ll have hard work stealing a game on me!”

“Oh, I don’t know. You might break something or have measles, Jack. I
hear there’s lots of measles around town.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve had ’em.”

“I know, but some folks have them two or three times.” Foley grinned
exasperatingly. “Haven’t you got a sort of rash on your forehead there
now?”

“No, I haven’t! That’s sunburn, you idiot!”

“Well, take care of yourself, Jack. You never can tell what’s going to
happen.”

Foley sauntered away, a picturesque figure in immaculate blue serge
and a pale yellow shirt, and Jack watched his departure with mingled
sentiments of admiration and contempt. “Of all the high-faluting
dudes,” muttered Jack, “he’s the high-falutingest! Did you see that
brown straw hat, Chester, with the pleated silk scarf around it? Say,
he’s gone you one better, hasn’t he?”

The encounter had taken place in the lobby of the Adams Building on a
Saturday morning. Foley and Mr. Chester Young, doubtless drawn together
by their mutual fondness for startling attire, had become very good
friends, and Foley was quite frequently to be found at the news-stand.
Mr. Chester Young, flicking the ashes from his cigarette, smiled
untroubledly.

“Old stuff,” he said. “They were wearing those in the East last Summer.
The latest straws are higher and just off the straw-colour. I’ve got
one on the way. You have to send to Chicago for them.”

Joe, who was taking stock of the cigars on hand, smiled and winked at
his partner. “Oh, those are too cheap for Foley,” he said carelessly.

“Cheap!” exclaimed Young. “Oh, yes, they’re cheap like anything! Ten
dollars is what they stand you, Faulkner.”

“For one?” gasped Jack.

“Well, you didn’t think it was for a dozen, did you?” asked Young
pityingly. “That lid Foley’s sporting cost about six. He thinks he’s a
pretty swell little dresser, Foley does. Well, he ain’t so bad, only he
just sort of misses it about every crack he makes. See his socks? Dark
blue they were. They ain’t wearing colours this season.”

[Illustration: “He thinks he’s a pretty swell little dresser, Foley
does”]

“They’re not? Help!” Jack regarded his own brown stockings in dismay.
“I’ve got to go home and change, Joe. Honest, this thing of keeping up
with the styles is killing, isn’t it?”

“It don’t trouble you much,” said Mr. Chester Young indulgently. “If it
did you’d call in that collar you’re wearing.”

“What’s the matter with my collar?”

“Nothing, only they don’t wear ’em like that now.” Young put a hand to
his throat and pulled his terra-cotta silk scarf into place. “More like
this.”

“Oh, I see,” said Jack. “Sort of low and rakish, eh? All right. Live
and learn. Say, Joe, that thing you’re wearing is worse than mine. I
should think you’d be ashamed of yourself!”

“I’d be ashamed to be seen in one like his,” answered Joe. “Get Meyers
and Fink and tell them to send us a hundred Adams Building conchas and
two boxes of Vistas panatellas, will you? Don’t forget to give these
returns to the news company, Young, when they come today. I’ve been
falling over them for two or three days.”

“We’re out of City Hall post-cards,” said Young. “And we’re getting
short on some of the others.”

“They’re on order, thanks. That reminds me, Jack. Those chocolates
aren’t as good as they sent us first. Guess we’d better switch back to
the Cleveland folks. Their packages aren’t quite as dressy, but the
chocolates are a lot better.”

“There was a fellow in here just before you came,” observed Young,
“trying to sell us candy. I told him to come back later. He had some
new stuff, all right; glazed boxes with crimson ribbons across ’em.
Pretty good-looking line, I thought.”

“Tell him we don’t want anything when he comes again. How are you off
for magazines there, Young?”

“Pretty fair. We’ve sold about twenty of those Murray’s. Ought to
order more, I guess.”

“All right. How many are there there?”

“Four――no, five. They’ll sell today, I guess. And we’re short of
Mid-Wests. Only two of those here.”

“I’ll order twenty more Murray’s and ten Mid-Wests.” Joe reached for
the telephone with one hand and searched for a nickel with the other.
“The telephone company is after Mr. Adams to put in a couple of booths
here, Jack. If he lets them do it it’ll make this ’phone cost us money.
Hello! Amesville 430! As it is we’re making about seven dollars a month
on this thing. Hello? News company? This is Adams Building. Send around
twenty Murray’s Monthlies and ten Mid-Wests this noon, will you? I beg
your pardon? No, that’s all. Murray’s and――Yes, I think you’d better.
Make it fifty Murray’s and twenty-five Mid-Wests after this. Good-bye.”
Joe hung up the receiver and put the instrument back in place, and when
Mr. Chester Young had served a customer, remarked:

“By the way, Young, you don’t seem to be keeping that gang of yours out
of here much better. Yesterday there were six or seven hanging around.
We’ve spoken two or three times about it, you know. We don’t want this
to become a loafing place. Mr. Adams doesn’t like it, and we don’t,
either.”

“Well, you can’t turn away custom, can you? Those guys spend their
money with you, don’t they?”

“Not a great deal, I guess,” replied Joe drily. “Anyhow, they don’t pay
rent for this lobby, Young. Keep them moving, please.”

“All right. But you’d better hire a ‘bouncer,’ Faulkner. I don’t get
paid for insulting my friends.”

“You tell your friends to come and see you somewhere else,” replied Joe
tartly. “This place looks like a hog-wallow after that crowd has been
standing around a while.”

“Meaning my friends are hogs, eh?” Mr. Chester Young laughed, but not
with amusement.

“If they’re friends of yours, Chester,” said Jack, “you’d better shake
them. They’re a cheap lot of corner loafers. They used to hang out
around Foster’s until they got on to the fact that they could come in
here and keep warm. We don’t want them. Get that?”

“Sure! After this as soon as a customer gets his change I’ll duck out
from here and throw him through the door! That’s fine!”

“Don’t talk sick,” said Jack shortly. “You know what we mean. If you
don’t encourage them by talking with them they’ll go along, I guess. We
don’t want Mr. Adams putting us out of here, you know.”

Mr. Chester Young forebore to reply, but there was a world of eloquence
in the way in which he puffed his cigarette and winked at the elevator
attendant across the lobby.

Later, when the chums were on their way to the field for the game with
Morristown High School, they reverted to Mr. Chester Young. “What do
you know about his paying ten dollars for a straw hat?” demanded Jack.

“He’s probably adding about five to the price,” said Joe. “Where would
he get that much to pay for a hat? He certainly can’t do it on the
wages we’re paying him.”

“You said he was having things charged, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but he told us he was getting the hat from Chicago.”

“Having Keller send for it, I dare say. Keller’s is the place he buys
hats, because I saw him in there one day looking at some. The first
thing we know, Joey, the sheriff or someone will be descending on us
and taking away the stand!”

“They can’t do that. We’re not responsible for his debts, thank
goodness! What is pretty certain is that he must be getting near the
end of his rope. We’ll have to be looking for a new clerk pretty soon,
I guess.”

“If he will hang out until school is over we won’t have to have one.
You can take the stand half the day and I can take it the other half.”

“Yes, but that won’t be for nearly a month, and I don’t believe Mr.
Chester Young will last that long.”

“He will probably light out some fine day,” said Jack pessimistically,
“with the cash-register under one arm and the showcase under the other.
I try awfully hard to believe him a fine, honest youth, Joey, but I
never can quite do it!”



CHAPTER XVII

IN THE TWELFTH INNING


Joe started the game at first that afternoon and had a busy five
innings, for Morristown was a hard-hitting aggregation and slammed Carl
Moran all over the lot during two innings and then tried its best to
do the same with Toby Williams. Sharp fielding alone allowed Carl to
last as long as he did, and it was not until the fourth inning that
the visitors got their first run across. In the meanwhile Amesville
had scored twice, once in the first and once in the third. Sam Craig’s
three-bagger, with George Peddie on first, did the trick in the first
inning, and two hits and a stolen base accounted for the second run.

It was a snappy game from start to finish, and a good-sized audience
was on hand to enjoy it. Morristown played in hard luck during the
first part of the contest, for, although she hit hard and often, her
hits didn’t earn runs. In fact, it was a dropped ball at the plate that
gave her her single tally in the fourth. Smith’s throw may have been
a bit low, but Sam Craig ought to have held it and had the runner out
by a yard. He didn’t, however, and so when the home team came to bat in
the last of that inning the score was 2 to 1.

The batting order had been changed subsequent to Buster Healey’s
departure and Hale was hitting in fourth place, followed by Peddie,
Craig, and Faulkner, or Foley. Cummings and the pitcher ended the list.
The new arrangement had not, however, been producing very satisfactory
results. In the fourth Steve Hale started off well by banging out a
liner that was too hot for shortstop to hold and reaching his base
before that player could recover the ball and peg it across. Joe had
two strikes against him before he found one that he liked, and then hit
a slow one to first and sacrificed Hale to second. Sam Craig fouled off
three and finally flied out to left fielder. Cummings made the second
out, third to first, and Toby Williams came up with the task of scoring
Hale from second. Toby wasn’t very much of a batsman, although when he
hit the ball usually travelled far. The Morristown pitcher had been
putting the first delivery over time after time and Toby was instructed
to go after it. He did and he got it, and it whizzed straight down the
third base line, just out of reach of the baseman, and rolled gaily
into deep left while Hale sprinted home and Toby reached second. Smith
brought the inning to an end when, following Toby’s example, he hit the
first ball pitched and slapped it squarely into the pitcher’s glove.

Neither side scored in the fifth, although the visiting team got men on
third and second on errors by Hale and Smith, and Jack Strobe got to
first on a Texas Leaguer. In neither case could the following batsmen
bring home the bacon. Joe yielded first base to Frank Foley when the
sixth inning began and saw the rest of the game from the bench, save
when, in the eighth, he caught Tom Pollock, who warmed up in case the
visitors should develop a rally. But the game went through to the end
with the score 3 to 1. Morristown did her best to even things up in the
eighth and ninth, but some one of the enemy always managed to get in
front of the ball, and so, although the visitors knocked the ball to
every part of the field, they had to submit to defeat.

Amesville’s winning streak held for a fortnight and three other games
were played and won. Then came the return contest with Lynton. The
team travelled to the neighbouring town on a cloudy Saturday forenoon,
much in doubt as to whether their journey would prove worth while.
But when, after they had partaken of a hilarious dinner at the Lynton
hotel, they started for the ball grounds, the sun broke through and for
the rest of the afternoon tried its best to broil them. To Joe that
was a memorable game, for it marked his elevation to the position of
regular first baseman. That day, since hitters were needed badly, Frank
Foley remained on the bench throughout the game, and Jack was jubilant.
He had a fine time twitting Foley whenever he came to the bench, and
when the seventh and eighth innings had passed and the deposed first
baseman still squirmed uneasily there in idleness his temper, which had
proved equal to Jack’s gibes during the early innings, quite deserted
him and he earnestly begged Jack to come behind the stand for a few
minutes and see what would happen! But Jack declined the invitation,
politely yet firmly, and Foley, angry clear through, was denied even
that slight consolation.

That was a pitchers’ battle. Tom Pollock twirled for Amesville, for
Coach Talbot wanted the game, as, you may be certain, did the forty or
fifty patriotic rooters who accompanied the team. Opposed to Tom was
one Corrigan, a shock-headed youth who, it was more than suspected,
would have had difficulty in proving himself a high school pupil in
good standing. Buster Healey, who was among the devoted youths who made
the trip to Lynton, afterward said that he had heard that Corrigan was
an imported article and that he was far more at home in Marion than in
Lynton. That as may be, Corrigan could certainly pitch, as Amesville
soon discovered. Not a safety was made off him until the third inning,
when Tom Pollock smashed out a two-bagger that produced no result.
Corrigan had a slow ball that was the undoing of batsman after batsman.
He mixed it up with fast ones and a couple of hooks and had the
opposing team standing on their heads. And he fielded so well that, as
Sam Craig remarked disgustedly once, the rest of the Lynton team might
just as well have remained on the bench.

But Corrigan had an opponent in Tom Pollock that was not to be
despised. Perhaps, when all is said, Tom, for once, was outpitched
that day if we go by the final score, but there was little to choose
between the rival moundsmen. Tom proved better at the bat than did
Corrigan, for the latter was a typical pitcher when he went to the
plate and swung harmlessly at the first three deliveries and retired in
a perfectly matter-of-fact way to the bench. If Amesville had trouble
hitting Corrigan, Lynton had as much difficulty getting to Tom. Except
for that two-bagger of Tom’s, not a hit was made by either side until
the fifth. In the fourth two errors by the visitors put a Lynton runner
as far as second, but he died there. Joe was guilty of one of those
miscues when he dropped a perfectly good throw of Hale’s, and Smith
made the other when he fumbled Sam’s throw-down and let the runner
steal second. Lynton made errors, too, but nothing came of them until
the first of the fifth.

In that inning Sam, the first man up, fouled out to catcher. Joe struck
out and Cummings, with two strikes on him, swung desperately at a
poor one and rolled it toward third base. Third baseman over-ran it,
threw hurriedly and pegged wide of first, and Cummings legged it to
second with lots of time to spare. Amesville’s rooters became audible
for almost the first time since Sam had made his hit, and Tom Pollock
strode to the bat. Discretion seeming the better part of valor, Tom was
promptly passed. That brought Gordon Smith up, with runners on first
and second, and Gordon was not just the batter Coach Talbot would have
chosen for the situation. But the shortstop proved, after all, the man
for the job, for, after cunningly allowing Corrigan to get himself in
a hole, he leaned against a fast ball and streaked it into short right,
scoring Cummings and placing Tom on third.

Sidney Morris tried very hard to come across, but Corrigan was too
much for him, and Sidney fanned. One run, however, looked very big in
that game, and Amesville breathed a bit easier until, in the last of
the sixth, Lynton tied up the score by a combination of one hit, a
barefaced steal of second and a sacrifice fly. One to one the score
remained until the eighth. Then Corrigan showed the first signs of
weariness and passed Smith. Smith stole second when Morris tried for
a hit and missed it, the catcher getting the throw away too late.
Morris again fanned and Jack, who had determined to profit by his own
advice to Joe, shortened his swing and managed to connect with one
of Corrigan’s offerings. The hit was pretty scratchy, but it placed
Smith on third and left Jack himself safe on first. Hale fouled off
two, spoiling as many attempted steals by Jack, and finally bunted
toward the box. Corrigan held Smith at third and threw out the runner
at first. With Peddie up there seemed a chance for a tally, for Peddie
had been delivering the goods quite regularly. But when Corrigan had
scored two strikes against him the outlook darkened and Sam Craig,
coaching at third, sent Smith to the plate on the wind-up. But Corrigan
was too old a bird to be unsteadied and he slammed the ball swiftly to
the catcher and Smith was nailed a yard away.

Lynton went out in one, two, three order in her half and the ninth
started with the score still 1 to 1. Peddie struck out and Sam walked.
Joe sacrificed. Cummings hit past third baseman, but Sam Craig was out
at the plate on a fine throw-in by left fielder. The tenth inning was
profitless to both sides. In the first of the eleventh Corrigan wobbled
a little and a base on balls followed by a safe bunt placed two runners
on bases. But Morris, Jack, and Steve Hale went out in order. It was
Tom Pollock’s turn to let down and he did it until Lynton had men on
second and third with but one out. After that, however, Tom steadied,
fanning the next batter and causing the succeeding one to pop up a fly
to Joe.

It looked very much like a tie game when Peddie had gone out, shortstop
to first baseman, and Sam Craig had fanned in the first of the twelfth
inning, for the visiting team would have to get the five-twelve train
back to Amesville, and it was then well after four o’clock. But many
a game has been pulled out of the fire with two men down, and this
was to prove one of them. Joe went to bat with his mind made up to
hit somehow, somewhere. This would, he was sure, be his last chance
to do anything worth while against the crafty Mr. Corrigan, and he
did want to have something more to show than two weak sacrifices.
He had profited by experience and close study of Corrigan’s methods
and was heartened by assurance when he gripped his bat and faced the
shock-headed twirler. Corrigan seldom pitched the first ball over, and
Joe knew it, and so, although he made a fine show of being anxious
to swing at it, he let it go by and had his judgment sustained by
the umpire’s decision. The next one was a fast ball that looked good
until it broke in front of the plate and just escaped a corner. With
two balls and no strikes, Corrigan became careful. Joe swung at the
third offering and missed it. Corrigan smiled at him, and the catcher,
who usually kept up a running fire of comment, told Joe that he was
a fine, free swinger, “just like a gate, old man, just like a gate!”
Corrigan concluded that the batter was ready to take a chance now and
so he uncorked a fast and high one that had Joe feeling anxious until
the umpire decided that it was a ball. After that, Corrigan had to
make them good, but, with two down, he wasn’t troubled much. His next
offering was one of his famous slow balls, and Joe, having one to
spare, let it severely alone. It proved a strike.

“One more, now, just like the last!” called the catcher. “Let’s have
it, Jimmy!”

But Joe knew very well that it wouldn’t be like the last at all, that
Corrigan would change his pace, and, in all likelihood, put a fast one
over in the groove. And that is what happened. And Joe, staking all on
his “hunch,” swung and caught it fairly and streaked down the base-path
and was waved onward by Toby Williams, who was dancing about in the
coacher’s box, and finally pulled up at second, standing, just as the
ball came back from right field. Somehow, that unexpected hit changed
the luck, it seemed. Cummings got his second hit of the game and sent
Joe to third. Tom Pollock was again passed, filling the bases, and Jack
Speyer went in to bat for Gordon Smith. Speyer wasn’t any phenomenon
with the stick, but he had been known to hit lustily. Perhaps in nine
cases out of ten a pinch-hitter proves a broken reed, but this must
have been the tenth time, for there was nothing broken about Speyer.
Probably the fact that he had not been playing kept him from any awe
of Corrigan. At all events, he let the first ball go past unheeded,
untroubledly heard it called a strike, and then swung hard on the next
one. Second baseman made a heroic try for it, but it went a foot over
his upthrust glove and Joe and Walter Cummings trotted over the home
plate.

That ended the scoring. Sidney Morris hit into third baseman’s hands
and was an easy out. Then all that Amesville had to do was to retire
Lynton in her half of the twelfth, a feat not at all difficult as it
proved. Tom struck out the first man, the second laid down a bunt and
beat out the throw to first, and the third batsman hit into a double,
Smith to Peddie to Joe, and the game was over, the score 3 to 1.
Amesville, cheered and cheering, made a wild dash for the station and
got the five-twelve train by a minute’s margin.

On the way home Jack tried to sympathise with Frank Foley, but Frank
was in a particularly disagreeable frame of mind, and Jack gave him up
as a bad job. Instead, huddled in a seat with Joe, hugging his knees
ecstatically, he spoke of that bat-case with the air of a proprietor.
“I’m two games ahead of him, Joey,” he exulted. “He will have to play
in two more than I do now to win, and he will never do it! Not this
year! You’ve cabbaged that place for keeps, Joey. Why, even if you
dropped half the throws you got, Bat couldn’t do without you! Not after
the way you lambasted that old pill today, son! It’s a cinch!”

“You can’t tell,” began Joe.

But Jack would have nothing to do with doubts. “Piffle! It’s all over
with Handsome Frank, I tell you. You win!” Jack was silent a moment.
Then he laughed rather queerly, and, in answer to Joe’s questioning
look, said: “It’s funny, but, do you know, I’m sort of sorry for Frank!
Isn’t that silly?”

“So am I,” replied Joe truthfully.

“Well!” Jack took a deep breath and abandoned regrets. “To the victor
belong the spoils, as the poet so beautifully puts it! And it’s been a
pretty little fight!”

However, had Jack but known it, his sympathy for Frank Foley was, in a
measure, at least, somewhat premature!



CHAPTER XVIII

EMPTY BOXES


June had come and the end of school loomed close at hand. So, too,
loomed the final baseball game with Petersburg. It is an unfortunate
thing for ardent athletes that the crowning contests of the year arrive
simultaneously with final examinations! There is no doubt in the
world but that examinations seriously interfere with a whole-hearted
application to sports. Most of the members of the Amesville team were
agreed that something ought to be done about it; such, for instance, as
abolishing the examinations! However, Petersburg was in no better case,
and that evened matters up.

Amesville dropped a couple of games the second week in June, just to
vary the monotony, perhaps, and then came back and overwhelmed Crowell
Academy with a score of 10 to 1. Crowell was a much-heralded team from
a down-State preparatory school, and Amesville did well to pile up the
score she did, especially as, at the last moment, Tom Pollock found
that he couldn’t pitch and Jack Strobe sent word that someone would
have to take his place in left field! Jack, who had been complaining
for a day or two of a sore throat, was, it seemed, prohibited from
playing by an unfeeling doctor. Loomis went into left field and Toby
Williams took the mound, and both performed creditably. In fact, Toby
rather covered himself with glory that day, having eight strike-outs
to his credit when the fray was over. Joe played all through at first,
as he had been doing since the second Lynton engagement, and put up a
rattling good game. Even Frank Foley’s adherents had to acknowledge
that the new first baseman had everything the deposed one had, and,
when it came to batting, a good deal more. Joe didn’t particularly
distinguish himself at the bat this day, but he got a clean single and
a base on balls in four times up. Foley had been used in the last two
contests for an inning or two at second base, but it was generally
conceded that he was now only a substitute, with small likelihood of
getting into either of the two remaining contests.

After the game that Wednesday afternoon Joe hurried to Jack’s house
and demanded audience of that afflicted person. But, to his surprise
and dismay, Mrs. Strobe met him with the information that Jack was
suffering from a severe attack of quinsy and that the doctor had
prohibited visitors, since the disease was more or less contagious. Joe
had to be satisfied with sending a message to his chum. That evening,
however, Jack called him up on the telephone and bewailed his luck. The
only comfort Jack appeared able to derive from the situation lay in the
fact that Frank Foley had not stolen a march on him by playing that
afternoon.

“The doc says I’ll have to stay at home until Monday, at least,” he
said. “I’ll lose Saturday’s game. If Frank manages to get into that and
then should play for an inning against Petersburg, as he’s likely to,
it’s all off! Isn’t that the dickens? Just when I thought I had that
wager cinched, too!”

Joe was properly sympathetic and Jack finally rang off, exacting a
promise from Joe to call up the next day. Aunt Sarah insisted that Joe
should spray his throat after the interview. It didn’t do, she said,
to take risks, and for her part she was far from convinced that folks
couldn’t catch things over the telephone!

When, the next afternoon, on the way to the field, Joe stopped in at
a drug store and called up Jack it was Mrs. Strobe who answered.
Jack, she said, was not so well today and she thought it best for him
not to try to talk. Joe went on to practice feeling rather worried
about his chum, and wasn’t comforted until Mr. Talbot had assured
him that quinsy seldom, if ever, resulted fatally. On Friday there
was no practice for the players, and Joe, rather at a loose-end,
accepted Sidney Morris’s invitation to go to the “movies.” It was well
after five when he reached the Adams Building. Mr. Chester Young was
talking in a low voice with a man who looked to Joe very much like a
bill-collector. Whoever he was, he presently departed with no great
show of satisfaction. The day’s business had been, Joe discovered,
surprisingly poor, the register showing less than nine dollars. And
when Young reminded Joe that it was pay-day, Joe had to dig into his
pocket for enough to make up the difference between the cash on hand
and the amount of the clerk’s wages.

He called up the Strobes on the telephone after supper and talked for
a few minutes with Mr. Strobe. That gentleman announced that Jack was
feeling pretty mean, but that the doctor thought he was doing as well
as could be expected and that he would probably be out and about by
the first of the week. After that Joe settled down to two hours of hard
study in preparation for next week’s examinations, wrote a long letter
to his mother and finally went to bed just as midnight sounded.

In the morning he went back to the news-stand and remained there until
noon. Saturday was usually the best day of the week for business,
possibly because many of the offices paid off their employees then,
and today both Joe and Young were kept busy attending to the wants of
customers. When Joe went home for dinner the sales had already mounted
to over fifteen dollars and gave promise of atoning for the poor
business of the day previous.

The game that afternoon was with Chelmsford High School and was looked
on as more of a practice contest than a real game. It was the last
contest before the Petersburg battle on the following Wednesday, and
Amesville had purposely chosen an easy victim for the occasion. But at
that the home team had to work fairly hard for half a dozen innings
before the game was safely laid away, and, as it happened, it was Joe
who was chiefly instrumental in that ceremony.

Chelmsford had two runs and Amesville three when the last of the sixth
started. Amesville had been playing raggedly and batting weakly
against an easy pitcher, and only the fact that her opponent had been
unable to do much with Tom Pollock’s delivery had kept her ahead. Tom
gave place to Carl Moran in the fifth and, ultimately, Carl retired
in favour of Toby Williams. In that last of the sixth Sam Craig, who
was batting in third place owing to Jack’s absence, got to first on
a scratch hit. Hale was an easy out, third to first, and Peddie was
passed. The watchers were eager for runs and when Joe went to the
plate, swinging his bat, there came cries of “All right, Lucky! Smash
it out!” “Bring ’em in, Lucky! Make it a homer!” Joe had never made
a home-run in his life and didn’t expect to now, but when, after the
runners had attempted a double steal and got away with it, he found a
nice, straight ball coming right for the middle of the plate, Joe took
a little longer swing, put a little more strength into it, and the deed
was done! It was a long way around those bases, he thought, but he
didn’t have to hurry after he got to third, for the ball had gone into
the left corner of the field and rolled up against the fence! He jogged
across the plate finally to the laughing applause of the stands and was
thumped on the back by hilarious team-mates.

Perhaps Coach Talbot thought Joe had done enough for one afternoon,
for, when the seventh inning began, Joe found, to his surprise, that he
was superseded at first base by Frank Foley!

“I’m glad,” he said to himself, “that Jack can’t hear of it. He’d
probably have a relapse and die!”

Joe watched the rest of the game from the bench and tried not to be a
little bit glad when Foley failed to capture an easy infield fly. The
game finally ended with the score 7 to 3, and he walked back to town
with the rest and reached the Adams Building at a little after five
to find, to his surprise, that the stand was deserted. Supposing that
Young would be back in a moment, Joe went behind the counter and waited
on a customer. But no Mr. Chester Young appeared, and when Joe rang
up the sale and so viewed the drawer of the cash register he thought
he knew why! There was not a cent in it except the dime he had just
dropped there!

His first sensation was, oddly enough, one of satisfaction over the
fact that his original impression of the shifty-eyed young man had
been, after all, correct! But that satisfaction didn’t last long. The
realization that he and Jack had been barefacedly robbed of at least
twenty-five dollars took its place and Joe’s countenance became grim.
To add insult to injury, he reflected, Young had had the cheek to
demand his wages on the eve of his flight――and get them! Inquiry of
Walter, the elevator boy, elicited the information that Mr. Chester
Young had complained of feeling unwell and had announced that he was
going over to the drug store for some medicine. That had been, as near
as Walter could recall, about a quarter to five. It might have been a
little before that. Walter evidently had no suspicions and Joe didn’t
enlighten him.

The exodus from the building was under way now and for a good half-hour
Joe was busy selling papers and cigars and cigarettes, together with
an occasional box of candy. But he had plenty of time for thinking,
and long before the elevators had brought down their last loads he had
determined his course. A hasty survey of the stock in sight showed
conclusively that the stand had done a phenomenal business since
morning, but it was not until he thought to look under the counter that
the real extent of Mr. Young’s depredations came to light.

On the shelves they kept anywhere from thirty to sixty dollars’ worth
of cigars, cigarettes and other goods for which there was not room
above. At first glance everything seemed all right, but when Joe
picked up a box of “Adams Building” conchas and, bringing it to light,
discovered it to be quite empty, he knew what to expect of the rest
of the stock. When he had pulled all the boxes and packages out their
contents would not have fetched two dollars! Only one cigar box held
cigars, and then only a handful. Evidently Mr. Young had craftily
replaced the full boxes with empty ones and, not having enough of the
latter, had been forced to put in one from the case that still held a
few cigars. It was the same with the cigarette cartons. Only one was
not absolutely empty.

Joe surveyed the litter behind the counter and tried to think it out.
At first he couldn’t understand what use the cigars could be to Young.
Of course, he might take them away to another town and sell them, but
eight boxes of them, as well as several packages of cigarettes and
smoking tobacco, would make rather a conspicuous bundle to carry.
Then a light broke on him and he quickly lifted the receiver from the
telephone instrument on the counter and called up Meyers and Fink.
Fortunately, they were still open, and after a moment Joe got the
information he expected.

“Yes, that clerk of yours came in here about three o’clock today with
seven boxes of cigars and some cigarettes and smoking tobacco. Said
you were overstocked and wanted to return them. We paid him cash for
them. We were going to credit them, but he said you wanted the money.
Anything wrong?”

“How much did you pay him?” asked Joe.

“Forty-six dollars and something; I’ll give you the exact amount if
you’ll wait a minute.”

“Thanks, that’s near enough,” replied Joe. “I’ll be around to see you
Monday. Good-night.”

“Forty-six from them,” reckoned Joe, “about twenty-five from today’s
sales and, unless I’m mistaken, a knock-down yesterday of perhaps five
more. About seventy-five dollars altogether. That’s going to make an
awful dent in this month’s profits if we don’t get it back! But,” he
added grimly to himself as he locked up for the night and turned the
light out, “I think we will!”



CHAPTER XIX

JOE ACCEPTS A LOAN


The notion of calling up Jack and acquainting him with what had
happened came to him, but was dismissed after a moment’s reflection.
Jack was ill and the news would only worry and excite him. Instead, as
he hurried up Main Street, Joe decided to call up Aunt Sarah and excuse
himself from supper on a plea of business. Aunt Sarah wouldn’t like it,
for she still viewed the news-stand with suspicion. But perhaps Aunt
Sarah detected the anxiety in Joe’s voice when he telephoned, for she
asked no questions and was really quite pleasant, only informing him a
trifle wistfully that there was beefstew this evening and that Amanda
was making some of her delectable dumplings!

After that hurried talk over the wire Joe turned into Aspen Street,
walked three blocks west and finally rang the bell at the door of a
rather down-at-heels brick house that stood by itself almost in the
shadow of the frowning carpet mills. When a dejected and at the
same time suspicious-looking middle-aged woman answered the bell Joe
inquired if she were Mrs. Young.

“There’s no Mrs. Young lives around here,” was the reply. “My name’s
Bennett.”

“Does Chester Young live here, ma’am?”

“Are you a friend of his?” was the quick demand.

“My name is Faulkner, Mrs. Bennett. He worked for me in the Adams
Building.”

“He did, eh? Then maybe you’ll be payin’ me two weeks’ board he’s
owin’. Did he send you with the money?”

“No, I haven’t seen him since noon. That’s why I came over here. I
thought perhaps I’d find him.”

“Well, you won’t, then. He’s skipped!”

“Skipped?” exclaimed Joe. “Gone for good, you mean?”

“He’s gone owin’ me two weeks’ board, which is nine dollars, and fifty
cents he borrowed off me the day he came here. He was always promisin’
to pay it, but he never done it, and him bein’ out of work I didn’t
press him at first and then afterwards he kept sayin’ he’d pay me every
day. I’m a poor, hard-workin’ woman, and I need the money. Maybe
you’re after owin’ him wages, now?”

“I’m not. I wish I were, Mrs. Bennett. I’m sorry he left without
settling with you, ma’am. Could you tell me where he’s gone?”

“I can not. If I knew I’d be settin’ the police on him, never fear!
From the first I suspicioned him, the dirty rascal, but he had a smooth
tongue on him and was always promisin’ he’d pay tomorrow. If I knew
where he’d gone to I’d not be gabbin’ here in the doorway! ’Twas while
I was out to the store after dinner he sneaked in and packed his bag
and took it away with him, knowin’ I’d not stand for it if I was by.
Two weeks’ money and the half-dollar――――”

“And you can’t tell me whether he’s left town or just changed his
lodgings, Mrs. Bennett?”

“All I know is he’s gone, bad luck to him! Is he maybe owin’ you money,
too, sir?”

“A little, yes. I’m much obliged, ma’am. Good-night.”

“If you find him now, let me know, sir. That’s all I’m askin’ you.
Just you let me know, sir! The dirty scallawag! Cheatin’ a poor,
hard-workin’ woman out of her money!”

The door slammed and Joe stumbled back to the uncertain sidewalk and
retraced his steps along the ill-lighted street. When he reached
Indiana Street he unhesitatingly turned southward and five minutes
later saw the lights of the railroad ahead. His course had already been
determined and the visit to Mr. Chester Young’s lodgings had been made
with little hope of either finding the defaulting clerk or gaining
useful information. Chester had given Joe the impression that he lived
with his mother, which accounted for the latter mistaking the identity
of the woman at the door. Chester, it seemed, was a very tricky young
man.

At the station Joe examined the time-table in the waiting-room. Chester
had left the building somewhere about a quarter to five. At five-two
a train had left for Fostoria, Fremont and Sandusky, connecting at
Fremont for Toledo. There was no train between that and a quarter
to five and none afterwards until twenty minutes to six, when the
south-bound express had left for Columbus. Everything indicated the
five-two as the train Chester had taken if, as Joe suspected, he had
really left Amesville. The ticket window was closed, but a rap on the
door gained him admittance to the little room wherein the agent was
seated at the telegraph instrument. He looked up inquiringly, nodded,
worked the key a moment, listened to the reply, and then swung around
in his swivel chair.

“Well, sir, what’s troubling you?” he asked gaily.

“I wanted to ask if you remembered selling a ticket to a fellow for the
five-two train,” stated Joe.

“Maybe. What sort of a fellow? There were only nine passengers from
here on Number 14, so far as I know. What did he look like?”

Joe’s description was clear and concise and the agent nodded again. “I
remember the chap,” he said. “He bought to――Hold on, now. What business
is it of yours, my boy? Is he a friend of yours, or what’s the game?”

“He worked for me at the news-stand in the Adams Building and left
suddenly about a quarter to five. I went to his house and the landlady
said he’d taken his baggage and gone. I――I want to see him and ask him
something.”

“Do, eh?” The agent grinned. “How much did he touch you for?”

Joe smiled non-committingly.

“Well, that’s not my business, eh?” laughed the agent. “All right, son,
I’ll tell you what I know about the lad. He bought a ticket to Upper
Newton. I remember it distinctly because he called for a Fostoria
ticket first and changed his mind just as I stamped it. I asked him if
he was quite sure this time and he said he guessed he was. Yep, Upper
Newton, that was it. He carried a yellow suit-case. I noticed that as
he went out to the platform just before I closed the window.”

“And where’s Upper Newton?” asked Joe. “Is it very far?”

“About twenty-four or -five miles.”

“When does the next train go there?”

“Seven-thirty-six. But, say, if you’re thinking of going after him I
wouldn’t count a whole lot on finding him at Upper Newton. That’s not
much more than a flag station. I wouldn’t wonder if he bought for there
just to throw folks off the track. Dare say he’ll pay his way on to
Fostoria or, maybe, Fremont. At Fremont he could get east or west as
he liked. There’s a through train connects there for Toledo and beyond
and one going east about eleven tonight. Take my advice and stay where
you are, son. You’ll never catch him unless you want to put the police
after him. If you care for that I’d advise you to go back up-town and
tell your story to the chief. How much did he pinch from you?”

“I didn’t say he’d stolen anything,” said Joe.

“I know you didn’t. But, if he had, how much would it have been?”

Joe hesitated. Then, smiling: “About seventy-five dollars,” he said.
“But I’d rather you didn’t say anything.”

“I’m dumb. Say, where does he live when he’s at home?”

“I don’t know. He worked in Columbus before he came here.”

“Well, he’s headed straight away from Columbus, hasn’t he? I guess
he’s maybe going to Sandusky and take a boat. Still, seventy dollars
won’t take him far.” The agent was silent a moment, rapping a pencil
thoughtfully on the desk in front of him. Then: “Tell you what I’ll
do,” he exclaimed, sitting up with a thump of his chair. “I’ll wire
Harris on Fourteen and ask him if the fellow got off at Upper Newton or
paid his fare on the train to Fostoria or beyond! How’s that?”

“I wish you would! It’s very kind of you. I suppose I couldn’t catch
him if he’s gone on, though.”

“Well, we’ll find out, anyhow.” The agent flicked a time-table to
him, ran a finger down a column, glanced at the clock and then began
jabbing the telegraph key. “I’ll get Tiverton to give him the
message,” he explained as he waited a reply. “Fourteen gets there in
seven minutes if she’s on time. Here we are!” The sounder in its little
box ticked rapidly and stopped and the agent busied himself again with
the key. Joe, who had seated himself in a chair, watched and waited.
Presently the agent’s hand left the key and he faced around again.

“Twelve minutes late, he says. I’ve asked Harris to answer from
Mittenton. We ought to get a reply in about twenty-five minutes.”

“Is Tiverton beyond Upper Newton?” inquired Joe.

“Yes, about six miles. Harris will know if your man got off there,
because there wouldn’t be more than two or three for a small station
like that. If he didn’t he’d have to buy to some place further along
and Harris would remember making out his check.”

“I see. What did you say to that agent?”

“I said, ‘Harris, Conductor Number 14. Did slick guy about twenty-two
old leave train at Upper Newton? If not, what’s his destination?
Important. Reply from Mittenton. CHASE, Agent, Amesville.’”

“Thanks,” said Joe. “Then we’d ought to get an answer about twenty
minutes past seven. What time does that train go? Seven-thirty?”

“Thirty-six. Mittenton will shoot that right back. So you’ll have
plenty of time to get Number 49 if you want it.”

“Fostoria is the first big town, isn’t it?”

“Yep. He might be stopping off there. Anyway, he asked for Fostoria
first. That might be his home. I guess, though, he wouldn’t be fool
enough to go home. He’d know folks would look for him there right away.”

“How much is the fare to Fostoria, please?”

“One-twenty-four.”

“And how much is it to that other place where you said he might change?”

“Fremont? Fremont’s a dollar and forty-five.”

Joe looked thoughtful. He had, as he knew, only something like a dollar
and eighty cents in his pocket, which would come very far from being
sufficient. If he went back to the house he might borrow enough from
Aunt Sarah and he might not. Aunt Sarah seldom kept more than a dollar
or two on hand, and it would be folly to start out for Fremont or
Sandusky with less than six or seven dollars in his pocket. He tried to
think of some other place to get the money. There was Mr. Strobe, but
Joe had a dim idea that Jack had said something about his father going
to Chicago the day before. Perhaps the agent would know whether Mr.
Strobe was out of town. He looked across to find that person viewing
him smilingly.

“Not enough, eh?” he asked.

Joe grinned and shook his head. “Not nearly enough. I guess I ought to
have six or seven dollars. Do you know whether Mr. Strobe’s in town?”

“I know he left for the West yesterday morning. Whether he’s back or
not I can’t say. He carries mileage, so I don’t know where he started
for. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Yes. His son, Jack, and I run that news-stand together. I thought if
he was at home I’d run up there while we’re waiting and ask him to lend
me about five dollars.”

“I guess you wouldn’t find him. Where’s the son?”

“He’s at home, but he’s ill with quinsy. I wouldn’t want to trouble
Jack with the business right now.”

“What’s your name?”

“Joseph Faulkner.”

“All right, son, I’ll be your banker.” The agent thrust a hand in his
pocket and brought out some crumpled bills and a lot of silver. “Five
enough? You’d better have more, hadn’t you?”

“Oh, no, thanks; five is quite enough. It’s mighty good of you,
Mister――Mister――――”

“Chase. Don’t mention it. Pay it back some time in a week and I shan’t
miss it. Here you are.”

Joe accepted the crumpled bills and repeated his thanks. At that moment
the assistant came in and the agent, greeting him, introduced Joe.
“Faulkner,” he explained, “is waiting for a message from Harris on
Fourteen. It’ll probably come in from Mittenton before I get back, Jim.
Get it straight, will you, and give to him?” He turned to Joe as he
reached for his coat and hat behind the door. “Had your supper yet?” he
asked. “No? Well, you don’t want to start off without something inside
you. Come on over to the Palace and coal-up.”

The Palace proved to be the identical small restaurant which had
exhaled that enticing fragrance of coffee the morning of Joe’s arrival
in Amesville. The repast, though simple, was well cooked, and Joe, who
had forgotten all about supper, now discovered himself to be extremely
hungry. Under the benign influence of a cup of steaming-hot coffee he
confided the whole story to Mr. Chase and the latter gave flattering
attention.

“I remember reading in the paper about that cigar-stand of yours,” he
said. “You had a box and let folks put their money in it, didn’t you?
Did it work?”

“Yes, but sometimes folks didn’t have the right change and then we lost
a sale. So Jack and I decided we’d better hire someone to be there when
we couldn’t. We neither of us liked the looks of Young very much, but
we put in a cash register and thought it would be all right.”

“What you needed, I guess, was a safe,” replied the agent drily.
“Well, I hope you catch him, but, to be honest about it, Faulkner, I
don’t believe you will. If he gets off at Upper Newton you’ll be able
to trace him, I dare say, and you may if he goes on to Fostoria or
Fremont; they’re smallish towns; but if he reaches Sandusky or Toledo
it’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack! What I’d do if I were
you is go right to the police and put it up to them.”

“Maybe that would be the best way,” agreed Joe doubtfully. “But,
somehow, I don’t like to. Everyone would know about it, you see, and
if――if Young didn’t exactly mean to pinch the money――――”

“Didn’t mean to! You don’t suppose, do you, that it got stuck to his
fingers and he couldn’t get it off?” asked the agent ironically.

“No.” Joe flushed faintly. “What I mean is that it would be too bad to
have him arrested, because he might never do a thing like that again.”

“Well, please yourself. I don’t think he deserves much consideration,
though.” He chuckled. “It would be a good plan to get him back here and
let that landlady you told about get at him! I’ll bet that would be
worse than a year in jail! If you’re through we’ll hike across and see
if that answer has come.”

There was some discussion as to who was to pay for Joe’s repast, but
the agent finally silenced protest by agreeing to accept a handful of
cigars if Joe’s mission succeeded. It was twenty minutes past seven
by the waiting-room clock when they got back to the station and the
message was awaiting them.

“Passenger held ticket to Upper Newton, but stayed on and bought to
Fremont. Made inquiry about east-bound trains tonight. If you want him
pinched say the word. HARRIS.”

“Fremont, eh?” Mr. Chase seized the time-table and studied it a moment.
“He can’t get an east-bound until ten-fifty-five. There’s a local to
Norwalk, though, at nine-forty-seven. He might take that. Or he may
have asked about the east-bound trains just to throw us off the track!”
He looked thoughtfully at Joe a moment. Then, decisively: “That’s
his game all right! He means to take the eight o’clock express to
Toledo! If he does――Hold on, though! Jim, ask how late Fourteen was at
Fostoria. That express doesn’t wait but five minutes for connections
and Fourteen was twelve minutes late at Mittenton. She might make that
up, but she makes all stops and I don’t believe she will. If he misses
the eight o’clock he can’t get west until ten-four.”

“Fourteen was nineteen minutes late at Fostoria,” announced the
assistant. “Left there at twenty-two.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Chase. “That’ll bring her to Fremont about
eight-seventeen if she doesn’t lose any more time, and she’s likely to
keep on losing now. If you take the thirty-six”――he glanced swiftly at
the clock――“you’re due in Fremont at nine-forty-eight. That’ll give you
sixteen minutes there before the west-bound pulls out. If he means
to take that he will be waiting around the station and you’ll catch
him.” He swung around toward the assistant. “Jim, send this to Harris
at Fremont: ‘Did passenger get off at Fremont? If so, do you know his
destination? CHASE.’ If Harris wires back that he got off this side
or has gone on to Sandusky I’ll telegraph you at Fostoria. If you
don’t get any message it’ll mean that your party got off at Fremont
and Harris doesn’t know where he’s headed for. You’d better loosen
up now and get your ticket. Your train will be here in four minutes.
Forty-nine’s on time, isn’t she, Jim?”

“O. T. at Fountain,” was the reply. “There she whistles now.”

Five minutes later, having set Aunt Sarah’s mind at rest by telephone,
Joe was seated in a day-coach and Number 49 was leaving the Amesville
lights behind her on her northward journey.



CHAPTER XX

PURSUIT


Forty-nine was a faster train than the one on which Mr. Chester Young
had embarked and made but five stops between Amesville and Fremont,
but to Joe it seemed that she took things in an irritatingly leisurely
manner. With but sixteen minutes’ leeway at the end of his journey, he
was momentarily in fear that something would happen to detain them, and
he viewed his watch anxiously as, having made a perfectly ridiculous
stop of four minutes at Folkstone, Forty-nine rolled off again into
the night. However, a comparison of his time and that indicated on the
time-table with which he had armed himself showed no discrepancy, and
he settled back in his seat with a sigh of relief. Fostoria was the
next stop and he anxiously awaited it, wondering whether he would find
a message from the agent.

Now that he was absolutely embarked on his mission he began to wonder
if he was not undertaking a foolish and hopeless quest. It had looked
quite simple and easy back there at Amesville, but doubts assailed him
now. There were so many chances against success. Young might go on
to Sandusky or he might lose himself in Fremont, deciding to remain
the night there, or he might take that local to Norwalk. Even if Joe
found him he might be no better off! How was he to persuade Young to
give up the money? If he called on the police for help there might be
all sorts of complications. Joe wasn’t certain that it would not be
necessary for him to swear out a warrant first, by which time Young
would be on his way to Toledo or elsewhere. He took out his money and
counted it over. He had exactly five dollars and thirty-seven cents
left after purchasing his ticket to Fremont. Of that amount a dollar
and forty-five cents would be needed for his journey back to Amesville.
A dollar-forty-five from five-thirty-seven left three dollars and
ninety-two cents. On that he could travel something like a hundred and
thirty miles, he reflected. Very well, then. He would go along with
Young until that youth made restitution or until he had exhausted what
money he had. After that he would telegraph to Aunt Sarah for money
to get home with. In any case, the police were to have no part in the
affair!

The train slowed down while he was reaching this decision and the
trainman, opening the door ahead, let in a gust of cold air and
announced Fostoria. Another seemingly interminable wait, and then the
train went on again, and just as Joe had given up hope of that message
it came.

“Telegram for Joseph Faulkner,” said the conductor questioningly as he
came through the car.

“That’s me, please,” said Joe.

“Here you are, then, my boy.” Joe took the sheet of buff paper and
read: “Amesville. Jos. Faulkner, on No. 49, Fostoria. Harris wires
party got off Fremont and said he was going to Cleveland. Think that’s
a stall. Toledo the best guess. Good luck. CHASE.”

Joe folded the message and put it in his pocket. Undoubtedly Mr. Chase
was right about it. Young would not announce his real destination and
if he had said Cleveland it was safe to say that he meant to journey in
another direction. Joe settled back again, tipped his cap over his eyes
to keep the light out and tried to plan what he should do and say if
he was lucky enough to discover Young at Fremont. In the end, though,
he reached no very clear conclusion, and while he was still trying to
formulate a speech with which to greet the absconding clerk the train
rattled over the switches, green and purple and red and white lights
flashed past the window and the trainman was bawling:

“Fremont! Fremont! Change for Norwalk, Elyria, Cleveland, Toledo, and
points east and west! This train for Sandusky and Port Clinton!”

Joe followed a dozen other passengers through the car door and down
to the platform. A glance at his watch had shown him that Forty-nine,
in spite of her unhurried progress, had arrived exactly on time.
Consequently he had sixteen minutes in which to search the station and
platform before the west-bound express drew out. He still kept his
cap pulled down in front, trusting that if Mr. Chester Young saw him
he would not recognise him. The platform was fairly crowded and Joe
made his way along to the door of the waiting-room, keeping as much as
possible out of sight. It took but a moment to satisfy himself that
his quarry was not inside. Then he went on to the end of the platform
without result, retraced his steps, reached the other end and paused
there in the shadow of a piled-up truck. Mr. Chester Young was not
to be seen. Five minutes had already gone by. Joe’s hope began to
dwindle. After all, he reflected, it had been too much to expect;
given a start of two hours and a half, Young would have been an idiot
if he had not eluded pursuit. And yet, on the other hand, what reason
had Young to suppose that either of the boys whose money he had taken
would go to the length of chasing him down? Joe didn’t believe that
Young would give either him or Jack credit for having enough enterprise
to do that. And if he didn’t really expect pursuit he wouldn’t try very
hard to elude it.

Joe gathered courage again and sought the ticket-window in the
waiting-room. By this time the platform had almost emptied, but at the
ticket-window several persons were in line and now and then the door
opened to admit other passengers for the west-bound train. Joe gave up
the idea of inquiring of the ticket-seller and inspected a time-table
instead. The west-bound arrived in Fremont at nine-fifty-nine and
remained there five minutes. It would come in, then, in just five
minutes if it was on time. That put another idea in his head and he
went back to the platform, keeping his eyes peeled, and sought the
bulletin board there. “No. 16,” he read, “due 9:59, 15 mins. late.”

That, he told himself, would give him more time. He remained where he
was and kept his gaze on the door of the waiting-room. The platform
began to fill up again. A four-car local pulled in, emptied its
contents and puffed out. The clock pointed to one minute of ten now.
It was chilly out there on the platform, for a north wind was blowing
down from Lake Erie, and Joe’s thoughts travelled toward the gleaming
coffee-urn he had glimpsed a few minutes back. For a moment he debated
whether he should seek it and spend a nickel of his small fund, but
he decided not to. If Young did put in an appearance he wanted to
know it as soon as possible. And at that moment his gaze, travelling
over the platform, alighted on the form of a man carrying a suit-case
and making his way along toward where Joe was standing with his
back to the building. For an instant Joe thought that the other had
seen him and was going to speak. But it was the bulletin board that
was the attraction, and Joe, turning aside to escape detection in a
sudden spasm of nervousness, smelt the odour of a cigarette that was
very familiar, heard the other’s grunt of impatience as he read the
inscription on the board, and the tread of his feet as he strode away
again.

Then a mild panic seized Joe and he darted forward. Someone got in
front of him. He dodged around and his heart sank, for his first
anxious look failed to discover the form it sought. He was already
regretting his timorousness when he spied his quarry entering the
waiting-room. Joe sped after him. Mr. Chester Young was making his
way to the ticket window. Joe made a detour and closed in behind
him. At the window he stood at his elbow while he purchased a ticket
for Toledo. Young had, it appeared, plenty of money, for he gave a
twenty-dollar bill to the ticket-seller and caused that busy gentleman
to scowl as he made change. Then Young turned away, walked to the end
of a bench, set his bag down, and proceeded to place the bills and
silver in his purse.

Joe, his heart thumping hard, walked across to him, a slight smile
around his mouth. When he was a yard away Young glanced up and a look
of surprise and consternation came into his face.

“Hello, Young,” said Joe pleasantly. “I was afraid I’d missed you.”



CHAPTER XXI

ON THE WEST-BOUND


Young’s first act was to slip the purse into a pocket of his overcoat,
even as his gaze darted stealthily around the waiting-room, and he
summoned a smile, not a particularly gladsome smile, to his face. Joe
noticed the eternal cigarette tremble between his lips. Then:

“Why, hello, Faulkner,” said Mr. Chester Young. “How are you?”

“All right, thanks,” replied Joe, his eyes unconsciously dropping for
an instant to that pocket into which the fat purse had disappeared.
“Sit down a minute, will you; I want to talk to you.”

“Can’t do it,” answered the other briskly, buttoning his coat with none
too steady fingers. “Fact is, I’m running up to Detroit and my train is
leaving in about half a minute. I suppose you were surprised to find
me gone, eh? Well, you see, I got a telegram this afternoon telling me
that my father was very ill and I had to beat it off on the five-two. I
was going to write and explain to you. I’ll do that, anyway. Glad to
have seen you again. You keep that job open for me until Saturday and
I’ll be back for it. Good-night.” He held out his hand and Joe took it.

“Your train’s fifteen minutes late,” said Joe calmly. “So there’s no
hurry. Sit down.” He still held Young’s hand and now pulled him gently
toward the seat. Young resisted, but Joe’s clasp was a strong one, and
unless he wanted to indulge in a scuffle there was nothing to do but
give in. But it was a different Mr. Chester Young who faced Joe now. He
tossed aside his cigarette and observed his captor defiantly.

“Well, what you got to say, Faulkner?” he demanded.

“I suppose you know why I’m here?” asked Joe.

“Never mind what I know. Get down to business. What’s your game?”

“My game’s to collect seventy-five dollars from you, Young. I ought to
charge the costs of collection, too, I guess, but we’ll let that go. If
you want to send nine dollars back by me to Mrs. Bennett, though, I’ll
be glad to take it.”

Young laughed softly. “And why should I hand seventy-five dollars over
to you, Faulkner? What do you think I am, a national bank?”

“If you want an itemized account,” responded Joe patiently, “I can
oblige you. But your train will be leaving in about twelve minutes, you
know. Roughly, the cigars and things you turned back to the dealers
amounted to forty-seven dollars――――”

Young’s expression changed enough to show that he had not expected Joe
to have knowledge of that transaction.

“And you got about thirty out of the cash register yesterday and today.
That foots up to seventy-seven, and――――”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” interrupted Young angrily,
but without raising his voice. “Someone’s been stalling you. You’d
better go back to Amesville and soak your head, sport. You’re too
innocent to be so far from home.”

“Ten minutes to train time now,” said Joe. “Come across, Young. You’re
beaten, and you know it.”

“Why, you silly chump, you can’t hold me up for money like this! I
haven’t got that much, anyway, and if I had I wouldn’t be likely to
pass it over to you. You must be crazy! You ought to get a job in a
squirrel cage!”

“If you haven’t seventy-five it’s going to be awkward,” said Joe
reflectively. “I thought that probably you’d hand it over and there
wouldn’t have to be any trouble about it. I hate to get my name in the
papers, but if I have to all right.”

“Quit your joking,” growled Young. “For two cents I’d knock your
head off. There’s my train and I can’t stop here chewing the rag any
longer.” He got up, bag in hand and grinned mockingly down at the
other. “Give my love to Strobe when you get back, sport. So long.”

Joe sighed regretfully and stood up. “All right,” he murmured. “There’s
no hurry. I don’t mind seeing a little of the world while I’m at it. I
dare say Toledo or Detroit is quite worth visiting.”

Young, who had started toward the door, turned. “If you try to follow
me,” he said menacingly, “I’ll do for you, kid!”

“You won’t get a chance,” replied Joe simply. “I’d rather go home from
here, of course, but if you want to be silly I’ll give you as far as
Toledo to think it over.”

“What would you do in Toledo?” sneered the other.

“Have you arrested, of course. That’s the only thing I can do if you
don’t make good before. I might have done it here, but I thought
you’d prefer to keep out of trouble, and now”――he looked around the
waiting-room――“there isn’t a policeman in sight.”

“Have me arrested!” jeered Young. “Try it, kid! Go ahead and try it!
Why, I never saw you before in my life! Tell that yarn to a cop and see
what will happen.”

“All right, let’s go out on the platform. There’s one there, I guess.”

Young’s eyes dropped, but after an instant’s hesitation he turned
toward the door again. “Sure! Come on and find him!”

Joe kept close at his elbow and they passed through the door and into
the throng on the long platform. The west-bound train had pulled
into the station a few minutes before and outside all was bustle and
confusion. Young paused and looked up and down the platform.

“There’s a cop down there,” he exclaimed. “Come on and we’ll finish
this up right now.”

He pushed past Joe and made his way with difficulty in and out of the
crowd. Joe followed close on his heels. Above the sound of escaping
steam and the noise of the crowd he heard the cry of “All abo-o-oard!”
He was quite certain that Young had not seen a policeman in the
direction he was taking and was wondering whether the former meant
to make a sudden dash for liberty when he was once free of the throng
or, at the last instant, leap aboard the train. There was a sound of
releasing brakes, at the other end of the long train a bell clanged
warningly, and, an instant later, the cars began to move slowly past.
They were out of the crowd now and near the end of the train. Joe saw
Young turn his head a little in the direction of the moving train and
something warned him to be on his guard. Young swung around and faced
him.

“I was sure I saw a cop down here,” he said puzzledly. “Where do you
suppose he got to? See him anywhere?”

Perhaps Young expected Joe to look away for a moment, for he suddenly
shot out his right fist straight at the younger boy’s face. But Joe had
not moved his gaze a fraction from Young’s countenance and he read what
was coming before the arm was drawn back for the blow. Instinctively
he dodged to the right and Young’s fist went harmlessly past his head.
Then something took him in the knees――he surmised afterwards that it
was Young’s suit-case――and he went staggering back against the station
wall.

When he recovered himself Young was darting across the platform, bag
swinging wildly, and even as he started in pursuit his quarry tossed
the suit-case onto the forward platform of the last car, trotted
alongside and, aided by the porter, who had been in the act of closing
the vestibule door, sprang aboard!

A dozen strides told Joe that he could never reach that platform. The
train, gaining speed every instant, was now moving rapidly out of the
station and beside him the lighted windows of the last car slipped
past. There was but one thing to do and he determined to do it, or, at
least, make a try. Slackening his pace a little, he let the length of
the car go past him and then, spurting desperately, heedless of the
warning shouts of lookers-on, he managed to grasp the forward rail of
the last steps!

The speed of the train lifted him from his feet and hurled him against
the rear railing. He made a clutch for this, but failed, and swung
outward again, dangling, his feet trailing along the planks of the
station platform. Cries of alarm arose from the watchers behind. But
Joe held on, searched with his left hand for a hold, knocked his knees
bruisingly against the car steps, got one on the lower ledge, and,
somehow, dragged himself to his feet, clinging at last to the brass
gate that closed the platform off and fighting for breath!

For a full minute he clung there, dizzy, conscious of smarting
contusions about his knees and of a dull ache in one hip where he
had collided with the railing. Finally he climbed over the gate,
tried the door and found it unlocked and stepped inside a handsome
library-compartment in which a half-dozen men were seated about in the
cane easy-chairs reading. His appearance elicited no surprise. Perhaps
they thought he had been on the platform while the train was in the
station. At all events, although the occupants of the compartment
raised their eyes as the door opened, only one of the number displayed
any interest in the boy’s advent.

The single exception was a tall, loose-jointed man, who, with his chair
turned toward the windows, sat with long legs doubled up almost to his
chin and a book face-down in his lap. As the door opened he turned
his head and looked attentively at the breathless and still somewhat
white-faced youth who entered. Joe paused to take another full breath
before undertaking the passage of the swaying car and in that moment
his eyes encountered those of the man. The man raised a long, lean hand
and beckoned with a finger. Joe made his way to him and the passenger,
undoubling himself, stretched a foot out, hooked it about the leg of
the next chair and pulled it beside his own.

“Sit down,” he said. He had a remarkable voice, Joe thought, and
equally remarkable eyes, very light blue-gray in colour, that somehow
compelled obedience. Joe embarrassedly seated himself.

“That’s a good way to get killed,” said the man calmly. “Don’t you know
that?”

“I suppose it is, sir. I didn’t stop to think much about it.”

“I wouldn’t make a practice of it. I take it that the other fellow got
aboard all right.”

“The other fellow?” faltered Joe.

“Yes, the――ah――the gentleman who tried to put his fist in your face.”

“Oh! You saw――――”

“I happened to be looking out the window. You side-stepped very neatly.
Fellow a friend of yours?”

“Not exactly.” Joe smiled faintly. There was an answering twinkle in
the light blue eyes.

“No? But you evidently couldn’t bear to part with him. It’s not my
business, but I’m curious to know the story. Fact is, I make my living
from stories. I get chaps like you to tell them to me and then I write
them down and sell them. It’s a very simple way to make a fortune.”

Joe smiled uncertainly. It sounded as if the other was joking, but his
expression was quite serious. He had a lean, clean-shaven face, with
many deep wrinkles. His nose was long and straight and his mouth rather
large. Somehow, though, it was a nice face and inspired confidence.
“There isn’t much story,” said Joe hesitantly. “The――the other fellow
has something that belongs to me and I want to get it.”

“Situation Number Three,” murmured the man. “Hackneyed, but capable of
interesting and even novel variations.”

“Sir?” asked Joe.

“May I ask what is the value of the something the other chap has of
yours? It’s interesting sometimes to know for what amount a person
will risk his life. Personally I wouldn’t do it for less than two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Not now, that is. There was a time,
when I was considerably younger, when I dare say I’d have done it for
considerably less; say for five thousand――or nothing at all. In your
case now――――”

“It’s only about seventy-five dollars,” replied Joe. “He――he stole it.”

The man nodded. “Naturally. Seventy-five dollars, though, seems an
inadequate reward for a broken neck. Any kind of a respectable funeral
would cost all of that. I don’t see that you stood to win much.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t stop to think of all that, sir. He jumped on the
train and so I――I jumped on, too!”

“I see. And now?”

Joe hesitated. “I suppose I’ll have to get him arrested in Toledo if he
won’t give it up without.”

“Why didn’t you call a policeman at that last place?”

“I didn’t see one. Besides, I thought he’d give the money back without
any fuss when he saw that I had caught him.”

“But he wouldn’t?”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps he hasn’t got it with him. Perhaps he’s spent it.”

“I don’t think so. You see――――”

“But I don’t see,” said the man, with a smile. “I want to, though.
Starting at the beginning, now――――” He doubled his long legs up
again, clasped his hands around them and observed Joe expectantly
and encouragingly. Joe hesitated, smiled, and told his story. During
the recital the gray-blue eyes watched him intently and their owner
maintained absolute silence. There was but one interruption, and that
was when the conductor came in. Joe reached for his money, but the man
gently pushed his hand away from his pocket.

“Pardon me,” he said gently, “but it’s my party.” He took out a very
stunning gold-trimmed pocket-book, pulled a five-dollar note from it
and handed it to the conductor.

“Where to?” asked the latter. Joe’s new acquaintance questioned
silently.

“Toledo, I guess,” said Joe. “Do we stop before we get there?”

The conductor shook his head, made out the check, returned the change
and took his departure.

“I’m much obliged,” said Joe, “but I didn’t mean for you to pay my
fare, sir.”

“I know you didn’t. But as you’re my guest it was only right that I
should. So you guessed that that punch was coming, did you?”

“Yes, sir, sort of. And then, when he swung around his bag struck me on
the knees and I went back against the wall.”

“To be continued in our next,” murmured the other. He examined his
watch. “We’ll be in Toledo in about ten minutes, I think. So perhaps
you’d better go and see your friend. Afterwards come back here and tell
me what the result is. It would be too commonplace to bring the police
into this. So we’ll just put our heads together and find an artistic
dénoûement.”

Joe hurried through the three Pullman cars and through an equal number
of day-coaches without finding Mr. Chester Young. But in the next, the
smoking car, the sight of that gentleman rewarded him as he closed the
door. Young was seated half-way along the car, smoking a cigarette and
figuring on the back of an envelope. Beside him, on the other half of
the seat, rested the suit-case.

Joe walked quietly down the aisle. Young didn’t see him until he had
laid hand on the bag. Then, with an alarmed grasp at the suit-case,
Young raised his eyes. His jaw dropped ludicrously and the cigarette
in his mouth rolled to the floor, and while Joe set the suit-case
aside and seated himself Young continued to regard him in stupefied
amazement.



CHAPTER XXII

THE AMATEUR DETECTIVE


“Well,” said Joe finally, “thought better of it, Young?”

Young found his voice then and for at least two minutes gave vent to
his feelings, which, judging from the expressions he made use of, were
far from pleasant. When, at last, breath or fresh invectives failed
him, Joe said: “Young, you might as well be sensible about this. We’ll
be in Toledo in a few minutes and there’ll be an officer waiting for
us. What’s the good of going to jail for seventy-five dollars? Why
don’t you give me back what you stole and have an end of it?”

Young, having regained his breath, indulged in a few more well-chosen
remarks derogatory to Joe’s character. After which he declared that
he knew nothing about the money, never saw it, didn’t have it, and
wouldn’t give it up if he had!

“Well,” said Joe impatiently, “you’ve had plenty of chances to give it
back without fuss, Young. So don’t blame me for anything that happens
after this.” He got up and went off down the aisle, leaving Mr. Chester
Young scowling somewhat anxiously after him. In the library compartment
Joe reported the result of his mission.

“I guess,” he said regretfully, “there’s nothing to do now but try to
get him arrested.”

“Are you certain he means to get off at Toledo?” asked the man.

“N-no, I’m not. He bought a ticket for Toledo, though.”

“Hm. Well, we’d better be ready in case he does. I’ll go and get my
things ready.”

“Are you getting off there?” asked Joe as the other pulled his six feet
and four or five inches from the chair.

“Do you know,” replied the man, “I’m never certain when I start out
where I’ll fetch up? It’s queer that way.” He stretched his long arms
and smiled whimsically down at the boy. “Once I started off for Chicago
and brought up in Buenos Aires. After all, it’s the uncertainty that
makes life interesting, eh?”

The stranger proceeded to the second car ahead, changed the cap he
was wearing for a derby, strapped up a battered kit-bag, took his
overcoat from the hook, and went forward again. Near the rear door of
the smoking car was an unoccupied seat, and in this the two seated
themselves. Joe pointed out the refractory Mr. Young to his companion,
who examined what was to be seen of his back with a disappointed
expression.

“Very weak,” he muttered. “Hardly worthy of our talents, my friend.
Observe the narrowness of the head between the ears. A sure sign of
weakness of character. I have it myself. I think we can safely assume
that he is not going to leave us here. If he were he’d be stirring
around.”

The train was running into the yard at Toledo now and many of the
occupants of the car were donning coats and rounding up their luggage.
The prediction proved correct. The train rolled into the station, but
Mr. Chester Young kept his place. That he was nervous was evident from
the manner in which he peered through the window and more than once
looked anxiously back along the car. He did not, however, see Joe,
since the latter was hidden by his companion. The train remained in
the station for some five minutes before it started off again towards
Detroit, and during that time, it is natural to suppose, Mr. Chester
Young was by no means enjoying himself. It seemed to Joe that he could
almost hear Young’s sigh of relief when the station lights slipped away
from them again!

Presently Joe’s companion, who had been silent most of the time during
the stop, arose and signalled the former to follow him. Down the aisle
they went. The seat directly in front of Young had just been vacated,
and the tall man turned the back over, set his bag down, and seated
himself facing Young, draping his overcoat across his knees and patting
the seat beside him invitingly as Joe hesitated.

“Sit down,” he said pleasantly. “That’s it. Now, then, here we are all
together.” He turned to the astonished Mr. Chester Young and regarded
him smilingly. “I guess,” he went on, “we can settle this all up nicely
before we reach Detroit, eh? We’ve got a lot of time ahead of us and
needn’t hurry.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” sputtered Young, darting a
venomous look at Joe. “You haven’t anything on me.”

“Now, now!” The intruder lifted a lean hand deprecatingly. “Don’t let
us start off that way, my friend. Let’s be good-natured and just talk
things over a bit. Why, bless you, I’m not complaining a mite, am I?
When the chief called me up and said, ‘Beat it to the station and
find a fellow named Young,’ I was just getting ready for a nice, long
snooze. I was up most of last night and was counting a lot on my sleep.
Well, it’s all in the day’s work with us Central Office tecs, and I’m a
natural-born philosopher. So here I am, and no hard feelings.”

The expression on Young’s face changed from angry defiance to alarm.
He swallowed once with difficulty, almost losing his cigarette in the
operation, and then his gaze darted quickly about as though seeking an
avenue of escape. The man opposite leaned over and patted his knee.

“Don’t think of that,” he said soothingly. “You couldn’t get away if
you tried. Besides, you’d break your neck if you slipped off with the
train going forty miles. Don’t try any foolish business, my friend.
Just keep calm and good-tempered and let’s talk it all over nicely.”

“I haven’t got anything to talk over,” muttered Young.

“Sure you have!” The man chuckled. “You’ve got seventy-five dollars! We
can do a lot of talking about seventy-five dollars, eh? Come on now,
cards on the table, Young. What’s your idea of it?”

“Idea of what?” Young was rather pale, but he managed to put some
assurance into his question. The man lighted a cigar with much
deliberation.

“Why, I mean what are you thinking of doing? Now, here’s my advice
to you. You don’t need to take it, you know. I shan’t mind if you
don’t. If I were you I’d get together what you’ve got left of that
seventy-five and hand it over. See? Then we’d just wish each other
luck and I’d drop off at the first stop and report ‘nothing doing’ at
the office. That would be the simplest thing. But you can come on back
to Toledo if you want to and face the music. Only that makes a lot of
trouble for you and me and this fellow here. You spend the night in a
cell, I don’t get to sleep before one o’clock, and this fellow has to
lie around until your case comes up in the morning. Still, I don’t want
to persuade you against your own judgment. It’s all in the day’s work
for me.” He leaned back and smiled pleasantly at Young.

“You’ve only got his say-so for it,” exclaimed Young desperately. “Why,
I never saw him until he came up to me in the station at Fremont! I
don’t know anything about him. It――it’s a frame-up, that’s what it
is! If you arrest me you’ll get into trouble. I――I’ve got friends in
Toledo, and they’ll make it hot for you, all right!”

“Sure, I know. We get that line of talk all the time,” was the
untroubled response. “You know your own business better than I do. If
you didn’t take this fellow’s money, why, all right.”

“Of course I didn’t! Why, look here, I’ll show you!” Young pulled a
purse from his pocket and eagerly spread its contents out. “That’s
every cent I’ve got to my name! Seventy-five dollars! Gee, if I had
seventy-five dollars I’d be back there in a Pullman, believe me!”

“That’s so. Still, you might have spent the difference. How much you
got there?”

“Nineteen, about! I had twenty-five when I――when I was in Fremont, and
this fellow”――he darted a triumphant look at Joe――“braced me for a
dollar to get something to eat. Then, when he saw I had more, he began
some wild yarn about my stealing money from him. Why, I guess he’s
crazy!”

The tall man turned and looked attentively at Joe. “Is that right?” he
asked. “Did you get a dollar from him at Fremont?”

Joe shook his head, not trusting himself to speak for fear he would
laugh. The supposed detective sighed.

“Well, I don’t know! Of course, if they find only nineteen dollars on
you when they frisk you at the station――――”

“Frisk me?” faltered Young.

“Sure; search you; go through your clothes. And your bag.”

Young shot a troubled look at the suit-case beside him. “No one’s got
any right to search me,” he muttered. “And――and you can’t arrest me,
either, without a warrant!”

“Bless your heart, friend, if we waited for warrants we’d miss half the
fun! Here comes the conductor. Better not buy beyond Monroe. We’ll get
off there and beat it back.”

“Why don’t you believe what I’m telling you?” demanded Young anxiously.
“I never saw this fellow or his money. Say, you aren’t really going to
take me just on what he says, are you?”

“Orders are orders, friend, and I got mine,” was the reply. “But don’t
you bother. If you didn’t get his money you’ll get off all right
tomorrow morning. And we’ve got a good, comfortable jail in Toledo,
too.”

“That’s all right,” faltered Young, his gaze on the approaching
conductor, “but――but if he tells them a pack of lies, how do I know
they won’t believe him instead of me? You do yourself!”

“Me? Pshaw, now, I don’t believe anyone. This fellow says you did
and you say you didn’t. It doesn’t make a scrap of difference to me,
anyway. It’s up to the judge in the morning.”

“Well, but――say――――” Young leaned across confidentially, lowering his
voice. “Now, look here, sir. I don’t want to have to go back to Toledo.
I’m in a hurry. I’ve got a sick father in Detroit, I have. Now, say I
give this fellow what I’ve got with me? Eh? I’d pay that not to have to
go back. What do you say?”

“Well, that’s up to him,” was the reply, “What do you say?” The man
turned inquiringly to Joe.

“If he will give me all the money he has with him, all right,” Joe
answered. “I’ll be satisfied. I dare say he’s spent a good bit of it.”

“But I’ve got to keep enough to pay my fare to Detroit,” said Young
eagerly.

Joe nodded. “All right. Pay your fare to Detroit and give me the rest.”

“Well, that’s what I call sensible,” said the impromptu detective.
“What’s the use of going to a heap of trouble when you can avoid it,
eh? Hello, Conductor. One to Detroit and”――he looked a question at Joe.

“I guess I’ll go to Detroit, too,” was the response.

“Two Detroits, eh? All right, gentlemen. Thank you. Let me see,
you’re――――” He observed the tall man doubtfully.

“Yes, you know me,” was the response, accompanied by a nod toward the
rear of the train.

“I thought so.” The conductor returned the change to Young and to Joe
and passed on. Young, his purse still in his hand, counted out the
remaining contents of it.

“There’s nearly eighteen dollars,” he said easily. “You might leave me
enough for car-fare to get to my house with, but I won’t ask it.”

“Keep out the silver,” said Joe, “and give me the bills.”

Young obeyed and passed over a ten, a five, and two ones. “You’re
witness that I paid this to him,” he challenged the third member of the
group. The tall man nodded.

“I’m witness you’ve paid him seventeen dollars,” he agreed. “Go ahead.”

“Go ahead? What do you mean, go ahead?” asked Young with a scowl.

“Why, I mean go ahead and pay him the rest of it.”

“The rest of it! He agreed to take what I had here――――”

“What you had with you, my friend,” interrupted the other. “Be good now
and don’t let’s have any more trouble.” He reached across and pushed
Young’s suit-case toward him. “Open her up, friend, and dig down!”

“I tell you I ain’t got――――”

“I heard you, too,” was the wearied response. “But we’ll take the money
that’s in the suit-case, I think. Come across with it, Young!”

“You’re a couple of thieves! There ain’t any money in there! I――――”

“Seeing’s believing, my friend. Just open that up and show us.”

“I won’t! You’ve got all you’re going to get!” He took the suit-case on
his knees and hugged his arms over it. “What’s in here is mine!”

“Oh, so there is some in there, eh?” The tall man chuckled. “Well, pass
it over. Stand by your bargain and don’t play baby. And get a move on,
too. We’ll be in Monroe in about ten minutes and then it’ll be too
late.”

Young glared at the other in impotent rage, but the make-believe Central
Office man returned his gaze calmly, untroubledly, compellingly. For a
long moment Young hesitated. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he
tugged at the straps, opened the suit-case and drew a cigarette box from
under the layers of clothing.

“There,” he growled, and tossed the box into the man’s lap. Inside it
were five folded ten-dollar bills. The man smoothed them out, counted
them and passed them silently to Joe.

“Fifty and seventeen is sixty-seven,” he said. “That good enough?” he
asked.

Joe nodded as he stowed the money safely in a pocket. “That’s near
enough,” he said. “I ought to make him pay back what it’s cost me to
get it, but I won’t.” He turned to Young. “I’m going to hand nine and a
half of this to Mrs. Bennett,” he said. “She needs it more than I do, I
guess.”

Young sneered. “What do I care what you do with it? You’re easy,
anyway. If I hadn’t been a fool I’d have got clean away.” Then, fearing
perhaps that he had admitted too much, he glanced furtively at the man.
“We’re quits now, ain’t we?”

“Oh, yes, we’re quits. Or, rather, we’re more than quits, Young. I’m
really in your debt for an interesting experience. It’s the first time
I ever impersonated a detective and, although I may be taking too much
credit, I think I did it rather well, eh?”

“_What!_” squealed Young. “You ain’t a――a――――”

[Illustration: “_What!_” squealed Young. “You ain’t a――a――――”]

“My friend,” was the smiling reply, “I’m only a poor writer of tales
who has been doing his best to relieve the tedium of a dull journey.
The next time you have dealings with a detective, and something tells
me there’s going to be a next time, you ask to be shown his badge.
Never take anything for granted, my friend. It’s a wicked world and
there are, unfortunately, folks in it ever ready to impose on the
credulity of the young and――ah――innocent. Good-night, Mr. Young. And
thanks for the amusement you’ve so kindly afforded.”

They left him crumpled up in the corner, still holding his open
suit-case, an expression of mingled wrath and incredulity on his face.

Joe’s new friend led the way back to his chair in the Pullman, where
he deposited bag and coat and again changed from derby to cap. Then
they returned to the library car and viewed each other smilingly from
opposite chairs.

“I was right about the narrowness of the skull between the ears,”
observed the man reflectively. “Mr. Young is weak, lamentably weak, and
will not, I feel sure, ever make a success in his chosen profession.”

“His chosen profession?” repeated Joe questioningly.

“Yes, thieving. Perhaps it’s all for the best, however. Finding himself
unable to prosper in that line, he may turn honest. Let us hope so. And
now there’s one small formality we’ve neglected. Suppose we learn each
other’s names?”

“Mine is Joseph Faulkner, sir.”

“And mine is Graham――J. W. Graham. The J stands for John and the W for
Westley.”

“Westley Graham!” exclaimed Joe. “Why, I know who you are! I mean I’ve
read stories――――”

“Yes, I don’t doubt it. You could scarcely fail to, my boy, for I
write a horrible lot of them. I try not to, but they will out, like
murder――or measles! Ever read any you liked?”

“Why, I like them all!” cried Joe. “They’re dandy! There was one last
month about a man who discovered an island that nobody knew about,
and――――”

“Yes, I recall that. Well, I’m glad you like them, my boy. I do myself,
when I’m writing them, but afterwards I try hard to forget them.”

“But why, sir?” Joe’s eyes opened very wide. “I wish I could write
stories like those!”

“Do you? I try to forget them because I come of Puritan ancestry. Know
anything about the Puritans, Faulkner?”

“Why, I know what it tells in the history, sir.”

“Perhaps history doesn’t particularly emphasise the quality I have in
mind, however. The Puritans were endowed with the ineradicable belief
that whatever gave one pleasure in the doing was wrong. All my life
I have been at odds with my inherited Puritan principles. Every time
I write one of those stories Conscience sits at my elbow and weeps.
I try to console myself with the promise that some day before I pass
on I shall write something very dull and very learned and very, very
difficult, something that I shall utterly detest doing. But never mind
my soul worries now. Tell me something about you, Faulkner. What do
you do when you don’t chase over the country apprehending defaulting
clerks? You told me you were going to school, I think?”

So Joe talked then and, prompted by questions, told more about himself
than he ever remembered confessing to anyone. But Mr. Graham had a
way of making one talk that Joe couldn’t resist. In the midst of his
narrative the conductor bore down on them again and Mr. Graham, despite
Joe’s protest, paid for the latter’s seat in the Pullman to Detroit.
And, later, although it scarcely seemed a half-hour since they had
parted from the overwhelmed Mr. Chester Young in the smoking car, they
rolled into Detroit and it was after midnight!

“When I come to this town,” said Mr. Graham as they waited in the
vestibule for the train to stop, “I always put up at a small hotel on
Grand River Avenue. It isn’t sumptuous, but it’s neat and quiet and
they allow me to sleep late. Now, I propose that we walk leisurely up
there, in order to stretch our legs, and that you become my guest for
the night. In the morning we’ll have some breakfast together and then
I’ll see you on your way back.”

“But I don’t think,” stammered Joe. “I mean I oughtn’t to let you do so
much for me, Mr. Graham! I’ve got enough money to pay――――”

“The money you have, Faulkner, belongs, as I understand it, to the firm
of Faulkner and――well, whatever the other chap’s name is. And if you
dissipate it in riotous living you’ll be a defaulter yourself. No, I
think――Look, isn’t that our friend Mr. Young there? It is. I wonder,
now, what he’s going to do in this town without money. Excuse me a
minute.”

Mr. Graham left Joe at the car steps and dived hurriedly through the
crowd about the train. Joe followed his course easily enough, since
he was a head taller than most persons there, and so was witness to
the little scene enacted on the platform beyond the crowd. Mr. Graham
overtook Young there and for a moment they talked. Then the former put
his hand in his pocket, drew forth his purse and passed some money to
the other. After that, a hand on Young’s shoulder, Mr. Graham talked a
moment longer. When he returned to Joe he picked up his bag and led the
way out to Fort Street.

“I’m wondering,” he said as they stepped out briskly in search of the
hotel where one could sleep late in the morning, “how much a promise is
worth, Faulkner.”

“How much did you pay for it, sir?” asked Joe.

Mr. Graham laughed softly. “So you spied on me, eh? Well, it didn’t
cost me much, Faulkner, but at that I’m afraid I overpaid. Here we are.
Four blocks up Second Street and we’re almost there. I’m beginning to
be a little bit sleepy. How about you?”

“I’m dead tired, sir.”

“Are you? Well, you can sleep as late as you like in the morning!”



CHAPTER XXIII

“BATTER UP!”


Joe returned to Amesville at a little before three on Sunday afternoon.
He had meant to get back much earlier, but several things had
prevented. In the first place, he had unintentionally taken advantage
of the privilege of late slumber afforded by the quiet hotel and had
not awakened until after eight o’clock, a most unusual proceeding
for Joe! But, late as he had been, he had dressed and was reading a
morning newspaper before Mr. Graham appeared. Breakfast was a leisurely
ceremony and a surprisingly pleasant one. Joe had never seen anyone
pay so much attention to the ordering of a meal as the writer did, and
when it came it was quite unlike any breakfast Joe had ever partaken
of. Strawberries were served with the stems on, a half-dozen big,
luscious ones arranged in a circle about a pyramid of powdered sugar.
Joe waited, at a loss as to how to proceed, until Mr. Graham had shown
the way by lifting a berry by its stem, dipping it in the sugar and
transferring it to his mouth. His host, without appearing to observe
Joe’s hesitation, explained that strawberries eaten in that way were
far easier to digest than when accompanied by cream. Then had arrived,
after finger-bowls, two half chickens, broiled and laid on toast,
Julienne potatoes――only Joe called them “shoestring”――tiny crisp,
crescent-shaped rolls, orange marmalade, coffee――this, too, without
cream, fashioned on the table in some bewildering way with boiled milk
and a tiny pat of sweet butter!――and, last but by no means least,
golden-brown griddle-cakes served with honey.

That had been a wonderful breakfast, indeed, and Joe had eaten until
he felt ashamed of himself, but without, since they spent all of an
hour at the table with the June sunshine lying across the white napery
and glistening on the silver, any after discomfort. Later, when Joe
had spoken of a ten o’clock train, Mr. Graham vetoed the plan at once,
lightly but firmly, and they had taken a long walk, during which the
writer, who seemed to know everything in the city worth seeing and the
shortest way to reach it, had made Joe work his shorter legs to the
utmost to keep up with his companion’s giant strides!

At the station Mr. Graham had gone to the news-stand and doubtless
vastly surprised the attendant by selecting four books from the pen of
Westley Graham. From there they went to the ledge outside the ticket
office and Mr. Graham wrote Joe’s name and his own on the fly-leaf of
each and then piled them into the boy’s arms. After that, in spite of
Joe’s earnest protests, he had bought the latter’s ticket and parlour
car seat.

“You can get some lunch at Toledo,” said Mr. Graham. “You’ll have
twenty minutes there.”

“I shan’t ever want to eat again,” replied Joe with a wistful
recollection of that breakfast.

The other laughed. “Oh, yes, you will. You’ll be hungry by the time you
reach Toledo. If you’re not, you’re no real boy.” At the parlour car
steps Mr. Graham shook hands warmly. “Good-bye, Faulkner,” he said.
“We’ve had rather a jolly little party, haven’t we? I’ve enjoyed it,
anyhow. Good luck to you, my boy. You’ll find an address in one of
those books that usually gets me. Drop me a line some day and tell me
how you’re getting on. Let me know who wins that game on Wednesday. I’d
like to see that.”

“I don’t suppose you ever get to Amesville?” asked Joe anxiously.

“Amesville?” Mr. Graham smiled. “I get everywhere sooner or later,
Faulkner. Whether I do or don’t, we’ll run across each other again some
day. That’s my experience. It’s a wee bit of a world, after all, and a
mighty nice thing about it is that friends are always meeting.”

Joe had opened one of the books as soon as he had had his last glimpse
of Mr. Graham on the station platform, and, in spite of the latter’s
prediction, had not lunched at Toledo. Instead, he sat on a baggage
truck and pursued the adventures of the hero of the tale with a
breathless interest that almost lost him his train to Amesville!

His first act when he got home was to seek Mr. Chase, the station
agent. But that gentleman was not on duty and so Joe enclosed the
borrowed money in an envelope, scribbled a note that recounted the
success of his expedition and thanked Mr. Chase for his assistance, and
left it at the office.

It was a worried and anxious Aunt Sarah who met him at the door, and
Joe’s first half-hour at home was devoted to a full and complete
history of the past twenty-four hours, during which he was made to
drink two cups of tea and eat three slices of currant cake. Then he
called up the Strobes’ house, found that Jack had been asking for him
and was at last able to see him, and forthwith hurried to the meeting.
Jack was swathed in a dressing-robe and flanked by medicines and an
atomiser when Joe found him, but he looked pretty healthy and declared
that he felt fine today and was to go out tomorrow unless the pesky
doctor changed his mind in the morning.

“I was frightened to death I wouldn’t be able to play Wednesday,” he
said; “but I can. Say, did Frank play Saturday?”

“Yes, he did, Jack, for a couple of innings; no, three.”

Jack groaned. “It’s all up, then! Bat will put him in Wednesday just
out of kindness. Isn’t that rotten luck? Who invented quinsy, anyway?”

“Edison, I suppose.”

“Oh, it’s all well enough for you to grin, but I lose that wager and
Handsome Frank will be more conceited than ever! And I won’t get that
bat-case――――”

“I’ll buy that for you if you’ll shut up about it,” declared Joe
desperately.

“I don’t want you to. I can buy it myself, for that matter. It――it’s
beating Frank that matters.”

“And only the other day you were saying that you were sorry for him!”

“Well, I’m not today,” said Jack grimly. “Say, where were you all the
morning? I thought surely you’d come around or call up.”

“Most of the morning I was in Detroit,” answered Joe soberly.

“In Detroit! What do you mean, Detroit?”

“Detroit, Michigan. There isn’t any other, is there?”

“You mean you’ve been to Detroit today?” asked Jack incredulously. Joe
shook his head.

“I came from there today. I went last night.”

Jack stared unbelievingly. “What for? What’s the joke?”

“For seventy-five dollars,” replied Joe, smilingly. “And I got it, or
most of it.”

“Say, are you batty?” demanded Jack impatiently. “What seventy-five
dollars? What’s the big idea?”

So Joe told his story once more, while Jack’s eyes got bigger and
rounder and he hurled questions at the narrator breathlessly. And when
he had heard all about it and had had every last detail explained to
his satisfaction he deliberately kicked over a chair.

“Wouldn’t that make you sick?” he exclaimed. “I have to go and get
quinsy and lose all that fun! Of course Young couldn’t have sneaked off
when I was well! Oh, dear, no! It had to be when I was laid up! Hang
the luck, anyway! Say, if I’d been along, Joey, I’d have punched his
head!”

“Just as well you weren’t, then,” laughed Joe. “As it was, everything
went off quietly and strictly according to the rules-book.”

“Well, what do you know about it!” marvelled Jack. “Joey, when they
named you ‘Lucky’ Faulkner they hit it just about right! Why, you
didn’t have one chance in ten thousand to get that money back!”

“I guess that’s so. Come to think of it, Jack, I didn’t get it back. It
was Mr. Graham did it.”

“Never mind who did it, you brought it home. Now what are we going to
do for someone to look after the stand?”

“I’ve been thinking that the best thing would be to put the tin box
back for a few days. School closes Thursday, and after that we can look
after it ourselves.”

“All right. I dare say four days won’t lose us much. I wonder, though,
how we’re going to like sticking around that lobby when the hot weather
comes. That won’t be so pleasant, eh?”

“I don’t believe the Adams Building will be hotter than any other
place,” replied Joe. “Anyway, if we’re going to earn money we’ve got
to work for it and put up with some things. I’ve got to be going now,
Jack.”

“What’s your hurry? I haven’t seen you for an age!”

“I’ll drop around after supper if you can see folks then. But I want to
go and give this nine-fifty to Mrs. Bennett. I guess she needs it worse
than we do.”

Jack was back in school Monday morning, a bit weak in the legs, but
otherwise as good as ever, or so he declared. He had two days of
examinations to make up and, since he would not have been of much use
to the team anyway, he stayed away from practice that afternoon and
toiled over his papers in a deserted class-room under the eagle eye of
one of the teachers.

On Tuesday there was only an hour of light work for the players. The
Second Team ended its season with a game with the grammar school, which
it won in a breath-taking tenth inning rally, and the diamond was given
over to the workmen who were to put it in shape for the morrow’s battle.

Petersburg descended on Amesville the next day at noon and went to
lunch at the principal hotel. She arrived nearly a hundred strong and
armed with a multitude of gay banners, which she waved jubilantly as,
luncheon over, the team and its followers took trolley cars to the
field.

Petersburg had gone through a more than usually successful season,
playing nineteen games, of which she had won twelve and tied one. In
Calvert she had a pitcher of known ability who had last year proved a
good deal of a riddle to Amesville’s batters, and her second-choice
twirler, Gorman, had been coming fast during the last month and had
only a week ago held Minton School to one hit. For the rest, Petersburg
had an average team, with a fast, snappy infield and an outfield
composed of two veterans and one newcomer. Petersburg had not gained
the reputation of a hard-hitting outfit this year, but an analysis of
the scores of past conflicts would have shown that she had usually
secured hits when they were most needed.

Amesville, however, went into the game that afternoon with more
confidence than usual. There had been seasons when she had had a strong
pitching staff and a poor fielding team, seasons when she had been
brilliant at fielding and weak at batting, and seasons when she could
bat anything and had no talent in the box. But this year it was felt
that the Brown-and-Blue was an evenly rounded nine with good pitchers,
clever fielders, and the ability to bat, and most of the local rooters
who filled the two stands behind first base and flowed over on to the
field held that it was less a question of which team would win than
what the score would be!

Petersburg had nearly an hour of practice before Amesville trotted out
to claim the diamond, and by that time the audience had assembled and
the stage was set. The umpire had been imported from Lima, and, since
he had presumably never heard of either Amesville or Petersburg High
School in his life, was credited with being about as impartial as an
umpire could be. He was a small, rotund, business-like-looking chap who
wore the regulation blue flannels and had a voice like a mild-mannered
bull.

Amesville’s batting order was as follows: Smith, s.; Morris, cf.;
Strobe, lf.; Hale, 3b.; Peddie, 2b.; Faulkner, 1b.; Cummings, rf.;
Craig, c.; Pollock, p. Toby Williams hoped to get into the game before
the curtain fell on the afternoon’s performance, and probably Carl
Moran entertained a similar hope, but it was pretty certain that Tom
would remain on the mound as long as the opponent showed its teeth.
On the bench, when the Amesville players trotted out for the opening
inning, remained Williams, Moran, Foley, Loomis, Speyer, Johnson, a
capable hitter from the disbanded Scrubs, and Buster Healey. Buster was
not in playing togs, however, and he viewed the world from behind a
pair of horn spectacles with thick lenses that gave him the appearance
of a wise owl. Manager Mifflin was there, too, with his battered
score-book spread open on his knees, and so was Coach Talbot, in
low-voiced conversation with Mr. John Hall, a privileged well-wisher of
the team.

At half-past two to the second Mr. Reardon, the imported umpire,
faced the stands in “big-league” fashion and announced the batteries
in a voice that carried easily to the outfield fence: “Batthery for
Amesville, Pollock and Craig! For Petthersburg, Calvert and Beale.
_Batther up!_”



CHAPTER XXIV

BUNCHED HITS


“First man, Tom!”

Sam Craig pulled his mask down, looked over the field and then knelt
behind the plate. Tom, his arms at his sides, watched, nodded, himself
turned and viewed the fielders, and pulled his cap down a bit further
over his eyes.

“Come on, Tom! Let’s have him!” called Gordon Smith.

“Here we go!” cried Hale.

Tom’s hands came up to his chest, his foot went forward, cunning
fingers wrapped themselves around the clean, new ball. At the plate
Wiley, third baseman, squared himself and tentatively swung his bat.
Behind him Captain Craig placed his feet apart and with slightly bent
knees and out-thrust hands waited. Behind the third base line the
visitors were still cheering and two noisy youths were encouraging the
batsman from the coachers’ boxes. Tom’s arms went back above his head,
his body lurched forward, his right hand shot out and a white streak
sped away for the plate. A yellowish flash as the bat swept the air,
the thud of ball against leather mitt, and the stentorian voice of the
umpire:

“Shtrike!”

Amesville cheered, while a chorus of approval arose from the fielders,
and Sam, thumping the ball into the deep hollow of his big mitten,
cried to Tom: “That’s the stuff, Tom! Keep after him!”

On first, or, to be exact, well off of first and behind the base-path,
Joe added his encouragement to the rest and, a bit nervously, perhaps,
hitched at his trousers, which didn’t need a particle of attention.
Again the wind-up, leisurely and carefully made, and again the sphere
flew toward the plate. It was a ball this time, and the batsman judged
it correctly and let it severely alone. The cheers from the stands had
died away now. A few latecomers were searching for points of vantage
well back of the foul lines. The hot June sunlight fell radiantly on
the backs of spectators and straw hats had already begun to wave in
front of flushed faces. A second ball followed and then a drop that
fooled the Petersburg third baseman brought the second strike.

“Two and two!” called Sam cheerfully. “Let’s have him, Tom!”

Joe, on his toes, waited. The ball shot forward again, the bat met
it, Joe leaped to the base as Hale, coming in on the run, scooped up
the trickling sphere and jerked it across the diamond. Squarely into
Joe’s glove it thumped, his left foot touched the bag, and the runner,
puffing hard, swerved aside.

“One gone!” called Joe. “Let’s have the next one, Tom!”

“One!” echoed Sam, pointing a dramatic fore-finger aloft.

The next batsman, however, was not to be disposed of in any such
manner. He picked out Tom’s second offering and sent it speeding
between Smith and Peddie and raced across the first bag without
challenge. The coachers redoubled their vocal energy. Twice Tom threw
to Joe and twice the runner threw himself back to safety. Then Tom
gave his attention to the Petersburg shortstop. With a strike and two
balls on that youth, Tom tried to sneak one across in the groove. The
shortstop was ready for it and the ball went screeching into right
field. Cummings came in hard and got it on the bound, throwing to
second. The first runner was on third by that time and Petersburg was
yelling madly on stands and bench and coaching lines.

The runner on first stole on the first ball, and Sam, faking a throw
to second, slammed the ball to Tom. But the man on third held his
place. With only one gone there was no use taking any chances. The
Petersburg left fielder got himself into a hole at once, swinging twice
at deceptive offerings. Then Tom wasted a couple and, finally, cut the
outer corner of the plate and the batsman withdrew with trailing bat.
But the trouble was not over yet, for the next man, the Petersburg left
fielder, was more canny. He disdained the first two deliveries and the
umpire called them both balls. Tom tried to fool him on an inshoot and
again missed it. With three balls against him, Tom decided to pass the
batsman and so threw wide and the bases were filled. A hit meant two
runs, and the hit was forthcoming a moment later when the Petersburg
captain, Lyman, picked out something to his liking and raised it far
and high into centre field. Morris and Cummings both went after it,
but it was Sid’s ball and Sid should have had it. But when it dropped
it failed to find its way into his hands, and amidst consternation and
gloom in the Amesville ranks, two tallies crossed the platter!

There was a pathetic hunch to Sid’s shoulders as he turned and went
back to his position. Then Smith’s cheerful “Never mind that, Sid!
Here’s another!” went back to him and he waved a hand answeringly. They
were certainly finding Tom Pollock, Joe reflected ruefully, and glanced
toward the bench to see if Toby was pulling off his coat. But there was
no sign of anxiety there. After all, Joe added consolingly, it was only
the first inning. Then he stopped thinking about it and sprinted across
the line to pull down a high foul and make the second out. Then came
the Petersburg catcher, a sturdy chap with a knowing manner. But Tom
was taking no chances and presently Beale walked to first, filling the
bases for the second time, while Petersburg hissed.

“What’s wrong with Pollock?” asked Beale as he put a foot beside Joe’s
on the bag.

“He’ll settle down in a minute,” answered Joe. “You chaps want to make
the most of this inning.”

“That’s what we’re doing,” replied Beale with a laugh.

The Petersburg pitcher started toward the plate, but was called back,
and a tall youth took his place. He was Middleton, a substitute
fielder, Beale explained as he danced away to a lead. But for once a
pinch-hitter remained true to precedent. Tom tried him on a low ball,
put a wide one across and then offered one of his famous “knuckle
balls.” That did the business effectively, for Middleton struck at it
and Sam pulled it down three feet behind the plate. Amesville cheered
encouragingly as their team flocked to the bench, and cheered again
when Gordon Smith stepped to the plate. Gordon studied two deliveries
from Calvert and heard one called a ball and the other a strike. Then
he fouled off two, and, with the score two and one, landed against the
next offering. But it went straight to shortstop and Gordon was an easy
out. Sid Morris had no better luck, for his attempt at a hit was pulled
down by centre fielder. Jack hit safely to left. Hale tried hard to get
one out of the diamond, but failed, and Jack made the third out, short
to second baseman.

Tom found himself in the second inning and only four batsmen faced
him, the third man up getting to first on a weak hit to Hale that
jumped so erratically that it couldn’t be handled in time. Returning
the compliment, Calvert also disposed of the enemy in three chapters,
George Peddie striking out, Joe getting his base on balls, and Cummings
and Craig fanning.

In the next inning Petersburg got a runner to third, but had to leave
him there when, with two down, Cummings gathered in an easy fly that
just escaped going foul. Tom Pollock opened things up in Amesville’s
half with a smashing drive into deep right that proved good for two
bases and Amesville waved her banners and shouted wildly in acclaim.
For awhile, however, it seemed that Tom would get no further, for
Smith’s best was a fly to second baseman and Sidney Morris, after
fouling off a half-dozen, struck out. It was Jack who was destined to
bring in the first tally. With two strikes against him he slammed a
sizzling hit down the first base line, scoring Tom and taking second
himself. That unsettled Calvert for the moment and Hale bunted toward
third and barely beat out the throw. By this time Amesville clamoured
triumphantly and Sam, at first, and Smith, behind third, added strident
voices to the bedlam. With Jack on third, Hale’s steal of second went
unchallenged, Peddie swinging harmlessly. Calvert followed that strike
with two bad ones, one of which nearly got past the catcher, and then
made the mistake of offering a fast out-shoot. Peddie was fond of those
and he liked the present one especially and sent it arching into short
right field. The fielder scuttled in for it and Captain Lyman, at first
base, ran back. But the ball fell harmlessly to earth between them, by
which time Jack had scored, Peddie was on first, and Hale was sprinting
for the plate. Unfortunately, Hale had pulled up momentarily at third,
in spite of Gordon Smith’s urging, and Captain Lyman’s quick, straight
throw to the catcher killed him off at the rubber.

But the score was 2 to 2, and Amesville settled back with sighs of
satisfaction. Five hits for a total of seven bases was not bad in
three innings, they argued, and a continuation of such work should win
without trouble. But a continuation proved more than the Brown-and-Blue
was capable of. Petersburg went down one, two, three in the fourth
inning, but so did Amesville, and in the fifth and sixth she did little
better so far as results were concerned. Calvert, after that first
wobble, settled down to a fine, steady pace. In the fifth Sid Morris
got to first on a pass and in the next inning Joe made his first hit
of the game when two were down. But, although Cummings was passed, Sam
Craig struck out.

In the meanwhile Petersburg made the most in the fifth inning of a
pass, a hit, and an error. Tom presented the first batsman with his
base, thereby paving the way for trouble. The left fielder, who had
already tasted blood in the third, got a safe hit past Smith and first
and second bases were occupied with no one out. Captain Lyman’s drive
got away from Tom Pollock’s glove and when he had recovered it the
bags were all filled. The next man proved an easy out, retiring after
four pitched balls, but Catcher Beale came through with a two-bagger
to right that brought two more tallies across. Tom struck out the next
pair.

With the score 4 to 2, Amesville, as has been said, failed to help
herself to anything in that inning or the sixth. Calvert was pitching
his best, and Calvert at his best was a hard nut to crack. Petersburg
retired in order in the sixth and seventh, Tom adding two more
strike-outs to his growing list.

When Tom Pollock went to the bat in the last of the seventh Amesville
arose and demanded runs. “Here we go! It’s the lucky seventh! All up,
High School! Here’s where we tie them!”

The cheer leaders waved their megaphones and brought forth lusty
encouragement, while Petersburg, fewer in numbers, but possessed of
willing lungs, hurled back defiance from across the sunlit field. Joe,
squeezed in between Jack and Steve Hale on the home bench, listened
silently to the discussion. Coach Talbot was talking to Gordon Smith,
next up, but the others were having it back and forth. Manager
Mifflin, his black-covered score-book across his knees, was biting the
end of his pencil nervously.

“Someone’s got to start something this inning,” Sid Morris was saying.
“He’s going to crack again before this game’s over, you mark my words.
And when he does we want to be right there, fellows.”

“Calvert’s gone twelve innings,” said Speyer, “without shedding a
feather, and it looks to me as if he could do it today.”

“He’s shed a few feathers already,” replied Jack. “We had him going
nicely in the third, and if things had worked right we might have been
running yet. What happened at third, Walt?”

“My fault, I guess,” answered Hale. “I thought that hit was shorter.
Still, I ought to have kept on when Gordon was telling me to. I suppose
I got rattled.”

“I’ll take it on first,” said Captain Craig. “Toby, take third, will
you? Play this safe till they’re two out and then pull ’em along any
old way!” He walked apart with Gordon Smith and then hurried down to
the coacher’s place at first, shouting encouragement to Tom as he went.



CHAPTER XXV

A DOUBLE UNASSISTED


At the end of the bench sat Frank Foley, sombre gaze fixed on the
batsman. Joe, seeing him, felt sorry for his defeated rival and
wondered whether Mr. Talbot would put him in for an inning or two. He
surely deserved it, thought Joe. It was hard lines having to sit there
all through the big game without even a chance to warm his hands! Only,
he reflected, if Bat did put Foley in Jack would simply throw a fit!
At that instant Foley happened to turn his head and their looks met.
If Joe, averting his own glance quickly, had expected to find anger
or antagonism in the other’s eyes he was wrong. Foley met his gaze
impersonally, unsmilingly. They were still cheering lustily on the
stands when Calvert shot the first ball in. Then the noise died away,
to start again as the umpire called:

“Ball!”

Another ball followed. Then a low one that looked good from the bench
and, it seemed, looked good to the umpire. Tom Pollock gravely studied
the plate, took a new grip of his bat, and waited once more. The next
effort was wild and the ball almost got past the catcher. Amesville
shouted and jeered and the two coachers danced and waved and made noise
any way they could. Again Calvert pitched, and once more the ball went
wide.

“Four balls!” announced Mr. Reardon. “Take your base!”

“Here’s where we start!” cried Jack, excitedly thumping Joe’s knee. “Go
to it, Gordon, old scout! You know what to do!”

“It’s the lucky seventh!” shouted the Amesville rooters ecstatically.
“Smash it, Smith! Bring him in! Here we go, fellows!”

After that for many minutes Joe was too excited and anxious to know
what was going on around him, although once during the subsequent
proceedings he had a dim notion that Mr. John Hall and Coach Talbot
were shaking hands and that Walter Cummings had fallen backwards over
the water carboy! They were cheering Smith now as he faced the pitcher
with “sacrifice bunt” written large all over him. But Smith wasn’t
destined to sacrifice. Calvert simply wouldn’t allow him to. He,
too, ambled to first on a free ticket and bedlam broke loose in the
Amesville stand. Men on first and second with none out and only two
runs needed to tie! This was indeed the lucky seventh! Then came Sid
Morris, after listening to Coach Talbot’s instructions, and Sid was
there to hit, as he soon proved by swinging at and missing two pretty
poor balls. With the score two and two Fortune took a hand in the game.
Calvert was noticeably nervous now and when the fifth delivery shot
away from his hand――Sid had fouled off one――it twisted straight for
the batsman. Sid stepped back, but not far enough, and the ball struck
against his shoulder. He staggered away, dropping his bat and doubling
over. But by the time two or three of his team-mates had leaped to his
assistance he was smiling and shaking himself.

“All right,” he said over his shoulder as he trotted down the line.

That was the final undoing of Pitcher Calvert. Already the Petersburg
second-choice twirler was warming up behind the first base stand.
Calvert gazed anxiously around the filled bases, heard the frenzied
shrieks of the coachers and the wild, disconcerting babel from the
audience and faced the situation a bit wiltedly. The catcher soothed
and reassured him from in front of the plate and Calvert tried his
best to come back. But Jack laid his bat against the very first ball
that came his way and off screeched a line drive into left field,
scoring Tom and Gordon Smith and placing Sid on third. Jack took second
on the throw-in.

Petersburg seemed inclined to stop the game then and there and have a
consultation about it, but Umpire Reardon would allow no post-mortems.
Calvert, the center of a group of dismayed players, yielded the
ball and took that long walk from the box to the bench, cheered
perfunctorily by friend and foe, and Gorman took up his task. Gorman
was younger, smaller, and slighter, and that he didn’t at once stop the
havoc being worked against Petersburg’s defences was not to be wondered
at. Hale was now at bat and the hoarse cries of the Amesville fellows,
mingled with the shrill shrieks of the coachers, whirled and eddied
about his head, imploring him to clear the bases. In the meanwhile
Petersburg’s coaches were rushing about, giving instructions to the
fielders. Gorman had speed and lots of it, and Petersburg cheered
loudly when his first offering cut the middle of the plate and went for
a strike. But Hale was not to be denied and a moment later he connected
with one of Gorman’s benders and lifted a high fly to deep left. The
fielder made a nice running catch of it, but could not prevent Morris
from scoring and putting the game at 5 to 4!

Amesville was now wild with excitement and hats and pennants were
waving madly. With but one out and a run to the good the game seemed
won, for Jack Strobe was dancing around at third ready to come across
on any excuse. It was Peddie’s turn at bat, and Peddie, with one hit
already to his credit, would surely be good for another. He was. The
youngster let two wide ones go by him and then swung. _Crack_ went
bat and ball and the latter sped out into left field, free of the
outstretched hands of the fielders, and Jack romped home!

Six to four now, and still there was only one down! Amesville sang
and shouted and tramped and waved flags and acted like so many happy
lunatics. Down at second Peddie sat on the bag and recovered his breath
while Gorman and Beale met for a conclave between plate and mound and
Joe, gripping his bat, strode resolutely to the plate. One hit had
been the portion of “Lucky” Faulkner that day, and one hit seemed very
little to him. And so, when the game went on, he watched and waited
craftily until Gorman had tried him on two wide ones and scored a
strike. Then Joe found what he wanted and smashed a drive toward third
baseman and streaked to first. In the ordinary course of events that
should have been the safest sort of a hit and should have put Peddie
across the rubber and left Joe on first. But, as it happened, the
Petersburg shortstop, who had all the afternoon performed remarkably,
sprinted across at full speed and when the ball eluded the frantic
glove of the third baseman, got it on the run and, without pausing,
slammed it to the plate! It was a close decision, but the umpire waved
Peddie out. That virtually ended the lucky seventh, for, although Joe
went down to second and slid into the bag an instant ahead of the ball,
Arthur Cummings proved an easy victim to Gorman’s skill.

So, with the score 6 to 4, Petersburg went desperately to bat in the
eighth while the shadows lengthened across the diamond and the crowd on
the stand began to dribble down to the field. Joe made the first out in
that inning, taking a sizzling drive from Catcher Beale’s bat. After
that Smith threw out the centre fielder and Pitcher Gorman got a life
on Smith’s fumble of his grounder and took second when Tom walked the
head of the list. But it was all over a minute later when a fine throw
from Sam Craig caught the pitcher flat-footed off second.

Sam led off for Amesville in the last of the eighth with a scratch hit
that proved too slow for second baseman to field in time. Tom Pollock
tried hard to get a hit, but finally fanned, and Smith was instructed
to lay down a bunt and advance Sam Craig. It was at this moment that
Joe saw Jack leave his place on the bench and speak to Coach Talbot.
What was said between them Joe couldn’t hear, nor did he try to, but
after a minute of indecision Mr. Talbot nodded his head and Jack
returned, looking, as Joe put it afterwards, like the cat who ate the
canary.

“You and Bat got it all settled?” asked Joe laughingly as his friend
seated himself again.

Jack rewarded Joe with a somewhat sheepish glance as he nodded. After a
moment he said in a low voice: “It was about Frank.”

“What about him?” asked Joe, his gaze travelling to the end of the
bench.

“You’ll see,” replied Jack evasively, and that was all that he would
say.

Smith’s attempt to bunt resulted disastrously, for Gorman would have
none of it and the first thing Smith knew he was in the hole. When,
with two strikes and two balls against him, he tried to hit it out,
the ball slammed itself into Gorman’s glove and Smith was gone. Sid
Morris had better success, for he got a hit down the alley between
second and shortstop and Sam Craig advanced a base. Then Joe learned
the meaning of Jack’s converse with the coach. Mr. Talbot recalled
Jack, who had been half-heartedly awaiting his turn, and summoned Frank
Foley.

“Foley! Take a whack at it. Don’t try to bend your bat. Just put one
through.”

Foley, surprised, leaped from the bench. “Me, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, hurry up!”

Foley hurried. Half a dozen eager hands stretched out as many bats
toward him and, seizing a couple, he hurried to the plate, swinging
them eagerly. Foley’s friends in the stand applauded warmly and Joe
viewed Jack quizzically as the latter sank back into his place on the
bench.

“Jack,” began Joe in a whisper.

Jack turned on him rudely. “Oh, dry up!” he muttered.

Joe chuckled. “You’re a fine hater, aren’t you?” he asked.

“That’s got nothing to do with it,” declared Jack, reddening. “Frank’s
worked hard all spring and――and he deserved to get in.”

“Of course, he did, and I’m glad, Jack, mighty glad. And it was decent
of you, you old poser, to let him――――”

“Dry up and watch the game,” begged Jack. “I hope he does something!”

And Frank, who seldom came through with a hit, today did the
unexpected. There was a strike and two balls against him when he took
his swing, a very healthy swing, too, and off went the ball straight
down the first base line, and in raced Sam, while Amesville cheered
another tally. But that was all, for Hale flied out to shortstop the
next minute and the inning ended.

“All over but the cheering!” cried Jack as the bench emptied. “Hold
them safe, fellows! Don’t let anything slip, Joey! I’ll be watching
you!”

Frank Foley trotted into left field and Loomis to right. But those were
the only substitutions made. Williams and Moran started to warm up by
Coach Talbot’s orders, but no one looked to see either of them get in.
The audience was already starting hesitantly toward the gates when
Petersburg’s right fielder went to bat. Five minutes later many of them
were scurrying back again, for, after fouling himself into the hole,
the batsman waited and walked! Petersburg cheered hopefully then and
when the next man up, who happened to be that redoubtable shortstop,
smashed a two-bagger over Peddie’s head, advancing the first runner to
third, she cheered quite madly!

It was Amesville’s turn to show concern and Toby Williams began to
put on speed where he was pitching to Jack Speyer. But Coach Talbot,
contenting himself with low-toned instructions, never so much as looked
at Toby. The opponent’s left fielder was replaced by a pinch-hitter
and the pinch-hitter won fame and glory. He picked off Tom’s second
offering and sent it well into short centre, scoring the men from third
and second, putting himself on first and then going on to the next bag
when the throw was made to the plate in the attempt to head off the
shortstop!

Seven to six! And only one out! No wonder Captain Craig walked down
to the box, amidst the joyful hoots of the visitors, and held a
consultation there with Tom. No wonder that at last Mr. Talbot’s glance
wandered along to where Williams and Moran were pitching. Scattered
cries of “Take him out!” arose from the uneasy throng back of the first
base line. But the demand was not general and, in any case, Coach
Talbot had other intentions.

Captain Lyman came to bat, a little pale, very determined, and――struck
out! It was Amesville’s turn to jeer and rejoice and she did so,
relieving over-strained nerves. Tom faced the Petersburg second baseman
calmly and smilingly, got his signals from Sam, wound up and pitched.

“Shtrike!” called the umpire, and the Brown-and-Blue partisans shouted
stridently. Then came a ball, a low one and wide, followed by a second
strike across the centre of the plate and shoulder high. Another ball
then, for Tom could afford to waste one, and then――――

Well, then there was a _crack_ of wood against leather and the batsman
was speeding to base! The ball went to Tom, but it was bounding crazily
and he could only knock it down in his first stab for it. When he had
it in hand he turned toward third to head off the runner from second
and saw that that youth had changed his mind and was on his way back
to the middle sack. Wheeling quickly, Tom pegged to Joe at first. But
by that time the Petersburg runner had rounded first and was dashing
to second. Joe caught and turned to throw to Smith when he caught
sight of the further runner doubling back. Sensing a mix-up, Joe held
the ball and raced for second base. The two runners reached that bag
simultaneously. The expected happened. Plump into each other they went
with a bang that doubtless made them see stars as they each rolled
apart, clear of the base! Joe threw himself between them, his hand with
the ball shot to the left and then to the right, and the game was over!

Two minutes later, when Joe, with most of the others who had been
caught on the field, was being borne crazily about through the
laughing, jubilant throng, swaying and pitching above a sea of faces,
his bearers brought him for a moment abreast of Frank Foley and their
glances met.

“That was great, Faulkner!” called Frank warmly.

But Joe, smiling happily, shook his head.

“Only luck,” he answered.


THE END



 Transcriber’s Notes:

 ――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

 ――Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
   follow the text that they illustrate.

 ――Printer’s, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
   corrected.

 ――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

 ――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.



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