The boys finally succeeded in locating the residence of the Rowley family, and caught their man smoking his after-supper pipe before the door. He was a sallow person, with a goodly length of arms and legs strung to a lanky body by stout muscle-covered joints.
“Are you Mr. Jack Rowley, the ball-player?” asked Phil.
The man removed the pipe from his mouth and looked at the boys with interest. He admitted that he was Jack Rowley, but denied being a ball-player. He had been once, but wasn’t any longer.
“You could still pitch a little, couldn’t you?” asked Dick.
“A couple of innings, perhaps,” answered Rowley, “but I’m not up to a game. I’ve been out of it these three years. What d’ye want of me?”
“I want some practice in batting,” said Phil, “and I thought I might be able to get you to pitch for me half an hour a day for the next week.”
Rowley shook his head. “I’m in the mill all day from seven till six, except for the hour’s nooning, which I want to myself and to eat my dinner in peace and quiet.”
“How about after supper?” questioned Phil.
“It’s dark after supper,” grumbled Rowley, through the pipe-stem.
Phil looked at Dick in discouragement. Suddenly his face lighted up. “Why not before breakfast?” he said; “say from six to half-past? It’s only for a week, and I’ll pay you anything that’s reasonable.”