Night passed without anything further to disturb or annoy them. The morning came bright and peaceful, and the sun shone pleasantly into the Enchanted Valley. Wiley turned out at an early hour, built the fire, and prepared the breakfast.
“Seems like I had an unpleasant dream last eve,” he remarked. “These measly dreams are coming thick and fast. Night before last it was pirates; last night it was spooks. It seems to be getting worse and worse. If this thing keeps up, I will be in poor condition when the baseball season opens in the spring.”
“Then you intend to play baseball again, do you, cap’n?” asked Merry.
“Intend to play it! Why, mate, I cannot help it! As long as my good right arm retains its cunning I shall continue to project the sphere through the atmosphere. To me it is a pleasure to behold a batter wildly swat the empty air as one of my marvelous curves serenely dodges his willow wand. I have thought many times that I would get a divorce from baseball and return to it no more. But each spring, as the little birds joyfully hie themselves northward from their winter pilgrimage in the Sunny South, the old-time feeling gets into my veins, and I amble forth upon the turf and disport myself upon the chalk-marked diamond. Yes, I expect to be in the game again, and when little Walter gets into the game he gets into it for keeps.”
“What if some one should offer you a prominent position at a salary of ten thousand a year where you would be unable to play baseball?” inquired Merry, with a sly twinkle in his eye. “You’d have to give it up then.”
“Not on your tintype!” was the prompt retort.
“What would you do?”
“I’d give up the position.”
Frank laughed heartily.
“Cap’n, you’re a confirmed baseball crank. But if you live your natural life, there’ll come a time when your joints will stiffen, when rheumatism may come into your good arm, when your keen eye will lose its brightness, when your skill to hit a pitched ball will vanish—then what will you do?”