The sporting goods department did very well in the summer. There was something very like a “boom” in golf at Amesville and Tom did a good business in golf clubs, balls, and supplies. He had ventured on a line of rather expensive golf vests and sweaters, very stunning affairs they were, too, and was relieved to find that he could not only get rid of those he had ordered, but that it would be necessary to order more. Joe Gillig had taken a two-weeks’ vacation in June, and Mr. Cummings frequently went away for week-ends, usually, as Tom discovered, managing to witness a ball game somewhere during his absence, but Mr. Wright and Tom stuck to the ship all during the hot weather. And it was hot that summer in Amesville! Tom ruined two boxes of golf-balls by exposing them to the rays of the sun that, intensified by the plate-glass window, caused the enamel to blister. He mentioned the matter in trepidation to Mr. Wright, the senior partner being out of town at the time, and had visions of being told to charge the two dozen balls to himself. But Mr. Wright, frowning and “tut-tutting,” only said: “Ought to have known better, Tom; ought to have known better. Live and learn, though. Charge to profit and loss.”
Late in August, Sidney began to write of coming home in a fortnight or three weeks, and about that time business slackened up a little. Mr. Cummings said one morning: “Tom, how about taking a vacation? I guess we can get along without you for a week or two after the first of the month. You haven’t been here quite a year yet and so we can’t give you full pay, but you can have a week with wages and another week without if you want it.”
So Tom chose to limit his vacation to one week. He went out to Derry one Saturday evening and remained until Tuesday. By that time he began to miss the town and so he moved back. The next morning he dropped in at the store, talked baseball with Mr. Cummings and hobnobbed awhile with Joe, and then went out to loiter rather aimlessly along the street. While he was studying the enticing placards outside the Empire Theatre and wondering whether to invest a dime and witness the moving pictures inside, someone slapped him on the shoulder and he glanced around to find Thornton Brooks grinning at him. Thorny Brooks had graduated from high school in the spring and was a big, fine-looking chap of eighteen. He had played with the Blues as pitcher, and Tom had become fairly well acquainted with him.
“Going in?” asked Thorny.
Tom looked undecided.
“Come on! It’s my treat. They’ve got some dandy pictures this week. I’ve seen ’em once, but I can stand ’em again.”
So Tom allowed the older boy to pull him up to the window and finally through the turnstile. They found seats in the back of the house, and Tom had his first glimpse of moving pictures. They seemed very wonderful to him and when, presently, a film showing a game of baseball at the Polo Grounds in New York was thrown on the screen he almost got out of his seat in his eagerness. Thorny, with the superior knowledge of one to whom moving pictures are an old story and who has seen the present programme before, explained to his companion in whispers.
“That’s Lewis at bat,” said Thorny. “Now watch. See him swing at that? Plain as day, isn’t it? There’s a hit. Watch him streak to first! That’s Murray fielding the ball in to second. That was a peach of a base-hit, eh? I don’t know who this chap is. He’s a big one, though. One ball! A foul! He’s got it! No, he hasn’t either! Look at the crowd in the stands, Tom. Now watch the fellow on first. There he goes!”
“He’s out!” exclaimed Tom in a hoarse and agitated whisper as the runner slid into second and the shortstop swung at him with the ball in hand.