“Mas’ Wayne,” said June earnestly, “it’s jus’ got to happen, yes, sir! If that yere Mister Manager don’ give you that yere job I goin’ pesker the life out’n him! ’Deed I is, yes, sir! I’m goin’ make him pow’ful mis’able.”
“I’m going to do a little ‘peskering’ myself,” responded Wayne grimly. “And I’m going to begin tomorrow morning. Now, though, I’m going to sleep.”
In the morning they found a little restaurant within a block of their new lodgings and had breakfast there. It wasn’t a very attractive place, and the tablecloths were likely to be soiled, but the food was satisfactory and the prices well within the limit Wayne had decided on. Also, the proprietor, a little man with a pronounced squint who talked in broken English, took a liking to Sam and neither of the boys had to stint his appetite to provide for the dog. After that first morning Sam trotted at once to the door at the back and stood there with an inquiring gaze and slowly wagging tail until the expected chop bone or other delicacy came his way.
After breakfast June and Sam were left to their own devices and Wayne set forth for the ball park. Summer had come to Harrisville in its full intensity now and that long walk through the city and out beyond where there were neither buildings nor trees to mitigate the ferocity of the sun left the boy rather limp. As on the first occasion, Mike held him up at the door, but, recognising him the next instant, passed him through unsuspectingly. Today practice was in full swing when he entered the enclosure. Mr. Milburn was batting grounders to the infield and the portly trainer was knocking up flies. No one paid any attention to Wayne, and he crossed to the bench in the shade of the right base stand and settled himself to watch. Perhaps yesterday’s victory had restored the manager’s good-humour, for he was quite a different despot this morning. He didn’t hesitate to criticise or find fault, but his criticisms were just, and his fault-finding excusable. And he was quite as quick to praise as blame today. The players seemed in a merry mood and jokes and sallies passed from one to another across the diamond. Wayne’s first acquaintance, “Red” Herring, was limbering up his long arm, in company with the rest of the pitchers, at the other side of the field; Linton and Young catching. In deep right field, two painters, seated on a swinging scaffold, were dividing their attention between the sign they were at work on and the practice.
Both Mr. Milburn and Mr. Slattery, the trainer, caught the balls as they were returned to them from the fielders, and now and then one got away from them. Presently a ball thrown to the trainer went wide and rolled nearly to the fence at the entrance. Being nearer than Mr. Slattery, Wayne went after it and tossed it back. The trainer accepted it without comment, swung his bat and sent it flying out into the field again. When it came in again, however, it passed well out of the trainer’s reach and that individual, turning with an exclamation of disgust, saw it, to his surprise, bound into the hands of Wayne. Unseen of the trainer, Wayne had signalled to the fielder with upraised hand. Mr. Slattery grunted, accepted the ball and sent it sailing forth again. After that it was Wayne who caught the throw-in each time, taking it on the bound, and who tossed it lightly to the batter. The latter accepted the service silently, doubtless glad to have it performed for him and not troubling about the performer’s identity. But, looking across to the plate once, Wayne found Manager Milburn observing him curiously, perhaps wondering where he had seen him before. That the manager did not remember him seemed evident a few minutes later when the players were called in and someone reported that the second base bag had broken away. Mr. Milburn called to the trainer.
“Jimmy, send in and get a new strap for the second base bag,” he directed. “Jones says it’s broken.” And when Jimmy Slattery turned to waddle back to the dressing-room he added: “Send your helper, Jimmy, and you take them over to the nets.”
“This feller?” asked Jimmy viewing Wayne doubtfully. “You know where they are?” he inquired.
“I’ll find them, sir,” said Wayne.
“Well, get one, then, like a good feller,” said Jimmy, “and slip it on the second bag.”
Wayne entered the shed and looked around. There was a table in the first half-lighted room, and a half-dozen ticket boxes in a row on the floor. The table held a telephone instrument, some newspapers, a blotting-pad that looked as though it had been unchanged for many years and a litter of miscellaneous articles. But there were no base straps there and Wayne penetrated to the next apartment. This was evidently the dressing-room, for one side was lined with wooden lockers, most of them open and displaying the street costumes of the players, and on the other side were half a dozen showers. Two bare tables occupied the centre. Three wooden benches about completed the furnishings. One of the benches held a pile of towels and a box which, containing bottles and rolls of tape and gauze, exhaled a strong odour of liniment. But still there were no straps and Wayne returned to the outer room and was about to acknowledge defeat when his eyes fell on a closet. Although its door was closed, the key was in the lock, and when he had pulled it open he found what he was after. There were all sorts of things in that closet: base bags, bats, boxes of balls, masks, chest protectors, boxes whose contents he could only guess at, and, finally, a lot of straps depending from a nail. Wayne took one of the latter, closed the door as he had found it and went out again.