“This Mr. Sloan?” he asked as Wayne reached him. Wayne acknowledged the fact. “My name’s Farrel, Chris Farrel. Maybe you’ve heard the name.” He held out the ringed hand and Wayne took it, shaking his head. “No? Well, I was before your time. I’m with the Harrisvilles, of the Tri-State League.”
“Oh, baseball?” asked Wayne.
“Sure! Say, isn’t there a place we can sit down a minute? I’ve got a proposition I’d like to make you, Mr. Sloan.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Wayne. “I reckon we can find a corner in the game-room. There’s a crowd in the big room.” He led the way to a couch in a corner that was sufficiently removed from the few groups of chess and domino players. “You’re a ball player?” he asked as the caller cautiously lowered himself into place and dropped his hat to the floor beside him.
“Do I look it?” inquired the other, with a chuckle. “Say, I weigh two hundred and eight right now. I’d make a hit, wouldn’t I, chasing around the gravel? No, I haven’t played for six years. I’m interested in the Badgers now. Own a little stock and do a bit of scouting for ’em.”
“The Badgers?”
“Yes, that’s what they call the Harrisville team. John K. Badger, the Southern Pennsylvania Coal Company man, is the owner: him and Steve Milburn and me. Him owning ninety per cent, and me and Steve dividing the rest.” Mr. Farrel chuckled again. “Ever see our team play, Mr. Sloan?”
“No, sir, I haven’t been up North very long.”
“So a fellow was telling me. Said Georgia was your home, I think. Well, they grow peaches down there. Ty Cobb, for instance. Guess you’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
“Yes, a good many times, Mr. Farrel.”