“I’m sorry, June. I wanted to see Arthur Pattern about something and we got to talking. I—I’m thinking about leaving here, June.” Then, sitting there in the star-sprinkled gloom, and fighting mosquitoes, Wayne told of Mr. Farrel and his proposition and of his talk with Arthur Pattern; and when he had finished June gave a joyous “Yip!” that startled Sam into barking.
“Ain’ I always tol’ you, Mas’ Wayne, that you goin’ make you-all’s fortune up here? Ain’ I?” Wayne couldn’t recall having been told anything of the sort, but he didn’t say so. “Reckon we’s goin’ to be mighty ’portant folkses now!” the darkey went on. “How much money he goin’ to pay you?”
“I don’t know yet. And I don’t know that I’ll go, June. Maybe Mr. Farrel isn’t really in earnest. I don’t see how he can be. I can’t play ball much, June. If I——”
“Say you can’? Let me tell you, Mas’ Wayne, sir, you plays ball better’n any of those other gen’lemen, a heap better!”
“But playing on a real league team is different, June. Suppose this manager doesn’t like me when I get there?”
“He’s goin’ to like you! How far is this yere place, Mas’ Wayne?”
“Harrisville? About eighty miles, I think. It’s a pretty big place, June, and maybe I wouldn’t like it as well as Medfield. I—I’ve got sort of fond of this place. If I do go, I want you to look after the garden, June. If you don’t I’m going to tan your hide for you.”
“What you mean look after your garden, Mas’ Wayne? Ain’ I goin’ with you?”
“Why, I don’t see how you can,” answered Wayne troubledly. “Maybe after I get ahead a little——”