“Second, sir.”
“Well, you aren’t likely to get there this season. Jones is as good as they make ’em. Seen him yet?”
“Jones?”
“No, Steve Milburn.”
“No, sir, not yet. He didn’t seem to be in very good humour and so I thought maybe I’d better wait awhile.”
“Hop” Nye chuckled. “You got it about right, kid. If I was you I’d beat it and come around tomorrow. He won’t get any better today, I guess. Not this morning, anyway.”
“Is he always like—like he is now?” asked Wayne anxiously.
“Steve? No, this is a little extra. Some of the boys went off to a picnic night before last and yesterday we got licked to a fare-ye-well by the ‘Billies.’ Oh, no, Steve has his fits now and again, but we don’t mind ’em much, and he gets over ’em. He’s a good sort—for a manager.”
At that moment a stout man wearing a faded sweater whose alternate rings of red and white added to his apparent circumference and who walked with a rolling gait and chewed gum fast and furious, appeared on the scene and was instantly pounced on by Mr. Milburn.
“Where have you been, Jimmy?” demanded the manager irately. “Had your dinner yet? Or are you just up from breakfast?”