“It’s my usual time, Steve,” was the placid reply. “Got through with ’em?”
“Yes, I’m through with them.” The manager’s tone implied that he was vastly relieved. “Take them, and if you can do anything with them, do it for the love of mud!”
“All right, Boss. Over to the net, boys. Bring them bats, some of you. Get a hustle on now. Some of you look like you was falling asleep on your pedals. Get goin’, get goin’!”
The players moved off with more or less alacrity to the further side of the field where two batting nets were set, and the manager, after watching them a moment with the utmost contempt, turned toward the bench and caught sight of Wayne. The latter wished then that he had acted on Nye’s advice and left the field when he had had the chance. Steve Milburn strode up to him belligerently.
“What are you doing in here?” he barked. “Who let you in? Don’t you know you fellows aren’t allowed in here without permission? Get out and stay out!”
Wayne found himself on his feet. There was something extremely compelling in the manager’s voice and manner! But the next instant his fingers had closed around that letter and he was pulling it forth from his pocket. “I—I was sent to see you, sir——”
“See me at the hotel then. You newspaper fellows make me sick, anyway. Who sent you?”
“Mr. Farrel.”