“Farrel? Who’s Farrel?”
“Mr. Chris Farrel, sir. He told me—he gave me——”
“Chris sent you? What have you got there?”
“A letter.” Wayne offered it and the manager pulled it impatiently from his hand, tore open the envelope, and ran a quick and frowning gaze over the contents. Then he squeezed letter and envelope into a tight ball and tossed them under the bench.
“He’s a fool! I don’t need infielders, and he knows it. Nothing doing, kid.”
“But—he said you’d give me a try-out, sir,” exclaimed Wayne with a sinking heart.
“He’d tell you anything. Look here, now, and get this. I don’t need infielders and wouldn’t sign one up if he was a Baker and a Collins all rolled into one. I told Chris to find me an outfielder who could hit and he goes and sends me a second baseman! And robs the nursery, too! The man’s crazy! You might as well beat it, kid. Back to the crib for yours.”
“I’m old enough to play ball, sir,” answered Wayne.
“Nothing doing,” replied the man wearily. “I can pick them up any day like you.”