“But he said you’d give me a try-out, Mr. Milburn. He—he promised me that. He wrote another letter to you yesterday——”
“He said he did. He’d tell you anything. What would you expect of an idiot who will ship you a second baseman when you want an outfielder? Anyway, I haven’t got any letter. And it wouldn’t matter if he wrote me a dozen. I’ve got all the second baseman I want. So don’t stand there and argue about it. I know what I want, don’t I?”
“I reckon you do,” answered Wayne, losing his temper at last. “And I know I was promised a try-out by your—your representative”—the manager sniffed audibly—“and I want it!”
“What do I care what you want?” demanded the man loudly. “You won’t get any try-out from me, and I’m telling you right. I’m not responsible for Chris Farrel making a fool of himself. Anyway, you aren’t old enough. Come around next year and I’ll give you a try-out—for bat-boy!” Steve Milburn turned on his heel.
Several retorts, none of which were either tactful or likely to aid his cause, sprang to Wayne’s lips, but he closed his teeth on them. Instead, he strode quickly after the manager, and the latter turned upon him scowlingly. “Listen to me, kid,” he said threateningly. “You beat it out of here before I throw you out. Get that?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Wayne unflinchingly. “I’m going. Can I see you at your hotel this evening?”
“You can not! I’ve said everything. Want me to sing it for you?”
“No, sir, only I thought that maybe you’d feel different when you’d——”
“When I’d what?”
“When you’d got your—when you weren’t angry, sir.”