With a howl he went into the air, then came down in a heap like a wounded soldier. He did not cry, not even when three of the foursome of rich young golf players that made up the party, let out loud roars of laughter. He arose stiffly and started back toward the forest.
Then it was that J. Ogden Durant, young son of a rich stockyards owner, and one of that party, had endeared himself to Jimmie’s heart. He it was, of the four, who did not laugh. Though it had not been his shot that felled the boy, he hurried on ahead of his companions, caught up with Jimmie and said:
“Sorry, old man. That was a hard shot. They had no right to laugh. The thing might have been serious.”
Then, in a way that no one could see, he had slipped two brand new golf balls into Jimmie’s sweater pocket.
There are certain events in every small boy’s life that he never forgets. This was one in Jimmie’s. There was that in the face, the voice, the general action of J. Ogden Durant that marked him as a “real guy.”
In the years that followed Jimmie had saved every picture of Durant appearing on the Society Page. He had followed his career with the keenest interest. And now——
“Aw, gee! What a break!” he groaned. He seemed to hear that call he had come to know so well, “Boy!” For once he almost hated it.
CHAPTER VIII
A MILLIONAIRE PITCHER
It was on the way to the city next morning that, riding with his father, Jimmie brought up the coming ball game.
“Durant is pitching today,” he suggested.