But the big things of that day were not over. Scarcely had Jimmie taken his humble place in the row of waiting copy boys, when his father stepped out into the corridor and beckoned to him.
He followed his father into his office only to find with a start of surprise and joy that “Oggie” Durant, his idol was waiting for him there.
“He came in to thank us for the fine pictures,” Jimmie’s father smiled. “So I thought he’d like to meet the photographer.”
“You don’t mean—” The young millionaire looked at Jimmie in surprise.
“Yes.” There was a note of pride in the father’s voice. “Jimmie’s been a camera bug for a long time. He’s with us for the summer so I drafted him into my service yesterday.”
“Well! Shake!” Oggie gave Jimmie’s hand a true pitcher’s solid grip.
Never had Jimmie been happier than at this moment. To be shaking the hand of a young man who had been born rich, who might at that moment have been lolling on some beach surrounded by a bevy of beauties, or coasting along in some palatial yacht, but who had chosen the long years of labor and practice that makes a man a professional pitcher, that was a joy indeed.
“Og—I mean, Mis—mister Durant,” Jimmie burst out suddenly, “do you remember me?”
“Why, no, I—I can’t say I do.” The great pitcher looked him over.
“You gave me two golf balls,” Jimmie confided, “quite a long time ago. I—I’ve got them yet. Per—perhaps it sounds silly, but they’re as new as when I first got them.”