“Live stock has to travel in cattle cars, not as express,” answered the agent with a grim smile. “Besides I don’t believe in baseball anyhow. Some boys was battin’ a hall once, an’ they busted one of the windows in this ticket office. I had to pay for it, too! I ain’t got no manner of likin’ for baseball.”
Bill saw that it was no use in pleading, and turned away. With despair in his heart he noted that it was nearly one o’clock. He might as well give up. Already the players were beginning to get ready for the game. In fancy he could hear the words of wonder at his absence from the diamond.
“They may think I threw the game,” thought Bill, and then he remembered that his brothers and Whistle-Breeches had seen him captured, and would tell the story.
“They’d come to the rescue if they only knew where to come, too,” thought Bill gloomily.
The pitcher was in desperate straits. A search through his pockets disclosed the fact that he had nothing to pawn on which to raise money, even if there had been a pawn shop in the village. He was just giving up, deciding to walk to Westfield, hoping to arrive before dark, when, as he left the station he nearly collided with a pretty girl, who was just entering, having alighted from a trim little motor car, that was still puffing outside.
“I beg your pardon,” mumbled Bill.
“Oh!” exclaimed the girl. “I—why it’s Mr. Smith!” she cried, holding out her hand. “I’m glad to meet you again. But why aren’t you over at school at the big game? I’m on my way there.”
For a moment you could have knocked Bill down with the wind from a slow ball, as he afterward expressed it. He looked at the girl, and recognized her as Miss Ruth Morton, to whom he had been introduced by Bob Chapin at one of the school games.
“Miss Morton!” he murmured. “I—Oh, if you’re going to Westfield will you take me? I’m marooned!”
Then, rapidly, he blurted out the whole story of his capture and his inability to get back.