Clancy studied him as if trying to decide what to do. Then, raising his voice, he called:
"Oh, Sec. Come here a minute."
A tall man, his hair gray, his face wearing a frown of perpetual worry, came from the hotel lobby.
"Mr. Tabor," said Clancy, without rising, "this is Mr. Jimmie McCarthy, who is to have a try-out with us at third base. Room him with the players. You aren't stopping anywhere else, are you?"
The last question was directed to the surprised youth.
"No—I'm broke," answered the youth, flushing quickly.
"I'll fix you up in a moment," said the secretary in friendly tones as he shook hands with the youth. "Wait until I finish settling up with the baggage man."
The secretary hastened from the room, and the boy turned impulsively to the manager.
"Mr. Clancy," he said in a tone of gratitude, "I want to thank you—I don't know how. I was broke—ball playing is about all I'm good at. How did you know I didn't want to use my own name?"
"I figured you might want to forget it for a time, anyhow," said Clancy. "McCarthy is a good name and it fits your eyes."