“I never can forget your kindness,” said Larry, “but how did you happen to quit the Giants?”
“It was my own fault,” said the big pitcher quietly. “Jump into the wagon, I’ll toss the trunk up behind and tell you while we are driving out to the ranch.”
A few moments later the wagon was rattling rapidly through the main street of Pearton, and Krag did not speak until he pulled the ponies to a more sedate gait ascending the hill.
“I was drawing a big salary,” he said, “one of the best; $8,000 a season and a lot besides, easy money, forced upon me by admirers. I thought it would last forever. I never had known anything about business. Jumping from nothing a year to $8,000 spoiled me. Money ran away from me, and I never saved anything. I seldom had a month’s pay saved up and usually had to draw advance money before the winter was over, to tide me through. I drew big pay for eight seasons, and made a good fellow of myself.
“My arm felt as good as ever, and I was pitching just as well, so I never worried about it, or tried to save. It seemed good for a dozen more years. I was pitching against a weak club, working easily and winning, I wasn’t even trying hard, but suddenly, as I tossed up a slow twister, a ligament in the arm snapped. They nursed me along the rest of the season, hoping the arm would come back. I knew it wouldn’t. It was done, and I couldn’t even go to the minors.
“The Giants offered me a contract the next spring. There wasn’t a chance for me to pitch and I couldn’t go take money under false pretenses. I might have had a job as first baseman on account of my batting.”
He waited for Larry to laugh, but Larry was so sympathetic, he had forgotten that Krag was joking at his own expense on account of his weak hitting.
“I was done as a ball player—with the best part of my life gone and only a few hundred dollars. That’s the trouble with this baseball business. A young fellow makes good money at first, but after six or eight or ten years, he is through, and the years he might have used in getting a good start in some trade or profession are gone. I looked around for a job. The fellows who had been my closest associates commenced dodging for fear I’d ask them for something, so I decided to come West and go to work. I landed in Portland, almost broke and got a job working on the docks. I didn’t want any of my old friends to find me, but one did. He was a reporter. He wrote that I was in Portland and might locate there if I found the proper opening. Major Lawrence saw the note, wrote, offered me a job, and here I am.”
“That’s like him,” said Larry tenderly. “He never forgets. The day I came, I told him of your kindness to me, and he said he would like to meet you. He probably has been watching for mention of you ever since.”
“He certainly is good,” said Krag feelingly. “He must have sized me up as too strong or too lazy to do real work, and put me in charge of the packing houses. Then, when Arnett, his general overseer, quit a month ago, the Major gave me his position—in spite of the fact that I’m just starting to learn the ranch business.”