“Got a pencil and a bit of paper?” asked Joe, and still as though in a trance the boy handed over the stump of a pencil and a scrap of paper that had once been white.
On this scrap of paper Joe scribbled something and handed it to the boy.
“There, son,” he said, with a smile, “this will let you in at the gate if you can get the afternoon off.”
The boy looked first at the scrap of paper, then at Joe, and over his freckled face spread a grin of sheer joy.
“Say, Mister, you’re sure de berries!” he said, adding with scorn, as he moved away: “You said, could I get de afternoon off! What you don’t git give to you, you takes. Dat’s me.”
“There,” said Joe, with a grin, as his eyes followed the lad, “goes a future baseball star, or I’ll miss my guess.”
“And you’ve made a friend for life,” added Jim.
“But, Joe, how about that telegram?” McRae was patently anxious. “No bad news, I hope.”
Joe looked at the almost-forgotten yellow envelope in his hand and frowned.
“I’m not expecting bad news,” he said, as he hastily tore open the envelope. “Mabel often sends me telegrams on the eve of a great game, wishing me luck, you know. Hello!” There was a sudden vibrant quality in his voice that made the two men stare at him.