“He is promised twenty-one a week, Jack. You see, in these times wages have all gone up to meet the high cost of living. Time was when he only got fifteen per. I reckon now, it’s your plan to interview some of the gentlemen who are interested in baseball, and that you hope they’ll consent to give my dad a steady job so as to keep the Donohue family in Chester. Well, here’s hoping you strike luck, Jack. If you do I’ll be the happiest boy in Chester tonight, and ready to pitch my arm off Saturday so as to bring another Harmony scalp home.”
They shook hands heartily, and then Jack scurried away. It was one of his cardinal principles never to delay when he had anything of importance on his hands. So a short time later he entered one of the big hives of industry that was managed by Mr. Charles Taft, a middle-aged gentleman who seemed greatly interested in the rise of boys’ sports in Chester, and who had already favored Jack on several occasions.
It was partly through his generosity that the team had been able to secure suits and outfits in the way of bats, balls, bases, and such things, when the season began. More than that, it was this same Mr. Taft who had gladly agreed to let one of his workers have an occasional afternoon off duty when his services were required to coach the struggling ball players, sadly in need of professional advice and encouragement.
When the boy was ushered into his private office, the stout gentleman held out his hand, and smiled pleasantly. He was a great and constant admirer of Jack Winters, because he could read frankness, honesty, determination to succeed, and many other admirable traits in the boy’s face. In fact, Mr. Taft had been quite an athlete himself when at college, and his interest in clean sport had never flagged even when he took up serious tasks in the business world.
“Glad to see you, my boy,” he observed, in his customary genial fashion, as he squeezed Jack’s hand. “What can I do for you today? How is the team getting along after that glorious game you played? No press of business is going to prevent one man I know of in Chester from attending the game next Saturday. I hope you are not in any trouble, Jack?”
Evidently his quick eye had noted the slight cloud on the boy’s face, an unusual circumstance in connection with the captain of the nine.
“Yes, I am in a peck of trouble, sir,” candidly confessed Jack. “The fact of the matter is it looks as though, we might be short our wonderful young pitcher, Alec Donohue, next Saturday.”
“How’s that, Jack?” demanded the gentleman, anxiously. “I’m greatly interested in that lad’s work. He certainly has the making of a great pitcher in him. Why, if we lose Donohue, I’m afraid the cake will be dough with us, for I hear Hendrix is in excellent shape, and declares he will pitch the game of his life when next he faces your crowd.”
“I’ll tell you what the matter is, sir,” and with that Jack plunged into a brief exposition of the Donohue family troubles.
As he proceeded, he saw with kindling joy that a beaming smile had commenced to creep over the rosy countenance of the one-time college athlete. This encouraged him to state how a wild hope had arisen in his heart that possibly some job might be found for Mr. Donohue that would keep the family in Chester right along.