Walter stared at the "powder man" as if suspecting him of mild insanity.
"We have a crack nine in Wolverton for a high-school," he replied. "It is a mill town, you see, and most of the fellows begin playing ball on the open lots as soon as they can walk. We were good enough last season to beat two or three of the smaller college teams."
"And you were the regular pitcher?" breathlessly demanded Mr. Naughton, as he backed away and surveyed the broad-shouldered youth from head to foot.
"Yes, I pitched in all the games."
"Well, you handle yourself like a ball-player, and I believe you are one. You come along to supper with me."
"But what in the world—" began the bewildered Walter.
"Leave it to me. Your destiny is in my hands," was the mysterious utterance of Mr. Naughton.
In the cool of the evening they sat and ate at their leisure on the breezy piazza of the "gold employees'" hotel. From other small tables near by several men called out greetings to Naughton, who beckoned them over to be presented to his protégé. No sooner had they learned that the tall lad was a base-ball pitcher of proven prowess than they became effusively, admiringly cordial. In fact, Walter held a sort of court.
"Goodwin is one of my unloading gang on the dynamite steamer," explained Naughton.