At this there arose a fiercely protesting chorus. One might have thought they were about to mob the "powder man."
"How careless, Naughton! It makes no difference about you, but we can't afford to risk having a ball-player blown up."
"A real pitcher is worth his weight in gold just now."
"It won't do, Naughton, old man. If you permit this valuable person to be destroyed, the Cristobal Baseball Association will hold you responsible."
"Don't you dare let him go near your confounded dynamite ship again."
Thanks to the magic of base-ball, although he could not understand the why and wherefore of it, Walter found himself no longer a friendless waif of fortune, but regarded as something too rare and precious to be risked with a dynamite gang. It seemed rather absurd that these transplanted Americans should have any surplus energy for athletics after the day's work in the steaming climate of the Isthmus. But his new friends proceeded to enlighten him, led by Naughton, who exclaimed with much gusto:
"My son, we eat base-ball. The Isthmian League is beginning its third season, and you have alighted among the choicest collection of fans, cranks, and rooters that ever adorned the bleachers. Mr. Harrison here is captain of the Cristobal nine. Our best pitcher went back to the States last week."
"But I'm afraid I shall have no time to play," said Walter. "I didn't come down here for base-ball."
"Oh, we all work for a living. Don't get a wrong impression of us," put in Harrison, a young man of chunky, bow-legged type of architecture whom nature had obviously designed for a short-stop. "I am a civil engineer, Atlantic Division. I used to play at Cornell. We can't practise much, but if you want to see some snappy games——"