“An old-fashioned minister,” Goggles thought, swallowing hard to keep back tears. “God bless him! Everyone here loves him, I’m sure.”
The man went on talking slowly, quietly, reassuringly. “These Dakota farmers plant wheat. If the hail does not beat it down, if a prairie fire does not destroy it, if a drought does not dry it up—they get a good crop. If there is no crop, they plant again next year. They are patient. They can wait now, and they will.”
It is strange what confidence such quiet assurance can inspire in a boy’s mind. Five minutes had not passed before the boys had things adjusted and old Irons O was ready to pitch a perfect game.
The boys from the wheat belt put up a game defense, but they were no match for the Hillcrest team and their steel-fingered pitcher. At the end of the game the score stood 14 to 8 in Hillcrest’s favor.
“Well, you won!” Dave Tobin, who had come along as financial manager, exclaimed enthusiastically. “And say! You should see the wad of bills I have for the ball grounds at home!”
“Yes,” Goggles thought a trifle wearily, “we won.” Truth is, he was not thinking of this at all. Instead, he was asking himself, “How is it that Irons O gets his insides all mixed up before every game?”
“Mr. Sheeley,” he said a half hour later, “our mechanical pitcher got all mussed up while he was inside one of your wings.” (He always thought of the planes as wings.)
“How could it?” Sheeley was incredulous. “Locked up tight all the time. And I’m the only one that has a key. Fine lock too!”
“All the same,” the boy thought to himself, “I’d like to ride to our next stop right there in that wing.
“But of course it wouldn’t do,” he thought a moment later. “Fantastic sort of notion. Sheeley wouldn’t like it. And yet—‘mystery wings.’” He whispered these two last words.