“Who can that be carting things about way out here?” he asked himself. The question soon ceased to interest him. His mind turned once more to strange happenings in old Hillcrest. The little Chinaman with his thought-camera and think-o-graphs, lurking Federal agents, the mysterious pitcher, and Big Bill Tyson—all came in for their share of his thoughts. He lingered longer on the question of Big Bill and the four thousand dollars than all the rest, but was no nearer a solution than before, when to his vast surprise he saw Goggles break through the pine boughs, dragging a heavy cart behind him.
“Whew!” the young inventor exclaimed, mopping his brow. “That thing pulls like a ton of bricks.”
“Then why pull it?” Johnny grinned. “Where’s your friend the pitcher?”
“Right in behind.” Goggles grinned broadly as he nodded at something covered with canvas.
“You don’t mean—”
“Give me a hand,” Goggles grumbled. “It—it—I mean he’s pretty heavy.”
The astonished Johnny saw him throw back the canvas to disclose several sections of a mechanical contraption that might have been just anything at all.
His astonishment was not very much abated when, some fifteen minutes later, he saw standing before him on an improvised pitcher’s mound a six-foot figure that to some degree resembled a man.
“Meet Irons O.” Goggles beamed. “He doesn’t walk very well. He’s quite stiff-legged. He’s quite deaf, so there’s no use talking to him. But he can bawl out the umpire something fierce. His eyesight is very bad, so someone has to catch the ball for him and throw bases. But boy! How he can pitch! With just a little training he could fan out Babe Ruth nine times out of ten.
“Here!” he said, handing Johnny a big baseball mit, “You just get down there about where the catcher would stand, and I’ll have him throw a few over to you.”