During the next few days William found plenty of work to do at the Emporium, and in the intervals of leisure he consulted gravely with Walter Wadsworth on the methods to be followed to attain success as a pedlar of refreshments in the stands of a baseball park. He did not, however, neglect his morning lessons with "Chuck" Epstein in Tommy Watson's auctioneering rooms. There is this to be added too, that neither Epstein nor Tommy questioned him as to the loss of his position with Whimple. They had laughed with the latter over the causes therefor, but as William did not mention it himself, they carefully avoided opening up the question, knowing from their experience with him that, in his own way, and at a time of his choosing, the lad would talk of it.
William was, however, a puzzle to Wadsworth, though he had been acquainted with him so long. In the intimacy of their relationship at the Emporium, Wadsworth found himself constantly amazed at the lad's shrewdness, at his vocabulary of slang, the readiness with which he could turn from the sheerest of jibing and fun-making to the recital of a bit of "Bill Shakespeare," or a scene from the plays of other authors. "Where on earth do you get it all from?" he asked William one afternoon when the lad, with real dramatic fire, had recited "Henry's oration to his men before Agincourt." You, dear reader, know it, of course.
"Outer books," William said, all slang and smiles again. "Say, Walter, it beats the band and the good stuff some of them guys had in their think-tanks, and it fits in, a lot of it, like they were toddlin' around Toronto to-day."
"It certainly does—some of it," said Walter. "I wonder if they ever played baseball in those days?"
"Not so far as I can make out," answered William. "Half their time they were fighting, and the other half making love: that is, most of 'em. Our friend Bill Shakespeare and a few others were writing plays and acting them too."
Walter stood at the door for a minute and watched William as the latter walked away from the Emporium that evening, and to himself he said, "He's a corker that one; but there's a heap of boy in him. If there wasn't, that stuff he's carrying around in his brain would soon drive him to the daffy house."
The great day arrived at last, and William, keen for business and a new experience, reported early at the baseball grounds, where Walter Wadsworth supplied him and a dozen other boys with uniforms of white cotton. The caps bore in letters of gold an appeal to buy a certain baking powder, and on the back of the coats, in black letters, was an announcement regarding the charms of a particular brand of chewing tobacco.
"It's a shame," said William with sarcasm, "that there ain't any reading on the pants."
"Yes, it is too bad," answered Walter, solemnly, "but you can never get everything you want in this world. I get the caps and the suits free for the advertising they have on 'em; they're not so bad, it might be worse."
"It might be," answered William, "but not much," as he departed for his section of the grand stand with a basket hanging from his neck and a small megaphone attached to one wrist with a strap. In the stand, William's courage deserted him for a few minutes: the crowd was large and included many ladies. The lad was uncomfortable; his voice seemed to have deserted him utterly. All the fine things he had meant to say were for the moment forgotten. It was not until a woman had purchased a bag of peanuts, and a man a cigar, that William became convinced that his goods were wanted, and that restored some of his usual confidence. He began to call out his wares and found that sales were easily made, though not so rapidly as he had hoped. But as the game progressed, his courage steadily rose. The Toronto team was playing that of Buffalo, an ancient and honorable enemy, and the game, in its initial stages, was very close. With the score one to one in the third innings, William found that his voice had come back, and he began to use it with all his power and most of his courage.