“Hello!”

“Babe” Linder, the big catcher of the Holman’s School nine, turned in the operation of pulling on his huge mitt and observed the speaker with mild interest. “Hello, son,” he returned gravely. “Is it natural or did science achieve that brilliant result?”

“What yer mean?” asked the other, earnest and anxious.

“Your hair, son. How did you get it that way?”

“It’s always been red,” answered the smaller youth, unoffended, but dropping his steady gaze a moment while he dug in the dirt in front of the bench with one scuffed shoe.

“You can’t beat Nature, can you?” sighed Babe.

The boy looked doubtful, but after a moment of hesitation gave a nod of agreement. Three or four other members of the team came around the corner of the stand, followed by the coach, Gus Cousins, and, subsequently, by Cicero Brutus Robinson, pushing a wheelbarrow containing base sacks, bat bag, protector, mask and the daily paraphernalia of practice. Cicero, who was extremely black, very squat and interestingly bandy-legged, deposited his vehicle at the end of the bench and, wiping his glittering ebony forehead with the sleeve of a faded blue shirt, lifted the base sacks from the wheelbarrow and ambled leisurely away with them. A smallish, attenuated boy who had entered on Cicero’s heels, dragged the bat bag forth and unstrapped it. More players arrived, accompanied by a studious looking senior in street attire who clutched a large score-book in one hand and a box of balls in the other. Babe Linder gave greetings to the newcomers and, thudding the big mitten approvingly, even affectionately, moved along the bench. Unnoted by him, the red-haired youth kept close beside him. Babe selected a discolored baseball from among the dozen in the bottom of a fiber bucket and—

“Say!”

Babe looked down. “Son,” he asked gently, “do I owe you money, or what?”

“No, sir.” Two deep blue eyes looked appealingly up from a tanned and freckled face. “Say, do you want a bat boy?”

“A bat boy? No. I couldn’t use one.”

“I mean the team, sir.”

“Oh! Why, we’ve got one, son. That’s he over there.”

“Yeah, I seen him.” There was much contempt in the boy’s tone. “He ain’t no good, sir.”

“Eh? Well, confidentially, I agree with you, but there he is, what?” Dave Cochran, dean of the pitching staff, joined them and Babe addressed him gravely. “This young gentleman, Davy, seeks a position on the team.”

Dave studied the boy smilingly. “Well, we sure do need a catcher,” he said. “Can you catch, kid?”

The boy nodded, digging his toe again. “Yeah, but he’s just kiddin’, Mister. I want to be your bat boy.”

“Oh, that’s it? Well, you’re about a month late. We already have young Cecil acting in that capacity.”

“Is that his name, honest?” inquired the boy with what might be called hopeful disgust.

“No, not honest, but that’s what he’s called,” replied Babe. “After all, what’s in a name? And, speaking of names, son, what is yours?”

“Gi——” He swallowed and started fresh. “Robert Burke.”

“Fine! And what do they call you?” asked Dave.

“Ginger.” The boy smiled for the first time, a smile that lighted up his homely countenance and won both members of his audience instantly.

“Son,” said Babe, “if this was my outfit I’d engage you like a shot, but it isn’t. You see, we’ve got a bat boy—”

“I can lick him easy,” remarked Ginger Burke conversationally. Then he added, hopefully: “If that guy wasn’t around could I have his job?”

Babe and Dave exchanged amused glances. “Ginger,” said Babe, “we’d hate to have anything happen to Cecil, but it’s my private hunch that—” Babe coughed deprecatingly—“that if—er—Cecil was non est, so to speak, your chance of filling his shoes would be excellent. Am I right, Dave?”

Dave grinned as he reached for the ball that Babe was juggling. “Them’s my sentiments, Mr. Linder. Come on and let me warm up the old wing.”

With none challenging him, Ginger climbed into the stand and became an interested observer of what followed. Ever and anon his glance strayed from Babe or Dave to the person of Cecil. That Cecil was not the thin youth’s correct name bothered Ginger not at all. He felt that it should have been his name even if it wasn’t, and he disapproved of it thoroughly, just as he disapproved of the bat boy’s lack of interest in his professional duties and his laggard movements when he retrieved a ball. “He’s a dumb-bell,” was Ginger’s verdict. “He ain’t got no license around here, that kid!” As a matter of fact, Cecil was to all appearances quite as old as Ginger, and fully as tall, even if, as happened, he was built on a more niggardly style, and therefor the use of the term “kid” by Ginger was unconscious swank.

Afternoon practice ended at last and the field emptied, the players walking back across the football field and past the tennis courts to the big gymnasium whose long windows were crimson in the light of the sinking sun. To the gymnasium also meandered Cicero Brutus Robinson, pushing his wheelbarrow, and Coach Cousins and Manager Naylor, the latter pair in earnest converse. Thither, also, strolled the few students who had by ones and twos joined Ginger Burke in the stand during the progress of the afternoon’s proceedings. Of all those at the field two alone turned townwards at the last. These were Cecil—whose real name, by the way, happened to be William James Conners—and Ginger Burke. They did not go together. Indeed, a full half block separated them on their journey to Warrensburg, and to an observer it might have appeared that that distance was being intentionally maintained by the latter of the two, who was Ginger. Observers, however, were few, for the half mile between school campus and town was at that hour practically deserted, and the few, their thoughts doubtless fixed on the evening meal, paid small heed to the two youths, nor guessed that the first was cast in the rÔle of Vanquished and the last in the rÔle of Victor in an impending drama. At the border of town Cecil turned to the left. So did Ginger.

The next afternoon when Babe swung around the corner of the stand, pulling on his mitten, and turned toward the bucket of practice balls a voice arrested him.

“Here y’are!”

Babe glimpsed something grayish arching toward him and instinctively shot out his mitt. Such attention on the part of Cecil was unprecedented, and Babe gazed in mild astonishment. It was, however, not Cecil but Ginger who met that gaze, Ginger gravely earnest, anxious to anticipate the big catcher’s next desire.

“Huh,” said Babe. “Where’s Cecil?”

“He ain’t coming,” replied Ginger. “He’s resigned.”

“Resigned, eh? Which hospital is he in, son?”

Ginger disregarded the question. “Who’s the feller that hires the bat boys?” he asked.

“Son, are you laboring under the mistaken impression that this job brings in real money?” asked Babe.

“No, sir, I ain’t looking for any money, but it seems like if the boss would say it was all right for me to be—”

“I get you. Come along. Oh, Bert! Meet my particular friend, Ginger Burke, Bert. Ginger’s the new bat boy. The former incumbent has been forced to resign. Ill health, I believe.”

“Why, I didn’t know that,” said Bert Naylor, puzzled. “Well, it’s all right, I suppose. You say you know this kid, Babe? Well—” The manager observed Ginger sternly through his glasses. “We don’t pay anything, you know. If you want to—to—if you want the place, all right, but we—er—we don’t pay anything.”

“Now you’re all right,” said Babe as Naylor hurried off. “You’re official bat boy, son, with the inestimable privilege of writing ‘B. B.’ after your name. I would like to know, though, how you induced Cecil to resign. Did you crown him with a brick, or just—ah—” Babe delivered an imaginary upper-cut against an imaginary adversary. But Ginger only shook his head.

“There wasn’t no trouble,” he said evasively. “I—I just talked to him.”

Babe viewed him doubtfully. “Well, all right, son, if you prefer not to recall the sanguinary details. On your job now. Watch the balls, see that the water bucket’s filled, get your bats out—” Babe stopped for the reason that a swift survey showed the bats neatly arranged on the grass and the water bucket brimming. “All right,” he ended flatly. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

Ginger never confided about Cecil, but the story reached Babe and the rest eventually by way of Cicero Brutus Robinson, who, it appeared, had learned it from the deposed Cecil. Ginger had accosted Cecil a block short of the latter’s domicile and had frankly informed him that he, Ginger, coveted the position of bat boy for the school baseball team. “You,” said Ginger, though possibly in not these exact words, “are not equal to the demands of such an exacting employment. It is evident to me that your heart is not in your work. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do, kid. I’ll match you for it.” Cecil, however, had indignantly declined this offer; had, indeed, heaped derision on Ginger and his ambition. Thereupon Ginger, retaining his placidity, had made a second offer. “All right, kid, I’ll pay you for it. I’ll give you fifty cents, twenty-five cents right now and twenty-five cents next week.” Cecil had considered this offer more tolerantly, but had countered with a proposal of one dollar in lieu of the sum named. Ginger had firmly refused to pay a dollar and had so reached his third and final proposition. “Nothing doin’,” Ginger had replied, “but—” and one fancies a new enthusiasm in his tones—“but I’ll fight you for it, kid!” Cecil had regarded Ginger dubiously as the latter slipped out of his jacket, had cast anxious glances up and down the deserted, darkening street and had seen the wise course. “Give me the quarter,” said Cecil.

As Official Bat Boy and Mascot of the Holman School Baseball Team, Ginger made good right from the start. He was, in fact, a revelation. None of the players had before realized just how useful a bat boy could really be when he set his mind on it. Ginger was efficiency itself. The water pail was always full, the paper drinking cups never gave out, the balls no longer got lost merely by falling outside the field, bats always reposed in orderly precision before the bench and never a player had to bend his august back to pick one up. Ginger invariably knew which one—or two—each batsman favored and was ready with it, or them, on the second. He was always cheerful, always the optimist, always hopeful to the last bitter moment of defeat. When a hit meant a run and a run meant a tied score or a victory Ginger believed, or professed to, that the hit was forthcoming. Even if it was the weakest batter, Ginger gave him his favorite bat with a smile of confidence and a low word of encouragement that seldom failed to help.

Ginger possessed, too, a remarkable acumen in the matter of baseball practical and baseball theoretical, and although he almost never volunteered advice, his wisdom, the wisdom of an earnest student of the game, was always on tap. When it came to strategy Ginger was positively uncanny, having, it seemed, acquired in his thirteen years of existence a thorough understanding of the workings of the human mind. You are not to suppose that the games were run to Ginger’s directions, of course, for, as a matter of fact, his advice was seldom called for; yet during the six weeks that followed his arrival there occurred more than one occasion when Gus Cousins, watching a contest with Ginger beside him on the bench, discussed affairs as man with man and, unconsciously accepting Ginger’s ideas as his own, acted on them.

It was to Babe Linder that Ginger especially attached himself. He served every man on the squad faithfully, liked them all and was liked in return, but Babe was his hero, and where Babe was, there, too, as near as might be, was Ginger. Ginger fairly adopted the big catcher and guarded his welfare with a care that was almost maternal. Babe never had to strap on his leg-guards nowadays, for Ginger was always waiting to perform that service. Then Ginger handed him his protector and mask and watched his progress to the plate with anxious pride. When Babe came back to the bench there was Ginger with his old sweater held out to him. Of course all this aroused the other members to laughter, and they ragged Babe about it; but they were careful not to do it when Ginger was about. Every one liked Ginger whole-heartedly, from the coach down to young Smithers, who sat day after day on the bench and waited for something to happen to “Mac” Torrey so that he might at last play right field! After practice or a game Ginger would walk worshipfully at Babe’s side back to Routledge Hall. At the entrance it was always:

“Come on up, Ginger.”

“Naw, I guess not.”

“Well, night, son.”

“Night, Babe.”