Ginger called all and sundry by their first names; all, that is, save Gus Cousins and Manager Naylor. Gus was “Mister Coach” and Naylor was just “Mister.” There was no hint of disrespect in Ginger’s address, and the word “sir” was seldom absent. It was on one of those homeward walks after a Friday practice that Babe learned about all there was to be learned of his admirer. Ginger lived with his father, who was a mason, in a two-room tenement. His mother had died when he was a baby. There had been a small sister once, but she, too, had died. Ginger went to high school and didn’t mind studying—much. When he grew up he was going to be a baseball player until he had made enough money to buy a team of his own. He had played ball since he was seven, or maybe eight, on the back lots or down by the railroad yards. He’d had a team of his own last summer and had licked about every other team of its age in the neighborhood. He pitched sometimes, but generally he played second base or shortstop. Maybe he would get a nine together again this summer, but he wanted to learn all the baseball he could, which was why he had sought the privilege of toiling without remuneration for the school team. Once he had saved up some money and gone to the city and seen a Big League game, but it hadn’t been much of a game, after all: “them fellows pulled a lot of bone-head plays that day!”

To all appearances Ginger had attached himself to a losing cause when he had thrown in his lot with the Holman’s team. Since early April the Light Green had won ten and lost seven; not a very good performance for the nine whose two straight over Munson Academy last spring had completed a record of fourteen victories out of eighteen contests. Holman’s though, had lost seriously by graduation and only Dave, Babe, Captain Hal Norwin, Joe Kenton and “Mac” Torrey remained of those who had played against Munson. It was a good fielding team, but batting was a lost art to it and the pitching staff was a weak support. For one of Holman’s four twirlers to go nine innings was exceptional; usually it took three to land a victory. Dave, a left-hander, was having tragic lapses from his last year’s cunning. Bellows, slow-ball artist, had yet to survive a seventh inning. Jones, last year’s freshman southpaw, was streaky and explosive. Meadows, more nerve than experience, was as yet but a promising cub. Coach Cousins, though, wasn’t discouraged, and still hoped to capture the Munson series; and if the Light Green triumphed over the Blue-and-Gold all that had gone before was as nothing. To such a situation, then, did Ginger Burke attach himself.

Two days after Ginger’s advent Holman’s was beaten once more, this time by Milton. Then, the following Wednesday, she faced the Benson Athletics, a hard-hitting aggregation of mill employees. Tom Meadows lasted an inning and a half, after which Dave Cochran carried the game through to a 4 to 2 victory. That victory seemed to turn the tide for the Light Green. Holman’s entered on a winning streak as startling as it was gratifying. Bordentown, State Agricultural, Ogden and Louisburg were defeated; after which Holman’s journeyed to Wayne City and won a hard contest from Deacon College. Three days later another pilgrimage resulted less satisfactorily, for the Light Green fell before the superior batting prowess of Jamesville and her winning streak was broken. But the next Wednesday found her on the long end of a 9 to 3 score against St. John’s, which, since St. John’s had beaten her badly earlier in the season, was a gratifying and encouraging event. The next game also went Holman’s way, although eleven innings were required to convince Townsend that she was beaten.

It was during the Ogden game that Joe Kenton, second baseman, awaiting his turn at bat, watched Wentworth’s two-bagger go screeching over second and observed to the bench at large: “There goes their old ball game!” Then, when Charlie Prince and Ted Purves had sped across the rubber, Joe winked at Babe and addressed Ginger, squatting at Babe’s feet.

“Ginger,” said Joe, “you sure brought us luck. As a mascot I’ll say you’re a wonder!”

Ginger looked back over his shoulder gravely and, after an infinitesimal pause, replied convincedly: “You guys was sure needing a mascot when I come!”

That was as close as any one ever got to making Ginger claim the credit for the team’s success, but they all had the conviction that modesty alone held him back, and since baseball players, even school amateurs, are all leavened with harmless superstition there were plenty among them who would listen to no argument against the mascot theory. Babe said loudly and often that it was a great day for the old school when Ginger came on the scene! By this time the red-haired bat boy was a school institution, in a manner of speaking. He was as much a part of the team as—well, almost as much a part as Captain Hal Norwin himself. He had even attained literary celebrity in the columns of the school monthly. Holman’s had taken him for her own and was proud of him; and rendered him the respect due one who, even if you said it only in jest, had put the school back on the baseball map. Ginger now appeared appropriately attired at the games. A discarded shirt of Babe’s, bearing a green H on one breast, had been cut down to fit him, and from Captain Hal had come the breeches. The latter, so long as Ginger didn’t bend too far forward, were quite presentable. Ginger also had a cap and a pair of green stockings, and thus attired, feet widely spread, arms akimbo, eyes attentively on the game, he presented a notable appearance. And when, thrusting back his cap—an action induced by excitement—he revealed that unbelievably red thatch of his the picture was almost epic!

June came on the scene with a fine run of blue skies and hot sunshine, and the Holman’s team went on winning ball games. Of course she lost now and then. When you came to investigate matters closely you wondered why she didn’t lose a lot more. The pitchers were doing better, but not so much better, the batting showed improvement but was still well under last year’s percentage. Perhaps Fortune was rooting for the Light Green, or perhaps the team had found faith in itself. Certain it is that the breaks of the game went often to Holman’s those days, and any one knows that it’s better to be lucky than rich.

In the matter of batting, Holman’s was a weak crowd. Outside Captain Hal Norwin and Ted Purves and Joe Kenton, there wasn’t a dependable hitter on the team. Sometimes Bud Thomas came across with a needed wallop, and occasionally little Charlie Prince, demon third baseman, laid down a nice bunt. But for the rest—why, as Ginger phrased it to himself, “junk!” They tried hard enough, both at practice and in games, and they almost wore out a brand-new batting net, but all to very little purpose. If they had the eye they didn’t have the swing, and vice versa. There was Babe, for instance. Babe was a corking catcher, big enough to block off a runner at the plate, quick enough to cover the whole back-lot on fouls, an unerring shot to second and steady under almost any provocation to be otherwise. But at the bat he was Samson shorn. Babe was a slugger, which is to say that he took a long swing and a hard one and, having connected with the ball, was likely to smash it out into the cinder piles that intervened between the ball field and Conyer’s Creek. The cinder piles meant three bases always, usually four. But, like many other sluggers, Babe was an infrequent hitter. If pitchers would put the old pill between waist and shoulder, Babe could show them something, but pitchers had a deplorable way of sending them over knee-high or working deceptive drops on the big fellow, and, all in all, as a hitter in the pinches Babe was about as much use as salt in a ham sandwich: which, again, is Ginger’s phrase and not mine.

This troubled Ginger as much, if not more, than it did Babe. Ginger was a hero worshiper, and Babe was his object of idolatry, and Ginger wanted him 100 per cent perfect. As it was, 75 was a lot nearer the mark. And Ginger, or so he was fully persuaded, knew wherein lay Babe’s weakness. Babe’s bat was too heavy. Other aspiring batsmen might use one bat to-day and another to-morrow, experimenting in the effort to find the weapon best suited to them. But not so Babe. Babe was big and long of arm and powerful, and he craved a bat to match. The one he used, his own private weapon, was a veritable club of Hercules, long and stout and appallingly heavy, of the “wagon-tongue” model, of a dingy gray-black tinge and with the handle wrapped far down with elastic tape. Babe was somewhat obsessed on the subject of that bat. He was convinced that it was the only weapon possible in his case, and convinced that just as soon as Fortune gave him an even break he would make it talk to the extent of .300 or over. Ginger thought contrariwise, and the matter was the basis of frequent arguments between the two. Or, perhaps, arguments is the wrong word, for Babe never would argue about it. Babe was as stubborn as a mule on the subject of that bat.

“Honest, Babe,” Ginger would urge earnestly, “that bat’s too heavy. It ain’t balanced, either. It makes you swing late. That’s the trouble with you, Babe. I’ve been watching and I know. You’re late for the ball most always. Now if you had a lighter bat—”

“Son, I’ve tried them, I tell you, and—”

“Two, three years ago!” scoffed Ginger. “Try ’em again, won’t you, please, sir? Honest I ain’t kiddin’, Babe; I wish you would!”

“Oh, I’ve got to have something I can feel, Ginger. Gosh, I don’t know there’s anything in my hands when I pick up one of those toothpicks.”

“But I ain’t asking you to use one of them real light ones, Babe! Just try one that’s a little lighter first—”

Babe laughed good-naturedly and ruffled Ginger’s flaming hair. “Quit your kidding, son, quit your kidding. Watch the way the old bat soaks them to-morrow.”

And to-morrow Ginger, watching Babe’s humiliation, almost wept!

Ginger never gave up the fight, though, and any one but the good-natured Babe would have wearied of the importunities and become violent. Ginger even besought the aid of Gus Cousins, but the coach only sighed and shrugged.

“I know, kid. I’ve begged him to try something different fifty times, but he’s so confounded stubborn you might just as well talk to that water bucket. He’s too good a catcher to be a good batter, anyway. I guess even if he swung a lighter bat he’d still miss most of ’em.”

The week before the first game of the series with Munson, Holman’s had a slump and lost two contests running. The infield, which had played clean, snappy ball all spring, went bad and booted half its chances. Medfield walked off with Saturday’s game, 14 to 2, without making a hit that wasn’t clearly scratch. Errors did the rest, errors and a finally disgruntled pitcher. Monday and Tuesday witnessed hard and unremitting practice, and on Wednesday Holman’s journeyed down state to Munson and crossed bats with the Blue-and-Gold before a maniacal assemblage of students and alumni, to say nothing of a brass band, and lost deservedly. Bellows was knocked from the box in the second inning, by which time Munson had accumulated four runs, and Lou Jones took his place. Lou wavered along to the sixth and then began to issue passes. When he had handed out his fourth in that inning, and Munson’s score was 5 runs, Dave Cochran replaced him. Dave held the enemy safe for the rest of the way, but the damage was already done. Holman’s had made a lone tally in the fourth, and in the first of the ninth she started a rally when, with one out, Tom Wentworth hit safely for two bases. Joe Kenton laid down a bunt and was safe on a close decision. Torrey hit to shortstop and was safe on a fielder’s choice, Tom going out at third. Bud Thomas hit an easy fly to left that was misjudged and muffed, and, with bases full, a hit good for two tallies and a home-run tying the score, Babe advanced determinedly, swinging his big black-handled club.

Ginger looked on strainedly, and I think he uttered a little earnest prayer for Babe. But why prolong the suspense? It was over after five pitched balls. Babe watched one strike go past him and swung at two more. You could hear his “Ugh!” on the Holman’s bench as the force of his swing carried him half around, but you couldn’t hear any soul-stirring crash of bat against ball. Ginger groaned and pulled his cap far over his eyes. Gus Cousins shrugged. The Munson band blared and the Class Day crowd took possession of the field.

Holman’s trailed back to Baldwin, a rather silent crowd. Babe stared at his hands most of the way, unseeing of the sorrowing yet sympathetic and forgiving regard of Ginger.

The next morning there was an hour’s batting practice and a long fielding work-out, and at two o’clock the rivals faced each other again. To-day was Holman’s Class Day and her day for sound and fury, but Holman’s had fewer rooters than the larger school and could produce no band. To-day Holman’s, cheered by her cohorts and on her own field, got away to a good start. In the second inning Ted Purves hit safely, stole second and reached third on Tom Wentworth’s out. Joe Kenton was passed. Mac Torrey drove a hot liner to second, second baseman booted it and Ted scored. Bud Thomas bunted toward the pitcher’s box and Cross, Munson’s ace, after holding the runners, threw the ball two yards wide of first. When the dust had settled two more runs had crossed. Babe fouled out to third baseman. Bellows drew a pass. Hal Norwin, head of the list, tried two bunts and failed and then hit the ball over third. Mac and Bud romped home. Prince was thrown out at first and Ted Purves fouled out to catcher. Five tallies graced the score board.

Those five would have been sufficient, for George Bellows held Munson scoreless to the fifth, when two hits and a sacrifice fly netted one run, and afterwards to the end, but in the seventh Holman’s added two more tallies for good measure when, with Torrey on second and two down, Babe made the old bat speak at last. Cross had given way to Boyd, and Boyd perhaps forgot Babe’s predilection for high ones. That as may have been, Babe connected with a shoulder-high delivery just over the edge of the plate and sent it screaming to the very edge of Conyer’s Creek, and romped around the bases unchallenged. When he turned, grinning, toward the bench, there was the dignified Ginger standing on his head, his brilliant locks mingling with the dust of the trampled field.

Later, said Babe: “Well, how about the old cudgel now, son?”

Ginger shook his head and spoke sadly. “Babe, that guy didn’t ought to have pitched you a high one. That was a James H. Dandy of a hit, all right, all right, but it don’t prove nothing, Babe, nothing at all.”

Babe laughed and rumpled Ginger’s dusty hair. “Son,” he said, “you’re just plain stubborn!”