Sam opened his eyes sleepily and blinked about him. Near at hand a wide-open window, hung with blue-and-white chintz that swayed gently in the entering breeze, admitted a flood of sunlight. Beyond the window was a white bureau. The paper on the walls was grey with a tiny stripe made up of blue rosebuds. Sam closed his eyes again and wondered where he was. Then, stirring under the bedclothes, he experienced a dull, jarring ache in one knee, and suddenly recollection came to him and he opened his eyes more widely and stared around him.

Last night the room had been shadowed and dim, with only a little lamp on the white reading-stand beside the bed, and he had gone to sleep almost as soon as Mr. York and Steve had helped him between the cool, soft sheets. Now, in the early morning light, the room looked much larger, and so bright and cheerful that it was a pleasure to just lie there and look about.

There were three windows on two sides of the spacious room, and through each of them, below the shade, Sam could see blue sky between the green branches of trees. On the reading-stand, beside the small lamp with its pale-blue shade, lay two magazines and a book and a glass tray that held a pitcher of water, a drinking-glass, and matches. The bed was enamelled white and over the footboard lay a dainty cream-white puff with blue poppies sprawling over it. Grey rag rugs with blue borders were spread here and there on the polished floor. Two wicker chairs, prettily cushioned in the prevailing colours, flanked a red brick fireplace in the middle of the further wall, and a straight-backed white-enamelled chair was half hidden under Sam’s clothes. A table between two of the windows held his old-fashioned valise.

Sam sighed luxuriously and wondered what time it was. Not, however, that it mattered much, he supposed, for he had been told that he was not to get up this morning until he had had his breakfast and his knee had been rebandaged. He snuggled his head more comfortably in the generous pillow, inadvertently moving his knee and grimacing as a result, and recalled last evening. The trip in Mr. York’s roadster had occupied but a very few minutes, for which Sam had been very thankful, since, in spite of all the trouble they had taken to arrange him comfortably beside Mr. York, the jarring had set his knee thumping painfully. Steve had ridden on the running-board and had helped lift him in and out of the car. Sam remembered the big room into which they had entered from the twilight darkness, a room of dark woodwork and red hangings and cushions and many lamps which left the upper part of the room in pleasant and mysterious gloom. He hadn’t been allowed to see much down there, though, for they had at once carried him up a broad flight of stairs and into this blue-and-white chamber, the like of which Sam had never viewed. He remembered saying good night to Steve and having his knee done up afresh in cool, wet cloths, and—well, not much after that. He must have gone to sleep almost the next instant!

Somewhere downstairs a clock struck in silvery tones. He counted. Five—six—seven—eight! Eight o’clock! It couldn’t be possible! He must have counted wrong. Why, he couldn’t remember when he had lain in bed, much less slept, as late as that! He began to wonder uncomfortably if his injury could really be more serious than he had supposed, for with Sam only real illness excused staying in bed until such an hour. He lifted his head experimentally and turned it from side to side. It seemed to feel all right. And he couldn’t detect any signs of fever. He had, of course, heard of folks being internally injured, but he didn’t know what the symptoms would be, and so wasn’t certain if he had them. He really felt remarkably well, except that his knee hurt if he moved it or flexed the muscles, and, on the whole, he concluded, not without a feeling of relief, that he had mistaken the striking of the clock.

From somewhere not far off came the subdued rushing of water. Someone was going to have a bath. Therefore it couldn’t be very late. Also, a moment later, he was pleasantly aware of a faint aroma of coffee and something else that might be broiling ham or bacon. He suddenly knew that he was very, very hungry. A door slammed nearby and a merry whistle floated down the hall. Then silence again. Sam closed his eyes——

“——Breakfast coming up in a minute,” a voice was saying, “and I thought maybe you’d like to wash up a bit.”

Sam blinked dazedly. Beside the bed stood Mr. York, smiling, fresh and cool in white flannels. Sam viewed him in consternation.

“I—I believe I went to sleep again!” he stammered.

“I’m sure you did!” laughed his host.

“But—but what time is it?”

“Oh, about eight-thirty. It’s not late.”

“Eight-thirty! Why, I never slept that late in my life!” exclaimed Sam in horrified tones. Mr. York laughed delightedly.

“You have now, old chap. How’s it seem?”

“Fine, only—I’m wondering if—if I’m all right. You don’t suppose I got hit on the head or—or anything like that, do you, sir?”

“Great Scott, no! You just slept because you were tired out and were in a new place and, if I do say it, had a good bed. Now, how’s the knee this morning?”

Mr. York himself attended to putting on new bandages, in spite of Sam’s expostulations, and brought him water in a bowl and soap and a face-cloth and found his tooth-brush for him and generally valeted him. Sam was all for doing things for himself, even for being allowed to get up and have his breakfast downstairs, but when, at Mr. York’s request, he gently bent that right knee, he concluded that he was not, after all, quite ready to assert his independence. The thing was as stiff and lame as could be.

“Thought so,” said the other. “You keep it quiet to-day, Craig. To-night we’ll get at it with liniment and to-morrow you’ll be up and around again, I guess. After breakfast we’ll get you down on the veranda. There you are, now. How’s your appetite?”

Sam smiled. “I could eat a hedgehog, quills and all,” he answered.

“Sorry we haven’t hedgehog this morning,” laughed Mr. York. “I’m afraid it’s only the usual ham and eggs and trimmings. But I’ll see that you get enough of that.”

An hour afterwards, attired in a dressing-gown of his host’s, Sam was lying at length in a long wicker chair, propped up with many red cushions, on the broad veranda. Although considerably lower than the neighbouring camp, “Greysides,” as Mr. York called his place, was still pretty well up in the world, and from the veranda one could look over rolling hills and see, on fair days, the distant blue of Lake Erie. The house was large, or seemed so to Sam, and was of field stone and grey weathered shingle, with numerous wide stone chimneys and many squatty gable-ends. The veranda that skirted three sides of the house was as wide as a room, and from it, between stone pillars, one saw on each side miles of rolling hills, wooded or meadowed. A path turned and twisted down a little slope from the broad steps to a break in the stone wall that lined the road. There there was a roughly-made trellis-arch of unbarked logs on which a rose vine was showing a few late blossoms. Behind the house the ground sloped upward again, and the trees, well thinned out in front, closed their ranks. Sam thought the place wonderful and perfect, inside and out, and all during that first forenoon was sorely tempted to pinch himself to make sure that he was really there.

Presently Mr. York joined his guest, pulling a chair near to Sam’s and chatting as he opened his morning’s mail. Sam accepted a day-old newspaper and idly glanced over the first page of it, but somehow newspapers seemed of little interest up here away from the world, and he soon let it drop and returned to his contented and dreamy contemplation of the distant hills. After a while Mr. York tossed aside his letters and papers and leaned back in his chair. Then they talked. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Sam talked, for Mr. York wanted to know many things and Sam was soon telling all about himself and about Amesville and the high school nine, with Mr. York only contributing an occasional encouraging word or a question. Normally Sam wasn’t very much of a talker, and he didn’t remember ever having said so much at once or told so many intimate facts about himself before. Afterwards he was surprised and a little embarrassed when he recalled his loquacity.

But it wasn’t altogether one-sided, for Sam learned somewhat of his host that morning, and more subsequently. Mr. York—John Orville York, in full—was an architect by profession and lived in Cleveland. He was alone in the world save for a sister whom he called Topsy—Sam didn’t learn her real name. Topsy, Mr. York explained, was just now away on a visit to friends in the East and he was keeping bachelor’s hall. He had been at “Greysides” since the middle of July, with an occasional visit to the city, and his vacation would be at an end in another ten days. Although he did not say so, his visitor concluded that he was wealthy; everything at “Greysides” indicated it. He had graduated from Warner College, where he had played three years on the baseball team, and had afterwards studied his profession in Chicago. He confessed to two passions. One, he said, was baseball, and the other chess. Did Craig play chess? No? Well, he ought to learn it. It was the finest thing in the world. After dinner they’d get the board out and have a lesson, by Jove!

Almost before Sam realised that the morning had gone luncheon was announced and they adjourned, Sam leaning on Mr. York’s shoulder, to a screen-enclosed porch that opened from the dining-room, and sat down at a small table laid for two.

“Hope you’ll find enough to eat,” said Mr. York. “We don’t have very hearty lunches. I usually play golf in the afternoon and find that a heavy meal makes me slow.”

Sam truthfully replied that he didn’t doubt but what there was more than enough, and events proved him right. After cold meats and two vegetables and a salad and hot rolls and a pastry and two tall glasses of iced-tea he wondered what Mr. York would consider a heavy meal!

“If you want to do anything—play golf, I mean, sir—please don’t mind me,” said Sam when he had hobbled back to the veranda. “I’ll be all right alone. I can read or—or just sit here and look at things.”

“Not many things to see, are there?” laughed Mr. York.

“I mean just the view. It’s fine to be able to see so far, isn’t it?”

“It’s quite a view, and that’s a fact. But I don’t care for golf to-day, Craig. Later on I’ll run over to the village and get a letter off. Meanwhile we’ll chin some more and then you’d better lie down a while and have a nap. How’s the knee now?”

“It isn’t nearly so sore, I think.”

“That’s good, but we ought to moisten that bandage again. I’ll tell William to bring some water in a basin, and, as there’s no one to see, we’ll perform the operation right here.”

They talked baseball while the sun travelled into the west and the shadows began to lengthen under the trees. Mr. York had many reminiscences of college days, some exciting and some humorous, and Sam was well entertained. From stories Mr. York switched to the subject of catching. “There’s one thing you ought to learn, Craig,” he said, “and that’s to throw ‘from your ear.’ Ever try it?”

“I don’t believe I know what you mean, Mr. York.”

“I mean throwing to base without taking a step.”

“No, sir, I’ve never tried it. I don’t think I could do it.”

“Oh, yes, you could. You can learn it. It’s not as hard as it may seem. The beauty of it is that it gives you another fraction of a second on the runner, a matter probably of two or three feet at the base. Try it some time and see what you can do with it. It takes a snap of the arm instead of the long, full swing, a quick snap that’s mostly from the elbow; like this.” And Mr. York went through the motions of catching a ball and throwing to the base.

“It looks hard,” said Sam. “I don’t believe I ever saw anyone throw that way.”

“Plenty of the league catchers do it. Have you seen many league games?”

“No, sir, only two.”

“Really? It’s a good idea to go to them and watch how they do things. You can pick up a lot of good tricks that way. You’ve got the making of a fine catcher, Craig, and I’d like to see you go right ahead. You’ve got brains, for one thing, and I’d rather have that in a catcher than mechanical ability—if I had to choose between the two, that is. Another thing that’s going to make you a clever lad behind the bat is that you’re no weak hitter yourself. There’s one criticism I’d like to offer, though: you’re a little bit inclined to ‘slug,’ Craig. Don’t do it. I know that the slugging hitter sometimes makes a corking good slam, but, in the long run, he doesn’t deliver a good average. He isn’t generally there in the pinches, Craig. Any pitcher will tell you that he’d rather pitch to a ‘slugger’ than to a batter who shortens his bat and his swing and ‘pushes’ the ball. A long swing is likely to take your eyes off the pill just when they should be glued to it, for one thing. And then, again, you can’t place your hits so well. Take the hit-and-run play, for instance. Suppose the runner’s going down to second and shortstop’s covering the bag, and you’ve got to poke one between second and third. You can’t deliver the goods with a long swing. You’ve got to shorten. If you do swing long and connect with it, it’s dollars to doughnuts the ball will go anywhere but down that alley. And then, the first thing you know, you’re doubled up. I dare say you think I’m cheeky for criticising you like this, but I’d like to see you make good. You’ve got a lot of the ear-marks of a natural-born catcher, old man, and good catchers—really good ones—are almost as scarce as hens’ teeth.”

“I don’t mind it at all,” Sam assured him earnestly. “It—it’s awfully good of you to tell me. And I’d like to know how to do better.”

“That’s the stuff! No one knows it all—although maybe you think I talk as if I did! I don’t, not by a whole big lot. When I was catching for Warner I did a lot of the things I’m telling you not to. I was the worst old heavy hitter on the team. I was a regular joke on the batting list. About once in every game I’d come through with a regular whale of a slam, usually into right field. Sometimes it would be good for three bases, or sometimes two. More often, though, a fielder would pull it down. Or, if he didn’t, that hit would come along with the bases empty. When there was a man on third and the pitcher tightened up I was a frost. I pursued that misguided course for two years. Then one day—we were playing one of our big games—I happened to overhear a remark made by the other team’s pitcher. ‘York?’ he said. ‘I’ll pitch to him with my eyes shut. The man’s a “swinger”!’ That opened my eyes. I’d always thought the reason I couldn’t hit when I wanted to hardest was because the luck was against me or because the pitcher put a little extra on the ball, knowing my reputation as a long hitter. But that day it dawned on me that it was no one’s fault but my own. And the next morning I went out to the net and I started to learn to bat all over again. I never got into the three-hundred class, but I got where it wasn’t necessary to pull me out of the game in the eighth or ninth inning when a hit was needed to win.

“Mind you,” continued Mr. York, when he had lighted his pipe again, “I’m not saying there aren’t lots of ‘free hitters’ and ‘swingers’ with big reputations; some of them have headed the list in their time; but sooner or later the pitchers find their weakness and then they go down quickly. No, sir, it isn’t the ‘swinger’ who gets on oftenest, and it isn’t the ‘swinger’ who makes the best clean-up hitter. It’s the man who takes a short swing, not a ‘chop’; that’s poor stuff; but a healthy short swing, who comes across oftenest. You try it, Craig. Don’t stand back and have to reach for the ball, either. Crowd the plate a bit. Get ‘over the ball,’ as they say.”

“I will,” replied Sam. “I guess you’re right about a long swing. It is harder to judge the ball. I’ve noticed that, especially when the ball breaks close up. On a straight ball I can generally connect, but anything foxy has me guessing. I almost always get fooled on a drop or a floater.”

“It stands to reason. You’ve got to watch that sort until the last minute and then you’ve got to swing quick, and from the elbows and not the shoulders. As far as hitting for extra bases is concerned, why, I can point out men who can almost ‘chop’ the ball for a two-bagger. I sort of wish we had a ball and you were able to use that leg of yours,” added Mr. York wistfully, “and a bat.”

“That sounds like the old darky in Washington who used to say, ‘If I had a little milk I’d have a little mush if I had a little meal,’ doesn’t it?” asked Sam.

Later Mr. York went off in his automobile and Sam lay down on a couch in the big living-room, and, to please his host, tried to take a nap. He didn’t succeed, however. Dinner came at seven, with the dining-room windows wide open and the blue-black sky, a-twinkle with white stars, in sight whenever Sam looked away from the mellow radiance of the candles. And after that he had his initiation into the mysteries of chess. Mr. York said he did very well, but Sam feared that he had been terribly stupid when the chessmen were finally put away.

“That,” said Mr. York, seating himself again in a big easy-chair and taking one knee into his hands, “almost did me out of my diploma at college. One of the instructors and I used to play chess five evenings a week until all hours. I just scraped through my finals. Speaking of college, Craig, I suppose you’ve got yours all picked out, eh?”

“Me? No, sir. I—I guess I won’t go to college.”

“Won’t go! Why not?”

“Can’t afford it, sir,” replied Sam, with a twinkle. “They say it costs money.”

“Oh, that!” said Mr. York carelessly. “You’d like to, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I’d like to well enough, but——”

“Lots of chaps go through without a cent, or, at least, with almost no money. There were half a dozen chaps in my class at Warner who were a heap—er—who had less to spend than you have.”

Sam looked puzzled. “But how did they do it, sir? You mean scholarships?”

“Partly, in one or two cases. The trouble is with scholarships, Craig, that you usually have to work hard for them and you can’t ever be certain you’ll pull one down. No, the chaps I was thinking of were fellows who were rather prominent in sports—football, baseball, track. They found jobs waiting them. A couple were managers of frat houses, one was a sort of assistant in the Athletic Director’s office and had the programme privilege. There are quite a few jobs like that to be had by wide-awake chaps with—er—athletic ability.”

“Oh,” said Sam softly, “I see.”