On the way to the office Sam narrated the story of his meeting with Mr. York, and his companion chuckled at intervals. Sam had not concluded his narrative when they passed through the door of the Adams Building and entered the elevator. Up they shot to the tenth floor and there Mr. Hall led the way to an office on the side of the building. The door held the inscription, “John T. Hall, Attorney and Councillor-at-Law.” The office was small, but light and cheerful, and was plainly furnished. Mr. Hall hung his Panama on a hook behind the door and pulled a chair forward for his visitor, seating himself at his desk between the two broad windows.

“Now we can be comfortable,” he said. “So John said he’d write me a letter, eh?”

“Yes, sir. Didn’t he—hasn’t he——”

“No, nor ever will,” laughed the other. “I’ve known him for almost twenty years and I’ve never had but three letters from him! He hates them like poison; writing them, I mean. But it doesn’t matter a bit, Craig. I’m just as glad to know you as if he’d written twenty pages about you. Besides, you can tell me more than he can, anyway. You live here in Amesville, of course?”

“Yes, sir, on Curtis Street.”

“Then we’ll soon get acquainted. Your name sounds familiar to me, by the way. Have I met your father, perhaps?”

“No, sir, he’s dead. There’s just my mother and sister and me, sir. You might have met my sister, though. She does typewriting here. She has a room on the third floor.”

“Of course! Miss Craig and I have had a lot of business together. So she’s your sister, is she? Well, she’s a fine, smart girl, Craig, and a good stenographer, too, by George! I suppose you and John talked baseball a good deal, eh?”

“Yes, sir, quite a lot.”

“And he gave you a heap of advice, too, I’ll wager!”

“Yes, sir, some.”

“Of course! He’s as full of advice as a pudding is of plums. He’s the sort who wants everyone to do things his way,” chuckled Mr. Hall. “We used to have some fine old spats when we were in college together. John not only wanted to catch, but pitch, too. If he could have had his way he’d have played every position on the team, I guess!”

“He told me two or three things I didn’t know about catching, Mr. Hall.”

“Oh, he can tell you things, all right! He’s full of perfectly wonderful information. He’s the sort who, if he was presented to the King of England, would start right off telling that gentleman how to improve his batting average!”

Sam smiled. “What he told me sounded pretty good, though,” he said defensively.

“It was good; no doubt about that, Craig. Theoretically, John York was the best catcher Warner ever had. Actually, he was the most uncertain. You see, he was full of theories. He doped everything out ahead and when things didn’t go the way he’d arranged them there’d be trouble. He’d study a new batter when he came up and decide that the man would hit a high ball over the outside corner into left field. Then he’d signal for a low one and the batter would crack it into the middle of next week, and John would be so surprised and grieved about it! After the inning he’d sit on the bench and prove conclusively to you that the man had no business hitting a low one, that he was built for high ones! The trouble with John was that he wouldn’t practise what he preached. He knew how a thing ought to be played, but he had a hunch that he’d get better results if he played it differently. I used to tell him he thought too much with his head. But in spite of all that we loved him. He was one of the most popular fellows in college. And you’re not to think that he always went wrong with his game, for he didn’t. Lots of times his theories worked out like miracles.”

“I remember”—Mr. Hall picked up a paper-knife and, leaning back in his swivel chair, played with it and smiled reminiscently—“I remember a game we played with Michigan. John was captain that year. (We made him captain because he’d have been it anyway and we thought there’d be no use having two.) We were two runs behind Michigan in the seventh and hadn’t got a run across for three or four innings. Michigan’s pitcher had us eating out of his hand, and if anyone did start a rally their infield cut it off. So, in the seventh John said, ‘Look here, fellows, we’re playing too close to the ground. What we’ve got to do is cut loose and run wild for a couple of innings. Now I want every one of you to hit at anything you see, as long as you don’t have to walk out of the box for it, and when you get on first I want you to go down to second on the first ball. And when you get to second, try for third. Those chaps aren’t used to fireworks. Let’s show them some.’

“Well, we wanted that game; we were always crazy to beat Michigan; and it didn’t look as if we were going to get it. Michigan was playing one of those scientific games—every man fielding perfectly; pitcher and catcher working together like two cog-wheels; everything figured according to the laws and commandments of baseball. There didn’t seem to be anything to lose by following John’s scheme and so we tried it. The first batter up for our side acted as if he’d never heard of waiting. He whaled away at everything in sight and got a scratch hit somehow and went to first. And then he started down the path on the first delivery. He was thrown out, though. But you could see that Michigan was beginning to wonder. Our next man slammed around and knocked fouls and finally got a clean hit, the first for half an hour. He followed instructions and stole second easily, in spite of a pitch-out, catcher throwing low to the base. Then we had them going. The next man drew his base and the man on second lighted out for third. He ought never to have got it, but he did. Someone fumbled. After that we ran wild on the bases. Even with two out we didn’t show any sort of baseball sense. We did everything we shouldn’t have done, and Michigan found herself as far up in the air as a balloon. We got five runs across in that inning on two hits and a pass!”

“And won the game?” asked Sam.

“N-no, we didn’t, as a matter of fact. We ought to have, but those chaps got to me in the ninth and knocked me out of the box. I suppose romping around the bases and sliding on my ear sort of tuckered me. Anyway, they hammered me to the bench and then got two hits off Whipple and scored enough to win. Still, as John showed us, we ought to have won!”

“I’d like to have seen it,” said Sam.

“It was some game,” assented the other. “I guess I’ll have to go out to-morrow and see you fellows play. I will if you’ll let me sit on the bench and mix in.”

“I wish you would,” said Sam. “I dare say you could tell us some things that might help, Mr. Hall.”

“Oh, I’m no John York!” laughed the lawyer. “I haven’t many theories, Craig. I’ve always played the game by rule of thumb, so to say. This close-harmony, inside stuff has always been a bit beyond me.”

“But there’s a good deal in it, isn’t there?” asked Sam. “Inside baseball, I mean.”

“Oh, yes, I guess so. Only I never could figure it. What time do you play to-morrow?”

“Three o’clock, sir.”

“I’ll be there.” He opened a desk drawer and dropped the package he had brought from the store into it. “Those can wait,” he said. “I like golf, but I guess I’d rather see a good ball game, after all.”

“I don’t know how good to-morrow’s game will be, Mr. Hall,” said Sam doubtfully. “Most of the fellows are pretty young and we make lots of mistakes.”

“Well, what’s the odds, eh? It’s fun, isn’t it? Hold on, don’t run away, Craig.”

“I guess I’ll be going, sir, thanks. I’ve got some things to do at home. I’ve been away so long things have sort of got behind there.”

“Well, you know where to find me. And, look here, do you ever play golf?”

“No, sir, I’ve never tried it.”

“You’re not too old,” replied the other, with a smile. “Some day you and I’ll go out to the Country Club and have a whack at it. You’ll like it, and I’ve got plenty of clubs. Want to?”

“Yes, thanks, only it—it wouldn’t be much fun for you.”

“How do you know that? You don’t know me well enough yet to say what my sort of fun is, Craig.” He smiled quizzically. “As a matter of fact, I’d like it. I’ll see you to-morrow. By the way, I live at the Amesville Club. Come around some evening and chin. There’s something that passed between you and John York that you haven’t told me about yet. Good-bye.”

Sam shook hands again and took his leave, descending by the stairs to the sixth floor and making his way to a door whose ground-glass bore the legend, “Miss Craig, Stenographer,” and from behind which came the busy clatter of a typewriter. Nell Craig was hard at work when Sam entered, and she only nodded and smiled until she had finished the sheet she was on and had pulled it from the carriage. Then she laid it aside and turned to view Sam questioningly. She was a rather pretty girl of eighteen, with light hair and more delicate features than her brother’s. She looked alert and capable, and quite businesslike in the plain black gown she wore.

“I saw him,” said Sam. “He seems rather nice.”

“Of course he does. I told you you’d like him,” replied Nell. “He’s the nicest customer I have.”

“He said you were a smart girl and a good stenographer,” answered Sam. “Looks like a case of what-do-you-call-it—mutual admiration.”

Nell laughed. “It’s more fun working for men you like, Sam. Some of them are rather gruff and horrid. What did he say to you?”

“Nothing much. Said he was glad to know me.”

“But didn’t you talk at all?”

“Yes, I suppose so. We talked baseball a good deal, I guess.”

Nell’s nose wrinkled. “Baseball! Is that all you could find to talk of? Did you tell him what Mr. York said about you going to college?”

Sam shook his head. “No. I guess that wouldn’t interest him much.”

“But you ought to. Maybe he might know of someone who would help you or—or something, Sam.”

“I don’t believe so. Anyway, I don’t want to—to know folks just so’s they can help me, do I? He’s coming to see us play Lynton to-morrow. And he wants me to go to the Country Club with him some day and learn golf.”

“Well, I think you got on splendidly,” said Nell delightedly. “Everyone says he’s awfully smart, Sam, and I guess he’s beginning to get quite a practice. I know I do three times as much work for him as I did at first. I’m sure he will be a splendid man for you to know.”

“I don’t want to know him just because he might do something for me,” objected her brother. “Folks can be friends for—for other reasons, can’t they?”

“Of course, but there’s no harm in having friends that are influential, Sam,” replied Nell wisely. “Folks who get on, I notice, cultivate friends who can help them. That’s plain common sense, Sam.”

“Plain common selfishness, you mean,” he answered. “All folks can’t do that sort of thing, because look at the people who have been nice to me lately. Much good I could do them!”

“I’m not so sure,” replied Nell thoughtfully, smiling a little. “There are lots of ways to help a person, Sam. Now, that Mr. York, I dare say you helped him.”

“Helped Mr. York!” ejaculated Sam. “I’d like to know how!”

“I don’t know that. Maybe, though, you took his mind off some worry, or cheered him up when he was feeling unhappy.”

“I guess he never needed cheering up,” said Sam. “But I see what you mean, sis. It doesn’t sound so bad that way. Well, I must get along. I asked Tom up to supper to-night. He and I are going to practise a little for to-morrow. If you’re going home early, I’ll wait around awhile for you.”

“I’m not, Sam, not very early to-day, thanks. I’ll try to get home by one, though. Tell mother not to wait for me. I’ve promised all this by twelve, and then I’ve got some letters to take for Mr. Hall.”

“Oh,” said Sam musingly, watching Nell deftly introduce a “carbon sandwich” into the carriage of the typewriter. “Mr. Hall.”

“Exactly,” replied Nell, spacing briskly.

“Hm. I wonder, now——”

“What?” she asked as he stopped.

“I wonder whether Mr. Hall likes me. He sort of seemed to.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” she asked cheerfully.

“That’s so. Maybe I could help him, you know.”

“Of course! That is—well, in what way, Sam?”

“There are lots of ways, you said. I might”—Sam edged toward the door—“I might say a good word for him to my sister!”

Nell tossed her head. “You can’t tease me about Mr. Hall, Sam,” she said untroubledly. “He and I are good friends, but we’re both of us—businessmen!”

“Then what are you blushing for?” demanded Sam meanly.

“I’m not blushing, silly! Do run away and let me get to work!”

“Oh, all right.” Sam went out, but, just before the door closed finally behind him, he added softly, “Say, sis!”

“Go away, please!”

“He’s not bad-looking, is he?”

The hurried clatter of the machine followed him along the hall until, with a little smile around his eyes, he turned the corner and pressed the elevator signal.