The club had already played several games by that time, but, as all the members were either attending high school or employed at work, one day’s line-up was seldom like another’s. Captain Taylor never knew until the last moment which of his team members would be able to play and in consequence he tried to have two good players for every position. Practice was held in a field on the edge of town leased by the Association. It wasn’t either very level or very spacious, but it sufficed. It had a board fence around it, contained a small grand stand, a shed which answered the purpose of dressing-room, a cinder track, one-eighth mile in circumference, and jumping pits. The practice hour was five o’clock, or as soon after as the fellows could reach the field, and they kept at it as long as daylight lasted or hunger would go unappeased.

Wayne found some twenty-odd fellows in attendance the afternoon of his first appearance. All of them wore a uniform of some description or a portion of one. All, that is, save Wayne, who had given no thought to the matter of attire. Still, he was no worse off than Hoffman, whose regalia consisted of a pair of football trousers and stockings in combination with his usual street clothes. Hoffman was a catcher, and when he donned mask and protector he made a laughable appearance. His first name was Augustus, but he had been known as Gus until he had become a clerk in the office of the gas company. Now he was called “Gas” Hoffman. He was a fairly good catcher and a slugging batsman, as catchers so often are.

Practice with the Chenangos was work very largely diluted with play. As a captain, Joe Taylor was anything but a martinet. Wayne, recalling his own strict discipline when he had captained his school team the year before, decided that Taylor erred on the side of laxity. Perhaps, however, the Chenango captain knew his business, for there was a very evident disinclination on the part of most of the candidates to take their occupation seriously. They were there for fun and meant to have it. Wayne had wondered that Arthur Pattern had not tried for the team until Arthur had explained that his playing on a semi-professional team in New Hampshire one summer had taken him out of the amateur class and that since the Chenango was a purely amateur club he would have no right there.

The fellows at the field that afternoon averaged nineteen years of age. One or two were older, among them “Gas” Hoffman and Captain Taylor. Gas was twenty-three and Taylor twenty-one. To even the average, young Despaigne, who played shortstop very cleverly, was only seventeen, and Collins, a fielder, was scarcely older. Wayne suffered for lack of baseball shoes that day and made up his mind to buy a pair at the first opportunity. There was about twenty minutes of fielding and batting practice and then two teams were chosen and six innings were played. Wayne was put at third base on the second-string nine and made a good impression in spite of his lack of practice. At bat he failed ignominiously to hit safely even once, but, having waited out the pitcher in one inning, he got to first and gave a very pretty exhibition of base-stealing a moment later, reaching the coveted bag simultaneously with the ball but eluding it by a dexterous hook-slide that kept him far out of reach of the baseman’s sweep.

It was all over at half-past six and the fellows walked back toward the centre of town together, still very full of spirits, disappearing one by one down side streets until at last only Hal Collins, a tall youth named Wheelock, and Wayne remained. Wheelock played first base and was thin and angular and wore glasses over a pair of pale, peering eyes. He was about nineteen, Wayne judged, and had a slow, drawling manner of speech and a dry humour. Collins was a quick, nervous youngster, inclined to be sarcastic. Wayne liked Jim Wheelock best, although for a while he was never sure whether Jim’s remarks were serious or otherwise. It was Jim who praised Wayne’s throws to first base as they tramped along Whitney Street.

“You peg the ball across like you were looking where you were sending it,” drawled Jim. “Playing first would be a cinch if they all did that, Sloan.”

“Jim’s idea of playing first,” said Hal Collins, “is to stand on the bag and pick ’em off his chest. He hates to reach for anything.”

“My arms are four inches longer than they were before I started playing ball with this gang,” responded Jim, “and I’ve got joints in my legs that aren’t human!”

“Don’t any of them look human to me,” said Hal. “Say, where was Harry Brewster today? Someone said he was sick or something.”

“Yes, he’s got the sleeping disease,” answered Jim gravely. “Had it ever since he got his berth in the State National. That’s why they call it a berth when you get a job in a bank. They give you a column of figures to add up in the morning and if you’re not asleep by half-past ten they fire you. About four they go around with a pole and jab it through the cages. If you don’t wake up then they put a blanket over you and lock you in. They say Harry’s the best little sleeper they’ve got. Wouldn’t wonder if they made him president pretty soon.”

“Oh, quit your kidding,” laughed Hal. “What is the matter with him, Jim?”

“Cold. Went to sleep on a New York draft yesterday.”

“Sure it wasn’t counting coins? You can catch gold that way, you know.”

“Yes, but it’s not so hard to check. Good-night, fellows.” Jim tramped off down a side street and Collins asked Wayne which way he went.

“I go down the next street,” was the answer.

“Boarding?”

“No, I—we keep house. About two miles out.”

“Oh! Well, see you again. Here’s my turn. Good-night.”

It was nearly dark when Wayne reached “Carhurst” and June had supper ready and waiting. Sam was ready and waiting, too, but he forgot his hunger long enough to make a fuss over his master. Wayne narrated his experiences of the day while they plied busy knives and forks and then June brought the chronicle of his life down to date. But the most interesting item of information to Wayne was June’s announcement that one of the tomato plants had buds on it, and nothing would do but that Wayne had to jump up from “table” and rush forth in the twilight and see for himself. The garden was showing promise by that time, although nothing was more than a few inches high.

Wayne was up early the next morning so as to do a half-hour’s gardening before he left for town. He had long since made the discovery that eradicating grass from a meadow is not a simple matter of removing the turf, for the grass was always threatening to choke his seedlings utterly, and it was only by watching and working that he was able to keep it down. When he wasn’t weeding he was poking up the dirt with a pointed stick in lieu of trowel. June called this “coaxin’ ’em,” and opined that “if they flowers don’ act pretty, Mas’ Wayne, ’twon’ be no fault o’ yourn!” But it was the tomato plants that interested June most, and he was forever estimating the crop to be picked later on from the six rather spindling plants that they had bought at the grocer’s. He declared that each one ought to yield fifteen “big, red, ripe, juicy tomatuses,” and that if they consumed only six a day the supply would provide for them only two weeks. It was June’s firm and oft reiterated conviction that they should have planted just three times as many! Tomatoes were a weakness with June.

But two days later he found something besides the prospective tomato crop to interest his idle hours. At Wayne’s invitation he met the latter at the freight house one afternoon and accompanied him out to the Y. M. C. A. field to watch the doings. But just looking on never suited June very well and it wasn’t a quarter of an hour before he was on speaking terms with everyone there. The fellows enjoyed hearing his soft dialect and did their best to draw him out, punctuating his remarks with laughter. June was speedily established on the bench, and from just sitting idly there to presiding over the bats and the fortunes of the players was but a short step.

“Jus’ you let me choose you a bat, Mister Cap’n. I goin’ put a conjur on this yere stick o’ wood, sir, an’ you-all’s goin’ to everlastin’ly lam that yere ball, yes, sir!”

As it happened Joe Taylor did “everlastingly lam the ball,” sending it over left fielder’s head, and June’s reputation as a prophet, as well as his status as Keeper of the Bats, was firmly established. He was back again the next day, good-natured and smiling and anxious to serve, and was welcomed like a long-lost friend. June was never “fresh,” no matter how many opportunities were presented, nor would he accept the footing of equality that was offered him. He picked up the bat hurled aside by the man streaking to first and dropped it neatly in its place in front of the bench, soon knew which bat each player liked best and was ready with it, saw that the water pail was kept filled and, in brief, filled the office of general factotum so well that the question arose of how they had ever got along without him!

It was Jim Wheelock who suggested June’s adoption as official club mascot. “No wonder we don’t win more’n half our games,” drawled Jim. “We’ve never had a mascot. Here’s our chance, fellows. That darkey was just created to be a mascot. You can see it written all over him. Here’s where our luck changes.”

“We’ll stake him to a uniform,” suggested Joe Taylor, “and take him over to Ludlow Saturday. Guess we’ll have style if nothing else!”

June was complacent, even proud. “Fetch along your uniform, Mister Cap’n,” he said. “Only don’ you put no stripes on it, please, sir.” When, however, June learned that he was required to take train with the fellows at two o’clock he was dubious. “Don’ know about that, gen’lemen. You see, I got a mighty ’portant position at the hotel an’ I dunno will my boss let me off.”

“We’ll ask him to, June,” replied Taylor. “He’s a regular baseball fan himself and never misses a home game, I guess. He won’t kick. You leave it to us.”

“Yes, sir, jus’ as you says. I surely would love to ’company you-all. I reckon Mas’ Wayne won’ have no objection.”

“Who? Sloan? What’s he got to say about it, June?” demanded Hal Collins. “He doesn’t own you, does he?”

“Don’ nobody own me,” replied June, “but Mas’ Wayne he got the say-so, yes, sir.”

So Wayne was called into consultation and gave his permission, and on Saturday, when the team, fourteen strong as to players and half a hundred strong as to “rooters,” left Medfield they took with them one Junius Brutus Bartow Tasker radiantly attired in a bran-new suit of light gray flannel, with a pair of blue stockings and a jaunty cap. The shirt was a great joy to June, for on the left side was a big blue “C” surrounding an Indian’s head. Jim Wheelock told him the Indian was Mr. Chenango, after whom the club was named, and that he had been in his time a celebrated first baseman with the Susquehannock Club of the Passamaquoddy League. How much of that June believed I can’t say, but he certainly was proud of those baseball togs.

They played the Ludlow Y. M. C. A. that afternoon and were beaten ingloriously, 14 to 4. The Chenangos relied on their second-best pitcher, and his work was nearer third-best on that occasion. Wayne got a chance in the eighth inning, pinch-hitting for Despaigne, who was never a strong batter, and subsequently going in at third when a substitute was wanted. Wayne did well enough in the infield but failed to hit, which was about the way with the others. Hitting was the Chenangos’ weak point that day. Pitching was another, however, scarcely less lamentable. As Jim Wheelock said on the way home, it would have taken eighteen fellows instead of nine to keep Ludlow from scoring her runs. Jordan, the substitute pitcher, was hit “fast, far, and frequent,” and the tiredest members of the visiting team were the outfielders.

Several good-natured jibes were aimed at June on the return trip, but June didn’t mind them a bit. “Ain’ no mascot as ever was, gen’lemen, can change the luck for a team that ain’ hittin’. I done my mascotin’ all right, but you gen’lemen didn’ give me no kind o’ support!”

There was one thing about his companions that Wayne admired, and that was their good nature in defeat. He remembered that when his school team had returned from that disastrous contest with Athens High gloom thick enough to be cut with a knife had enveloped them. After all, playing ball was sport and not business, and why should they be downhearted over a defeat? Whether they should or not, they certainly were not. Even Jordan, who had so ignominiously failed in the box, seemed no whit upset, nor did the rest hold it against him. They had quite as merry a time of it returning home as they had had going to Ludlow.

But it was apparent on Monday that Captain Taylor meant to do better the next time. Several substitutes were changed over into the first nine, and Wayne was amongst them. Wayne was bothered because he couldn’t hit the ball as he was capable of hitting it, but comforted himself with the assurance that practice would bring back his former skill. But it didn’t seem to. In the next four practice games he secured but one clean hit, a two-bagger, and a very doubtful “scratch.” He confided to June one evening that he was afraid he had forgotten how to hit. “That fellow Chase isn’t nearly as much of a pitcher as Ned Calhoun was, and I never had much trouble with Ned, did I?”

“Mas’ Wayne,” said June, “I done been watchin’ you, sir, an’ I goin’ to tell you-all jus’ what the trouble is.”

“I wish you would,” sighed Wayne. “What is it?”

“You-all’s too anxious. Anxiousness jus’ sticks out all over you when you goes to bat. Now the nex’ time, Mas’ Wayne, jus’ you go up there an’ tell you’self you don’ care ’tall if you hits or if you don’ hit. Jus’ you forget how anxious you is an’ watch that ol’ pill an’ hit it on the nose. If you does that, sir, you’s goin’ to see it travel, yes, sir!”

Wayne thought it over and decided that perhaps June had really found the trouble. At all events, the advice sounded good and he determined to try to profit by it. The result wasn’t very encouraging the next day, but on Friday he had the satisfaction of getting two hard singles, and after that his return to form was speedy. Neither Chase, the Chenangos’ best twirler, nor Jordan, who was capable of pitching very decent ball when at his best, had any further terror for him. He lambasted them both impartially, much to June’s delight. “What did I done tell you, Mas’ Wayne?” he demanded as Wayne returned to the bench after turning his second hit into a run with the aid of Gas Hoffman’s single and a stolen base. “Ain’ nobody else got them two hits today yet, sir. Reckon you’s done come into your own again, Mas’ Wayne!”

They went up against the Athletics, the team that Arthur Pattern had referred to as “a silk-stocking lot,” the next afternoon and scored a victory when, with the bases full in the seventh, Larry Colton banged a two-bagger down the alley into right. The three resulting runs put the Chenangos two tallies to the good and there they stayed in spite of the Athletics’ desperate efforts to score in the eighth and ninth. It was Wayne who cut off a run in the first of those two innings when he reached far above his head and brought down what was labelled “two bases” when it left the bat. A perfect peg to second caught the runner flat-footed and retired the side.

That play, together with two singles and a base on balls in four times at bat, settled Wayne’s right to a position on the team. In fact, he was already spoken of as the best player in the infield, although to Wayne it seemed that no amateur could handle himself and the ball as Victor Despaigne did at shortstop. But Despaigne, while he fielded almost miraculously, was a more uncertain thrower, and only Jim Wheelock’s reach—and, possibly, those extra joints of which he had told—saved him from many errors.

The regular second baseman was a chap named Tad Stearns. Tad played his position steadily if not spectacularly, and Captain Taylor was perfectly satisfied with him. It was Tad who almost invariably took Hoffman’s throws to the second bag and who was always a stumbling-block in the way of second-nine fellows seeking to win renown as base-stealers. When, some three weeks after Wayne’s connection with the team, Tad fell down an elevator shaft in the carpet factory where he was employed as shipping clerk and broke his left arm and otherwise incapacitated himself for either work or play for some two months to follow, Taylor was left in a quandary. Tad Stearns’ understudy, Herrick, was not good enough, and when the news reached the field one afternoon that Tad was out of the game for the rest of the summer there was a consultation that included everyone on hand. As frequently occurred, it was Jim Wheelock who offered the most promising solution.

“Why don’t you let Sloan go to second,” he asked, “and put Whiteback at third? You want a good man on second.”

“That might do,” answered Joe, “if Sloan can play second. Ever try it, Sloan?”

“I’ve played second a little,” Wayne answered. “I’ll be glad to try it again if you like.”

“Sure,” agreed Hoffman, swinging his mask, “that’s the best way out of it. Beat it down there, Sloan, and I’ll slip you a few throws. You and Vic ought to work together finely.”

“All right,” said Captain Taylor, “we’ll try it that way. Billy White, you take third, will you? It’s just like Tad to fall down a shaft right in the middle of the season,” he ended grumblingly.

“Yes,” said Jim drily, “he never did have any consideration for folks. Thoughtless, I call him.”

Joe grinned. “Oh, well, I suppose he didn’t mean to do it,” he answered. “I must drop around this evening and see how he is. All right, fellows! Let’s get at it!”

So that is how Wayne became a second instead of a third baseman. After two or three days in the position he decided, and all who watched him in action decided, that second was where he belonged. He took throws from the plate nicely and developed an almost uncanny ability to outguess the base-runner, and the way he blocked him off was good to see. He had to guard against over-throwing to first for a while, for the distance was strange, but it didn’t take him long to learn to snap instead of speeding them to Wheelock. The best thing of all, however, was the way in which he and Vic Despaigne fitted into each other. As Gas Hoffman had predicted, they worked together nicely and double plays began to be so frequent as to scarcely merit remark. At third, White got along very well, although he was scarcely as dependable as Wayne had been. He got better as the season progressed, however, and by the first of July the Chenango infield was about as good as they make them for amateur teams.

Up to that time the club had played seven games, of which it had won three, lost three, and tied one. The Fourth of July contest was with the Toonalta A. A., and, since Toonalta had beaten Joe’s charges the year before and the year before that, Chenango was very anxious to score a victory. The game was to be played at Medfield, a fact calculated to favour the home team, and Joe and most of the others were quite hopeful. But Joe didn’t allow that to keep him from putting the nine through some very strenuous practice during the week preceding the contest.