CHAPTER XV PATTERN GIVES ADVICE

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Wayne wanted advice, and it was to Arthur Pattern that he went. A quarter of an hour after Mr. Farrel’s departure Wayne and Arthur were sitting on the steps of the State National Bank talking it over. Now and then the sound of exploding fireworks sounded and occasionally the sparks of a distant rocket lighted the sky beyond the roofs or red, white, and blue stars floated high against the purple darkness of the night, but the celebration was nearly over and the main street was nearly deserted.

“I remember Chris Farrel,” Arthur Pattern was saying. “That is, I remember reading about him. He used to be a crackajack catcher some years ago. Played for a long time with one of the western clubs; Cincinnati, I think. Then he was with Washington and left them to manage some team like the Baltimores. Don’t think it was Baltimore, though. I don’t know much about this Harrisville outfit, but the Tri-State League’s been going for a good many years. It’s a six-club league. Harrisville and Doncaster in this state, Paterson and Trenton in New Jersey, and Utica and some other place in New York State.”

“Damascus, I think he said.”

“Yes, Damascus. Some of those are good baseball towns, and they ought to make money. Still, I don’t suppose they do much better than split even after expenses are paid. Saturdays and holidays are about the only times they draw big attendances, they charge about half what the big leagues charge for admission, and players’ salaries, travelling expenses, and so on count up fast. Men like this Mr. Badger own ball teams more for amusement than anything else, I guess. Some of them go in for steam yachts, some for trotting horses, and some for ball teams. I guess they net about the same on the investment,” ended Arthur drily.

“Then you think this Harrisville team isn’t very good?” asked Wayne.

“Better than some, not so good as others. If you’re going in for professional baseball playing, Wayne, you’ve got to get experience, and one team’s about the same as another, so long as you get your salary. You can’t afford to choose and pick, I guess, because it isn’t easy for a youngster like you to get a try-out. If a chance comes to you, grab it. After all, it doesn’t make much difference where you start. If you’re any good you won’t stay long in the bushes. The main question is: Do you want to be a ball player?”

Wayne considered in silence for a long minute. Then: “Well, it’s like this, Arthur,” he answered slowly. “I wouldn’t want to play ball all my life. It isn’t good enough. But there isn’t much I can do—yet. It isn’t as though I’d been trained for something, like engineering or keeping books or—or farming. I’m not good for anything at all—yet. The only thing I can do half-way well is play baseball. So it seems to me that it’s a sensible thing for me to play ball and make some money so that I can learn to do something better. If I made some money in the summer I could go to school or college in the winter, couldn’t I?”

“Yes, you could. What would you like to be?”

“Well,” answered the other, smiling, “I used to think I wanted to be a locomotive engineer, but I reckon now I’d rather be a veterinary surgeon.”

“What!” exclaimed Arthur. “A horse doctor?”

Wayne nodded untroubledly. “Yes, that’s what they call them in the country,” he replied, “just as they call the doctor a ‘sawbones.’ Don’t you think curing sick animals is just as fine a profession as curing sick people?”

“Hm. Do you?”

“Finer. Seems to me it takes more skill. A person who is ill can help the doctor, you see, by telling him where the trouble lies, but an animal can’t. The doctor has got to depend on his knowledge altogether, hasn’t he?”

“I suppose so. Still, up where I live we don’t class the vets and the physicians together, I’m afraid. The vets are generally rather ignorant old chaps, I guess. I remember hearing my father say once when I was a kid that old Nancy, the carriage horse, was dying and that he guessed it was time to call in the vet and let him have the credit for it.”

“Did she die?” asked Wayne.

Arthur thought a minute. Then: “By Jove, I don’t believe she did that time!” he laughed. “Perhaps old What’s-his-name was some good, after all!”

“Doctor Kearny—he’s the veterinarian at home—says that the profession is making faster strides nowadays than any other,” said Wayne. “He says the day is past when the man who can’t make a living any other way can become a dentist or a veterinary surgeon. He says treating horses and cows and dogs and things is a heap harder than giving pills to persons. I’d rather cure a horse or a dog any day than a human being.”

“It might depend on the human being, mightn’t it?” laughed the other. “Well, all right, old man, you be a vet if you want to. Perhaps it is a good deal finer trade than I’d thought. Anyway, what we’ve got to decide is whether you’re to join the Badgers, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I wish he’d given me some idea what the salary would be. What do you think, Arthur?”

“Well, I wouldn’t look for more than a hundred a month at first. You see, Wayne, you aren’t anything remarkable yet. You don’t mind my talking plain? This man Farrel is banking on you learning the game and turning out well in a couple of years. He thinks that if they can get hold of you now and sign you up at a small salary it’ll pay them to do it on the chance that you’ll be of real use later. I dare say there are lots of chaps who play just about the same sort of game that you do right now. Personally, I think you’ll make good. You sort of—sort of—well, I don’t just know how to say it, but you sort of look good. There’s a certainty in the way you handle the ball and the way you handle yourself that’s promising. I guess it struck Farrel the same way. If he was sure he could come around two years from now and find you he wouldn’t have made a sound today, but he isn’t. He’s afraid that someone else will discover you and grab you. But don’t get it into your head that you’re a marvel, Wayne, because you aren’t. Not yet. If you do go over to Harrisville, old man, talk small and don’t let your hat hurt you.”

“I won’t. I don’t think this has swelled my head any. What I’m afraid of is that this manager man won’t like me when he sees me.”

“That’s possible, too. Better not hope too much. I dare say Farrel sends a lot of fellows over there who just turn around and go home again. But his offering to stake you to your fares looks as if he was pretty fairly certain in your case.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t take that money,” said Wayne earnestly.

“You will if you go. I’ll see that you do. It’s a business proposition, Wayne. Farrel’s paying you ten dollars for an option on you. If he takes you he gets his option money back. You mustn’t think, though, that being a minor league ball player is all roses. It’s no picnic. You’ll have to practice every morning, whether you get on or not, you’ll have to beat it around the country for weeks at a time, sleeping on the train or in punk hotels, you’ll get bawled out when you pull a boner and no one will say ‘Thank you’ when you make a star play: no one but the ‘fans,’ and they’ll be the first to hoot you the next day if you make one miscue. You’ll run up against some rough ones on the team who will probably make life a perfect misery for you at first, and you’ll get the short end of a lot of decisions until the umpires see that you are real. I don’t want you to think that minor league ball playing is all bread and treacle, Wayne.”

“Maybe it’ll be hard,” was the response, “but any work is hard, isn’t it? And I’d rather do something hard that I like to do than something easy that I don’t. And I do like to play ball, Arthur. Besides, a hundred dollars a month is real money to me. If I stayed on the team three months I’d have three hundred dollars!”

“Not quite, because you have to live meanwhile. Remember that the club only pays your bills while you’re travelling, and you’re travelling only about half the time.”

“It wouldn’t cost me much, though, to live in Harrisville, would it? I reckon I could find a boarding-house pretty reasonable.”

“I guess so. It’s a pretty big town. Look here, Wayne, suppose I go around there with you tomorrow and have a talk with Farrel. Maybe I could get him to promise something definite. Want me to?”

“I wish you would,” said Wayne gratefully. “That is, if I decide to try it. I’m going to think it over tonight.”

“Well, you want to start thinking pretty soon,” laughed Arthur, yawning as he arose, “because it’s nearly eleven now and there isn’t much night left for us slaves. You call me up at the office in the morning and let me know. Then I’ll take my lunch hour at eleven-thirty and we’ll go around to the hotel together. Good-night, Wayne.”

It was close on midnight when Wayne left the railroad track and started across the meadow through the lush grass toward the dim orange glow from the windows and open door of the car. It suddenly came to him that he would be sorry to leave this queer retreat of theirs, for it had been more like a real home than any he had known for several years. And, with a genuine pang, he remembered the garden he had planted. He would never see the flowers blossom, never see the little green pellet, which had mysteriously appeared on one of the tomato plants a few days ago, grow and ripen! The thought of leaving that garden almost determined him then and there to think no more of Mr. Farrel’s offer, but to stay at home with June and be satisfied with his work and the new friends he had made.

June was still awake when he approached, and hailed him across the starlit darkness. And Sam barked shrilly, at first with a challenge and then, as he scuttled to meet Wayne, with delight. The boy picked him up and snuggled him in his arms, and the dog licked his cheek with an eager pink tongue. “He done catch him a terrapin today,” announced June as Wayne seated himself tiredly on the step. “An’ he jus’ act disgusting he was so proud.”

“I reckon the terrapin was just a plain, everyday mud turtle,” laughed Wayne. “Did you see it?”

“Yes, sir, he brung it home an’ put it on its back so’s it couldn’t get away, an’ I ’most trod on it. What’s the diff’ence between a terrapin, Mas’ Wayne, an’ a mud turkle?”

“About seventy-five cents, June.”

“Say there is?” June was silent a minute. Then: “What done ’come o’ you this evenin’? I was waitin’ an’ waitin’ for you.”

“I’m sorry, June. I wanted to see Arthur Pattern about something and we got to talking. I—I’m thinking about leaving here, June.” Then, sitting there in the star-sprinkled gloom, and fighting mosquitoes, Wayne told of Mr. Farrel and his proposition and of his talk with Arthur Pattern; and when he had finished June gave a joyous “Yip!” that startled Sam into barking.

“Ain’ I always tol’ you, Mas’ Wayne, that you goin’ make you-all’s fortune up here? Ain’ I?” Wayne couldn’t recall having been told anything of the sort, but he didn’t say so. “Reckon we’s goin’ to be mighty ’portant folkses now!” the darkey went on. “How much money he goin’ to pay you?”

“I don’t know yet. And I don’t know that I’ll go, June. Maybe Mr. Farrel isn’t really in earnest. I don’t see how he can be. I can’t play ball much, June. If I——”

“Say you can’? Let me tell you, Mas’ Wayne, sir, you plays ball better’n any of those other gen’lemen, a heap better!”

“But playing on a real league team is different, June. Suppose this manager doesn’t like me when I get there?”

“He’s goin’ to like you! How far is this yere place, Mas’ Wayne?”

“Harrisville? About eighty miles, I think. It’s a pretty big place, June, and maybe I wouldn’t like it as well as Medfield. I—I’ve got sort of fond of this place. If I do go, I want you to look after the garden, June. If you don’t I’m going to tan your hide for you.”

“What you mean look after your garden, Mas’ Wayne? Ain’ I goin’ with you?”

“Why, I don’t see how you can,” answered Wayne troubledly. “Maybe after I get ahead a little——”

“Now look yere, Mas’ Wayne! My mammy done tell me to watch out for you, ain’ she? How you ’spects I’m goin’ watch out for you if I ain’ with you? No, sir, Mas’ Wayne, if you goes, I goes, an’ that’s all there is to it, sir!”

“Well, we’ll see,” evaded Wayne. “I dare say I’ll be back by the end of the week, anyway. If I’m not, and you want to come, I’ll send you some money and you and Sam can follow.”

“You don’ have to send no money,” said Wayne. “I got me ’most fifty dollars right now. How much you got, sir?”

“Not a great deal,” owned Wayne ruefully. “I’ve had to buy so many things that I’ve been spending it about as fast as I’ve got it, June.”

“Ain’ boughten anythin’ you ain’ needed, I reckon.” June stepped down and disappeared around the side of the car and when he came back he held a tin can in his hand. He rattled it proudly. “Reckon you better take this along with you,” he said, offering it to Wayne. “Jus’ you drap it in your pocket right now, sir, so’s you won’ forget it.”

“Get out! I’m not going to take your money,” answered the other firmly. “I don’t need it, anyway. I’ve got twelve dollars, pretty near; and Mr. Farrel is going to pay my fare both ways.”

“I know that, Mas’ Wayne, but ’twon’ do for you to walk in on them ball players over to this yere place with no little ol’ picayune twelve dollars in your pocket, no, sir! You got to put on a heap o’ dog, Mas’ Wayne, ’cause if you don’t they’s goin’ to think you don’ amoun’ to nothin’ ’tall. Please, sir, you take it.”

“No,” said Wayne firmly. “I’m much obliged, June, but I don’t need it. If they give me the position I’ll have money of my own, you see.”

“Then you take half of it, Mas’ Wayne,” pleaded June.

But Wayne was adamant and June had to hide his treasure again, and after a while they went to bed, June to slumber and Wayne to lie awake until the sky began to brighten in the east. It was only when the stars paled that sleep came to him.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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