But Wayne did not approach Manager Milburn that day. Somehow the occasion failed to present itself, and, while determined to overcome the other’s resistance by perseverance, he did not want to start out by making a nuisance of himself. Save that he became slightly acquainted with several other members of the Harrisville Club that morning, he could not be said to have made much progress. He wanted very much to see that final game with Doncaster in the afternoon, but it meant the price of two dinners approximately, since it didn’t even occur to him to go without June. He had to be satisfied with reading about it in the late edition of the evening paper and was vastly disappointed when he learned that the Billies had fallen on Joe Casey in the eighth and driven him to cover, scoring four hits and two runs and securing a lead that the home team had been unable to overcome. Herring had finished in the box for Harrisville and had held the opponent safe, but the damage had been done by that time and the final score read 7 to 6. Doncaster had, consequently, split even on the series and incidentally reduced Harrisville’s lead in the league standing to eight games. Damascus had won again that day from Utica and slipped into second place. Wayne concluded that it would be well to wait until Harrisville had won her next game before presenting himself again to Mr. Milburn.

A single line under the caption “With the Amateur Clubs” announced: “At Medfield; Chenango, 14, Atlas A. A., 2.” Something rather like a pang of homesickness went through him then and he almost wished himself back in Medfield. He wrote a letter to Arthur Pattern that night before going to bed and sent his new address.

Sunday was a quiet and rather dull day for the boys. They went for a walk in the afternoon and explored the city pretty well, but the only incident of interest occurred when Sam made the mistake of underrating the fighting ability of a large gray cat and returned sadder and wiser after an encounter in an alley. Tabby had clawed his nose most thoroughly and Sam had to whimper a little and be sympathised with before the journey continued. By getting up late that morning and dressing very leisurely they managed to make breakfast and dinner suffice in the way of meals, thus saving twenty cents. (The saving would have been thirty cents had not June fallen victim to the fascination of a chocolate Éclair and Wayne squandered another nickel on a Sunday paper.)

On Monday Wayne went back to the ball park and again served as utility man, catching throw-ins for Jimmy Slattery and backing up the fielders during batting practice. He was rapidly becoming an accepted feature of the morning work and the players, most of whom had by this time heard his story, were very friendly toward him, “Red” Herring especially. Practice lacked vim this morning, and the manager, while he gave no such exhibition of temper as he had displayed Friday, was plainly disgruntled. Wayne took pains to keep out of his way, but he was haunted by a feeling that Mr. Milburn’s lack of recognition was only assumed. Once Wayne surprised the manager observing him with an expression that, while not unfriendly, was decidedly ironical. He wondered then whether Mr. Milburn had recognised him Saturday. Somehow he rather thought he had!

Practice again ended without any apparent advancement of Wayne’s fortunes, for he had by now determined that when he again broached the subject of that try-out to the manager it should be after Harrisville had won a game and while Mr. Milburn was in the best of humours. To bring the matter up at the wrong moment might, he suspected, result disastrously. Although Wayne was unacquainted with the phrase, it was the psychological moment that he waited for. Besides, there was another thing that he was banking on, and that was the return to Harrisville of Chris Farrel. It seemed to him that Chris could easily secure that try-out if only he would put in his appearance. But inquiry that morning of Jimmy Slattery was not encouraging. Jimmy didn’t know when Chris would get back. He had heard that the scout was working his way south as far as Maryland. He might be back tomorrow or next week. He came and went about as he saw fit, a fact which Jimmy, for some reason not apparent to Wayne, seemed to resent.

Damascus had no trouble winning that Monday game. Herring started in the box for the Badgers but lasted only three innings and was succeeded by Tommy Cotton. In the seventh Cotton resigned and Nick Crane took up the task. Harrisville played rather poorly, Wayne learned from the evening paper. At all events, Damascus gathered in the contest to the tune of 4 to 0.

Tuesday’s work-out went with a new dash and vigour, and the batting practice lasted twice as long as usual. It was freely given out that Mr. Milburn intended to win a majority of those four games, which meant that the Badgers must take the remaining three. That afternoon “Red” Herring again started the performance and this time he went through without a hitch, and, although the home club failed again to win renown with their sticks, the game went to the Badgers 2 to 1. Wayne was tempted to try his fortunes with Mr. Milburn that evening, but discretion held him back. If the Badgers took tomorrow’s game perhaps he would risk it. Or maybe it would be still safer to wait until the Badgers had secured their three out of four. That is, if they did. They had got back their eight-game lead again, but Doncaster had won both games of a double header with Trenton and was now tied for second place, and it was no secret that Manager Milburn feared the Billies more than the Damascus club.

Wayne got a reply from Jim Mason that afternoon. Jim was all for having Wayne give up and come back to his job. Perhaps he had read more in the boy’s letter than Wayne had intended him to. “I haven’t got any new fellow in your place yet,” wrote Jim, “and I won’t if you say you’re coming back. I can get along for another week I guess but you better write and say you are coming back so I will know whether to expect you or not. The missis is well and so is Terry. He sends you his love and says please come back to see him. We are not very busy right now but last week they dumped a string of foreigns on me and I had a tough time getting shut of them. Terry says tell you the chicken with the twisted leg up and died on him the other day. So no more at present.”

Wayne was strongly tempted after reading Jim’s letter to see Mr. Milburn then and there and, if he still refused, to go back to Medfield on the first train in the morning. Perhaps it was a chance remark of June’s, as much as anything else, that kept him from yielding to that temptation.

“I sure does like this yere Ha’isville,” declared June that evening at supper. “Wouldn’ go back to that little ol’ Medfield if they ask me, no, sir!”

“You wouldn’t?” asked Wayne. “Why, June?”

“’Cause this is a regular white man’s town, Mas’ Wayne. Livin’s cheap an’ fine, an’ folkses is fine, an’ there’s somethin’ goin’ on all the time. An’ if I wanted to, Mas’ Wayne, I could get me a job in no time at all, I could so, yes, sir.”

“What kind of a job, June?”

June waved a fork vaguely but grandly. “Anythin’ at all,” he answered. “I met up with a nigger blacks boots at that yere Congress House you-all was tellin’ about an’ he say he can get me a job there tomorrow if I wants it, yes, sir.”

“As bell boy?”

“Yes, sir, an’ it don’ cost me but four bits.”

“Who gets the four bits, June?”

“This yere nigger I’m tellin’ you about. That’s his commission.”

“Oh, he wants a half-dollar for getting you the job, you mean?” Wayne was silent a moment. Then: “June, that’s where Mr. Milburn lives,” he said thoughtfully.

“Yes, I ’member you tellin’ me that.”

“I wonder——” Wayne’s voice dwindled off again to silence. At last: “Would you like to take that job, June?” he asked.

“Not if you-all don’ want me to, Mas’ Wayne. I ain’ complainin’ none. ’Course, ain’ much to do ’cept hang aroun’——”

“You go there tomorrow and grab it,” said Wayne.

“Hones’? You ain’ mindin’ if I do?”

“No, I’d rather you did, June. You might—I don’t see how you could, exactly—but you might——”

“Yes, sir, Mas’ Wayne?”

“Well, you just might be able to help me, June, if you were at the Congress House. Suppose, for instance, I wanted to see Mr. Milburn, and the clerk wouldn’t let me up. If you sort of made his acquaintance and got friendly with him——”

“Lawsy-y-y! Ain’ that the truth? Mas’ Wayne, I goin’ make that yere Mister Manager jus’ love me, yes, sir! I goin’ be so nice an’ ’tentive to him——”

“Go ahead,” laughed Wayne. “Make him love you so much that he will give me a place on the team, June.”

“That’s jus’ what I’m aimin’ to do,” replied June, showing all his teeth in a broad grin. “You jus’ wait till I gets me acquainted with that Mister Man. I—I goin’ put a conjur on him, yes, sir!”

The next morning June departed, armed with his “four bits” and his ingratiating smile in the direction of the Congress House and Wayne saw him no more until supper time. Wayne spent the forenoon at the ball grounds making himself useful. Today his duties included catching “Red” again. Linton did not show up and as Young couldn’t attend to more than three of the pitchers Herring found a mitt for Wayne and towed him across to the third base side of the field and ranged him alongside Catcher Young.

“You take the other fellers, Dan,” said “Red.” “I got me a catcher.”

Wayne was a little embarrassed and awkward at first, but by the time “Red” was getting warmed up and putting speed into the ball he was so interested that he forgot all self-consciousness. “Red” was feeling in fine form this morning, possibly as a result of yesterday’s game, and some of his deliveries were hard to judge. There was a “jump ball” in particular that always caused Wayne anxiety until it had settled into his mitten. Crane, Nye, and Cotton, who were pitching to Young, and Young, too, for that matter, observed the emergency catcher with interest. It was “Hop” who asked presently: “You and Steve got together yet, kid?”

“Not yet,” replied Wayne cheerfully, rolling the ball from mitt to hand and tossing it back to Herring. “There’s no hurry, I reckon.”

“Better not leave it too long,” advised Cotton. “Chris Farrel’ll be sending another rookie along first thing anyone knows. He’s a great one for that sort of thing.”

“Oh, Chris is all right,” said Herring. “He discovered Cob Morgan and Bee Bennett, didn’t he? And I sort of guess they ain’t so poor.”

“Chris makes about one lucky guess in ten,” observed Pitcher Crane, “but maybe that’s a good average. I don’t know.”

“You twirling this afternoon, Nick?” asked Herring.

“I guess so. The boss is crazy to cop the next two games.”

“Don’t look like it,” said Cotton innocently. “You’d think he’d put a good pitcher in today.”

Crane only smiled. Nick, in the words of the Harrisville baseball scribes, was the “dean of the pitching corps,” and didn’t have to answer such aspersions. Just then Manager Milburn summoned Herring to take Casey’s place on the mound and Wayne was for removing his mitt. Young, however, suggested his taking Nye off his hands and Wayne assented. “Hop” was easy after Herring, for he used straight balls a good deal and although they came like lightning they were far easier to judge than “Red’s” eccentric slants. Later, when the players moved to the nets, Wayne encountered another of Manager Milburn’s sarcastic glances, but he didn’t mind. As long as the manager didn’t object to his being on the field during practice Wayne was for the present satisfied.

That afternoon he received a letter, forwarded from Medfield, that brought his heart into his mouth as he read the postmark and recognized the writing. It was from his stepfather, and for a moment Wayne hesitated to open it, fearing that it was a summons home. But it wasn’t. Mr. Higgins was brief and decided. “Understand,” he wrote, “that this is your doing and not mine. Don’t come home here expecting me to take you in again for I won’t. And don’t apply to me for money. You won’t get any. You will have to get along by your own efforts. I hope you will do so, but nothing I have ever seen of you leads me to expect it.”

“It sounds a heap like him,” murmured Wayne, thrusting the letter back into its envelope. “He never did think I was any good, anyway. But I’ll show him. And he needn’t be afraid of my going back or asking him for money, because I wouldn’t, not if I was starving to death!” Wayne clenched his hands tightly and frowned at the letter. Then the frown faded and gave place to a satisfied smile. “Anyway,” he said to himself, “he isn’t going to try to get me back, and that’s a load off a fellow’s mind!”