June took a shining half-dollar from his pocket and slipped it along the counter. Wayne examined it questioningly.

“Mister Milburn done give me that,” chuckled June. “An’ all I done was jus’ fetch him some seegars from the news-stand.”

“You mean he tipped you a whole half-dollar for that?” marvelled Wayne.

June nodded. “Yes, sir, that’s all I done. He say, ‘Boy, fetch me two seegars from the news-stand. Tell them they’s for Mister Milburn an’ they’ll know what you want.’ An’ he give me a dollar bill an’ they was seventy-five cents change an’ he say, ‘Where you come from? I ain’ seen you before, has I?’ An’ I say, ‘No, sir, you ain’. I’m the new bell boy, sir, an’ anytime you wants anythin’ done partic’lar jus’ you asks for June.’ He sorter laughed an’ say as how he’s goin’ remember, an’ asks me where did I come from, an’ I tell him I come from Colquitt County, Georgia, an’ he say he knows Colquitt County ’cause he was to a trainin’ camp down thataway once.” June paused long enough to transfer some of the contents of his plate to his mouth, and then, heedful of his companion’s mandate regarding conversation and a full mouth, waited another moment before continuing. “We got on fine, him an’ me, Mas’ Wayne. He’s a right sociable gen’leman, yes, sir.”

Wayne laughed. “I reckon that half-dollar was for your conversation, June, and not for the errand. Did you tell him you came here from Medfield?”

June shook his head innocently. “He ain’ ask me that.”

“Well, you made a good start. Do you like the work, June?”

“Yes, sir, it’s a right promisin’ place. Lot’s o’ free-spendin’ gen’lemen at that yere hotel. Reckon I’m goin’ do better’n I did at the Union. I gets four dollars a week. They works you longer, though, ’cause I got to get there at six in the mornin’ an’ I don’ get through till six in the evenin’.”

“Why, that’s twelve hours, June!”

“Yes, sir, but the more I’m aroun’ there the more I’m goin’ to put in my jeans. I made a dollar an’ ten cents today, Mas’ Wayne; an’ I’d a done better’n that if them other boys hadn’ tried to friz me out. There’s four of them, an’ one’s a big yaller boy with a mean disposition. I reckon,” June added thoughtfully, “I’ll jus’ have to lam him good before he quits foolin’ with me!”

“You’d better not,” cautioned Wayne. “This isn’t Medfield, and they might fire you if they found you fighting.”

“They ain’ goin’ to fin’ me. I’m goin’ do it where they won’ know nothin’ about it. How come them other gen’lemen pesker us like they done today, Mas’ Wayne?”

“What other gentlemen? Oh, you mean the Damascus club. We just couldn’t hit them any more than they could hit us, June. You see Mr. Milburn pitched Nick Crane and so the Damascus manager put in Woodworth, their best man, and it was a pitchers’ battle right through the whole eleven innings. If Bennett hadn’t stolen home from third with two out in the eleventh I reckon they’d be playing yet. I’d like to have seen that steal. It must have been a dandy!”

“Sure must! That gives us three games to their two, don’ it? Reckon we’ll win the one tomorrow, Mas’ Wayne?”

“I don’t know. I heard that they’re going to use a fellow named Ripley, and they say he’s almost as good as Woodworth. He’s a spit-ball pitcher.”

“I am’ never see nobody pitch one of them yere spit-balls,” said June. “Who goin’ pitch for us, sir?”

“I suppose it will be Nye. It’s his turn, I think. Either Nye or Cotton. I reckon if Damascus plays the way she played today tomorrow’s game is going to be worth seeing.”

“Why don’ you-all go an’ see it, Mas’ Wayne?”

“Can’t afford it, June. We’ve been here a week now and——”

“You ain’ got to ’ford it,” chuckled June. “Mister Milburn say if I want to see a game jus’ let him know an’ he goin’ pass me in. I’ll ask him about it tomorrow an’ you can take the ticket.”

“He wouldn’t want you to give it to anyone else, June. Maybe I’ll try walking in past Mike at the players’ gate. I don’t believe he would stop me, and I don’t believe anyone would mind, because I’ve helped a good deal out there in the mornings, June.”

“Sure you has, Mas’ Wayne! You got a perfec’ly good right to see them games, yes, sir.”

Wayne exhibited his stepfather’s letter then and June, after he had slowly puzzled through it, snorted with disgust. “Ain’ that like him, Mas’ Wayne, sir? Ain’ it jus’ like him? Firs’ thing he thinks of is money! I can’ ever say jus’ what I thinks of that gen’leman ’cause he’s a sort o’ relation o’ yours, Mas’ Wayne, but I certainly does do a heap o’ thinkin’!”

“Anyway, he intends to let me alone, June, and that’s what I wanted. As for money, why, he will have to give me some when I’m twenty-one because mother left me almost twelve hundred dollars and he only has it in trust.”

“Reckon he ain’ wishin’ for you-all to remember that,” replied June, shaking his head. “An’ if I was you, Mas’ Wayne, I’d write to Lawyer Ackerman an’ tell him to keep a mighty sharp watch on that yere stepdaddy of yours, yes, sir!”

“He can’t very well run off with the farm, June,” laughed Wayne, “and as long as that’s there I reckon I can always get my money.”

June was passing along the second floor corridor of the Congress House the next morning, laden with a number of empty ice-water pitchers and crooning a song, when a door opened and Mr. Milburn confronted him.

“Boy! Run down and get me a Philadelphia paper. Any one will do. Oh, is that you, January?”

“No, sir, Mister Milburn, I ain’ January yet, sir; I’m jus’ June.”

“Well, all right, June,” chuckled the manager. “Hustle up that paper. I’ve got a dime here that’s looking for a home.”

“Yes, sir, don’ you do nothin’ with it till I returns,” answered June, sprinting for the stairs.

When he came back and knocked on the door and was told to enter Mr. Milburn was seated at a table clipping things from various newspapers and pasting them in a huge scrapbook. “That’s the boy,” he said, “and here’s your dime, June. How did they come to call you June, eh?”

“’Tain’ really June, sir, it’s Junius; Junius Brutus Bartow Tasker is my full name, Mister Milburn.”

“‘Full’ is good! Going out to see my boys play today, Junius Brutus And-so-forth?”

“I can’ get off today, sir, but I got a friend that would like powerful much to see that game.”

“Oh, I’m not proposing to supply your friends with tickets, boy. Hasn’t this friend got a quarter?”

“Yes, sir, but he’s needin’ all the quarters he’s got, jus’ like me, sir.”

“Oh, all right.” Mr. Milburn produced a slip of paper and scrawled a hurried signature on it. “There you are. Tell him to show that to the man at the ticket office and he will fix him out. Haven’t you seen my club play yet?”

“Once, Mister Milburn. We seen ’em lick those Billies last—last Friday, I reckon it was. An’ we seen some ball playin’! Yes, sir, we surely did so!”

“Who are ‘we’? You and this friend of yours?”

“Yes, sir. He ain’ exac’ly a friend, though.”

“Isn’t he?” Mr. Milburn turned the pages of the paper June had brought him and hurriedly scanned them. “Isn’t an enemy, is he?”

“No, sir, he’s—he’s my boss.”

“Your boss? What do you mean by that?” The manager dropped the paper to the floor, glanced at his watch and turned an amused gaze on the boy.

“Well, sir, he’s Mas’ Wayne Sloan, sir, an’ the Sloans is quality down in Colquitt County. You see, Mas’ Wayne’s mother she up an’ die ’bout three-four years ago an’ this yere stepdaddy of his ain’ no earthly ’count, no, sir, he ain’. He jus’ pesker Mas’ Wayne somethin’ fierce till him an’ me we jus’ lit out an’ come up North here.”

“Sloan?” inquired Mr. Milburn. “He’s a white boy, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sloan, eh? Look here, that isn’t the kid that Farrel sent to me for a try-out, is it? A dark-haired chap with——”

“Yes, sir, that’s Mas’ Wayne. How come you-all ain’ given him that yere try-out yet, sir?”

“Because he’s an infielder, June, and we don’t need infielders. I told him that days ago, but he’s still hanging around, I see.”

“Yes, sir, we’re waitin’.”

“Well, I’m afraid waiting won’t do him any good, June. You’d better tell him so. I like the kid’s perseverance, but he’s wasting his time. If he was a couple of years older and could play a little I’d give him a chance.”

“Yes, sir, an’ I reckon he’s goin’ be a couple years older if you-all don’ hurry up!” June’s grin robbed the statement of offence. “Mister Milburn, please, sir, can I tell you somethin’?”

“Go ahead, June.”

“Well, sir, Mas’ Wayne’s surely one fine ball player,” said June earnestly, “an’ you-all ain’ actin’ sensible if you don’ grab him, sir.”

“Oh, that’s just your idea of him, June,” was the good-natured reply. “We get dozens like him every spring, fellows fresh from high school or college who think that if they can hold a ball when it’s thrown to them they’re regular Big Leaguers.”

“How come this yere Mr. Farrel done send him over here, sir?”

“Oh, Farrel plays it safe, June. He has instructions to pick up anything that looks good and ship him over for me to see. But he isn’t supposed to rob the nurseries. We can’t use them until they’re grown up.”

“Well, sir, seems like this yere Mister Farrel ain’ actin’ jus’ right. He done tell Mas’ Wayne how you goin’ give him a try-out an’ all, an’ Mas’ Wayne he give up his position in Medfield an’ now ain’ nothin’ ’tall come of it. It don’ seem jus’ right, sir, does it? Mas’ Wayne he ’lows we’s goin’ stay right here till he gets that yere try-out, yes, sir, but we ain’ got but about fifty dollars an’ that ain’ goin’ to last forever, is it? Please, sir, Mister Milburn, I wish you’d jus’ give him that ol’ try-out, sir, an’ then, if he don’ act good, we knows where we’re at! Couldn’ you jus’ do that, please, sir?”

The manager frowned impatiently, slapped the scrapbook shut, opened it again, and once more looked at his watch. June observed him anxiously but continued to smile. Perhaps it was that smile that decided the question, for Mr. Milburn saw it and the corners of his own mouth began to go up, and presently he laughed.

“All right, June,” he said. “He shall have his try-out. Maybe tomorrow. By the first of the week, anyway. You can tell him so. And you can tell him he owes it to you. Mostly, at any rate.” The manager arose. “Maybe I’d have given it to him anyhow sooner or later, just to get rid of him!” he added grumblingly. He turned with pretended ferocity on June. “You got that dime, didn’t you?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir, thanky, sir.”

“Well, what are you waiting for then? Beat it! Get out of here before you think up any more hard-luck stories! Here, give me that pass!”

June yielded it and the manager tore it in half and dropped the pieces on the floor. “Tell Sloan I said he was to go in the players’ gate. I guess he’s earned the right to see one game. Now get out of here, you black nuisance!”

“Yes, sir,” replied June, grinning from ear to ear. “Thanky, sir. Hope you wins your game, sir.”

“Hope you get your wish, June! You don’t happen to own a rabbit’s foot, do you? One of the lucky sort, I mean.”

“No, sir, I ain’ got no rabbit’s foot, but you-all’s goin’ win today, Mister Milburn, yes, sir! I goin’ put a conjur on that yere game!”

“You and your conjurs!” laughed the other. “We’ll see, though, and if we don’t win—well, you’d better keep out of my reach, boy.”

“Yes, sir,” chuckled June from the doorway, “if we don’ win I’m goin’ give you the whole sidewalk!”

June, however, had no chance to give Mr. Milburn’s message to Wayne, for Wayne did not come around to the hotel and June’s duties prevented him from seeking him at noon hour. June got his dinners at the hotel, which meant a saving of thirty cents a day, but he wasn’t allowed much time to eat them in. Consequently it was with the intention of walking boldly past Mike, the gate-man, that Wayne started out for the field that afternoon. Yesterday’s close contest, and the fact that today’s encounter was the last with the Damascus club at Harrisville until after the home team’s swing around the circle which began next week, had combined to awaken a more than usual amount of interest in the afternoon’s game and the cars that buzzed and clanged their way past Wayne were filled to the running-boards. It was evident that the attendance at the park today would assume holiday proportions, and, too, that the railway company had, in spite of extra cars, failed to accommodate all who wanted to ride. Wayne had started early, hoping to get there about the time the players went in and trusting to the good offices of “Red” Herring or some other acquaintance to gain him admittance should Mike prove obdurate, but the players had passed him long ago in their car and it lacked but twenty minutes of starting time when he got within distant sight of the park.

It was then that he noticed that the trolley cars were blocked somewhere ahead. The passengers were jumping off and starting the rest of the journey afoot, but Wayne thought nothing of it until the imperative clang of an ambulance bell sounded on his ears and he turned to watch the vehicle dash hurriedly past, scattering pedestrians to right and left. Before Wayne had covered the next two squares, the ambulance passed again, speeding now in the direction of town, with a white-garbed doctor swaying on the steps.

“Reckon someone got smashed up,” reflected Wayne, walking a little faster. The folks about him were audibly conjecturing on the accident but no one seemed to know anything about it, and it was not until Wayne had reached the corner of an intersecting street a square from the ball grounds that he learned the facts. The brakes on one of the cars had failed to work and, since there was a down-grade just here, it had crashed into the rear of a car ahead. The two cars were there for evidence, both badly crushed as to vestibules. A motorman and two passengers had been badly injured, Wayne heard, but no one had been killed. Several others had been shaken up, but, as Wayne’s informant added, with a smile, they had gone on into the ball game and so probably weren’t dangerously injured! That reminded Wayne of his own purpose and, after pushing his way forward for a curious view of the damaged cars, he hurried on again and sought the players’ gate. By now he had determined to see the game in any event. After walking all the way from town in the hot sun it would be silly to turn back, he told himself, and he jingled the few coins in his pocket reassuringly.

The door in the high fence was closed but yielded readily to pressure and Wayne, looking as nonchalant as he knew how, stepped inside. Mike was standing a few yards away, talking with one of the ground-keepers and didn’t turn until he heard the creaking of the door as it went shut on its rusty hinges. When he did turn, though, Wayne saw an expression of lively interest on his face and paused irresolutely, so certain was he that Mike meant to deny him admittance. But Mike’s greeting was startlingly different from what Wayne expected. The door tender took a step toward him and jerked an impatient thumb over his shoulder.

“Hurry up an’ get in there,” he said. “The boss is lookin’ for you!”