The succeeding quarter-hour was always strangely confused and indistinct in Wayne’s memory. Damascus was warming up on the diamond and Herring’s brilliant thatch showed above the corner of the stand as the boy’s gaze swept hurriedly toward the field ere he turned in at the dressing-room door. Doubtless others of the pitching staff were out there with “Red,” but most of the players were still standing around the office when Wayne entered. For the moment none saw.

“This is what comes of keeping your salary list down!” Manager Milburn was declaring heatedly. “Lose two men and you’re shot to pieces! How does he expect me to win games with only enough players to cover the field? We have a right to twenty-two and he gives me nineteen! LaCroix, you take first. You’ll have to play third, Jones, and Dan will play second. Hold on! You catch Nye, don’t you? That won’t do then. I’d better take second myself. Hustle out now, fellows. We’ve just got to do the best we can and——”

“Here’s your man now, Steve!” exclaimed someone, and Wayne, pausing doubtfully inside the doorway, embarrassedly found himself the target of all eyes. But it was for an instant only. The next thing he knew Steve Milburn had him by the arm and was dragging him forward.

“Where have you been?” he was demanding irately. “I told that nigger boy of yours to send you out! Jimmy, hustle a uniform! Someone find me a contract form in the closet! Yellow box on the shelf!” He turned to Wayne. “Now, Sloan, you wanted a try-out and you’re going to get it,” he said grimly. “Jimmy’ll give you a uniform. Pile into it and—can you play third? Where have you played?”

“Second, sir.”

“Take it then! That lets me out!”

“I can’t find any forms here, Boss,” sung out Briggs from the closet.

“Never mind! This’ll do!” The manager dropped into the chair by the littered table, opened a drawer and pulled out a pad of paper and wrote hurriedly for a moment. And as he wrote he stabbed at Wayne with short sentences. “You got your chance! Show what you know, youngster! Make good and I’ll treat you white! Cap here will give you the dope. Do as he tells you. Now sign your name here. Witness this, Cap.”

“Hurry up, kid, and climb into these,” called Jimmy Slattery from the dressing-room doorway.

Wayne neither knew then nor later what he signed. Had there been time to read the half-dozen lines he could scarcely have done so, for Mr. Milburn’s writing was not the sort to be deciphered offhand. But he hardly tried. The manager pushed a pen into his hand, Captain Cross waited at his elbow and in thirty seconds he was hurrying toward the armful of togs that the trainer impatiently dangled at the door. Jimmy helped him change, or tried to help, and all the time dealt out advice freely, none of which Wayne afterward recalled. Five minutes later he was trotting out at the trainer’s heels, conscious of a thumping heart and of the fact that the shoes on his feet were at least a size too large for him. Then he was around the corner of the stand and Jimmy Slattery was pushing him in the general direction of second base.

“Go ahead, kid, and good luck to you!” said Jimmy. “Keep your nerve!”

But that was far easier said than done. The stands were crowded and a fringe of enthusiasts stood, three and four deep, inside the rope that had been stretched along the left field side of the enclosure. Balls were travelling back and forth, from base to base and base to plate, bewilderingly, while overhead the long flies arched to the outfield. As he passed in front of LaCroix, at first, the lantern-jawed, hook-nosed giant grinned as he speared a high throw, and almost in the same motion tossed it underhand to Wayne.

“Chuck it in, Bill,” he directed.

But if he thought to find Wayne asleep he was disappointed, for the boy wheeled and caught the descending ball and threw it to the plate. The throw was short and Steve Milburn barked across at him: “Keep ’em up, Sloan!” Captain Cross met him and walked back with him to the trampled ground behind the base line. “I’ll take the throws from the plate, Sloan, but if I can’t get in for them it’s up to you. Anything’s yours this side of the bag, but don’t crowd LaCroix too much. I’ll give you the signals on the runners. Just keep steady and you’ll do all right, kid. Come on now! Get into it!”

Five minutes of fielding followed, Manager Milburn batting them out; hard liners that brought Wayne up standing when they slammed into his glove, slow rollers that sent him speeding nearly to the pitcher’s box, pop-flies that lost themselves for a moment in the glare of the sky, bounders that brought all his baseball instinct into play. On the whole, he did none too well during that practice. More than one ball went past him or dribbled out of his hands. Once he muffed a fly miserably. Twice he overthrew to first. After the muffled fly he caught the dubious expression on Captain Cross’ face and felt his heart sink. Here, he thought, was the chance he had waited and longed for, and now he was going to throw it away! But in the next moment he was gritting his teeth and thumping fist into glove determinedly. He wouldn’t! He could play far better than he had been playing! It was only the crowd and the unnerving knowledge that so much depended on this afternoon’s performance that accounted for his fumbles. If only they had let him practice just one morning, instead of thrusting him like this into a game at a moment’s notice! And then the bell sounded and they were trotting in to the bench.

Manager Milburn beckoned to him and Wayne crossed to where he was standing in front of the little press box. Steve looked him over critically while Wayne, red-faced, dripping perspiration, waited. Finally: “How did it go?” asked the manager.

Wayne smiled wanly. “Not very well, sir. I—I reckon I’m sort of nervous.”

“Of course you are! You’ll forget that, though. Don’t take it too hard, Sloan, or you’ll pull a boner, sure as shooting. Keep cool, that’s the main thing. Use your head all the time. I’m not expecting miracles, son,” he added kindly. “Just do your best. That’s all I’m asking of you. Can you hit?”

“I—yes, sir. I mean, I have hit some, but——”

“All right. We’ll soon see. Better try to wait him out the first time. Watch his pitching and try to make him give you what you can hit after that. All right, fellows! On the run!”

Then the game started, Nye in the box for the Badgers, Dan Young catching, LaCroix on first in place of Morgan, Jones playing third for Bennett, and an unknown at second. The umpire had announced the latter’s name as Sloan, or something like that, but no one had ever seen him before or heard of him. He was a well-set-up youngster and, in spite of the spills he had made during practice, carried himself like a ball player. The “fans” watched him and reserved judgment, asking each other how Steve had managed to get hold of him at less than a half-hour’s notice. For it had been five minutes past three when the accident had happened that had sent three of the Badgers’ best players to the hospital, Bennett, as was learned later, with a broken leg, Morgan with three ribs caved in, and Pitcher Cotton with enough contusions to keep him out of the game for a week at least. Morgan, said that evening’s paper, would be back at work in a fortnight possibly, but young Bennett was out of it for the rest of the year.

Ripley occupied the mound for Damascus that afternoon, and was discouragingly effective. After “Hop” Nye had escaped punishment in the first half of the initial inning by the skin of his teeth, a fine stop of a possible two-bagger by Cross and a phenomenal catch of a long fly by O’Neill warding off disaster, Harrisville went in to be mowed down one, two, three by the elongated spit-ball artist of the visiting club. No one got the ghost of a hit in that inning or any other while Ripley was in the box; no one on the home team, that is. Damascus had better luck, touching up Nye for three hits with a total of five bases, but failing to score for all of that. The game went to the sixth a pitcher’s battle pure and simple, with Ripley getting the long end of it, both teams working like beavers and not a runner passing second.

Wayne’s opportunities to distinguish himself were few, for strike-outs were numerous. Four chances were accepted by him in the first five innings, but none was difficult. At the bat, he followed Manager Milburn’s advice the first time up and tried his best to work a pass. But Ripley was not generous that way and Wayne soon walked back to the bench with the umpire’s “He’s out!” in his ears. In the last of the fifth, with LaCroix on first base and none out, he had a second trial at the plate and, after getting in the hole, landed on a straight ball and smacked it squarely into third baseman’s hands.

It was in the sixth inning that the ice was broken by Damascus. Before anyone realised it she had filled the bases with only one out. Nye was plainly wabbling and “Red” Herring and Nick Crane were warming up back of third. The Damascus left fielder landed on the first pitch and Cross got it on the bound and hurled it to the plate. But the throw was wide and, although Young made the catch, the runner was safe and Damascus had scored. She scored again a minute later when the following batsman flied out to short left, for the best “Sailor” O’Neill could do was to hold the next runner at third. With two gone, a hit out of the infield was imperative and the Damascus catcher tried his best to get it. That he didn’t was no one’s fault but Wayne’s, for he started the ball off his bat at a mile a minute and streaked down the base path, while the other bags emptied like magic. Four yards to the left of first base sped the ball, ascending as it went. LaCroix stabbed at it and missed it by inches and it was Wayne, who had started with the sound of the hit, who leaped into the air behind LaCroix and brought joy to the stands and sorrow to Damascus. That circus catch, for it was scarcely less, started Wayne on the road to fame, a fame at present presaged by cheers and hand-clapping as, somewhat embarrassed, he walked back to the bench.

“Lift your cap,” chuckled Cross as he and Wayne neared the first base stand. “Where’s your manners, kid?”

Wayne obeyed sketchily and dropped onto the bench aware of the amused glances of his team mates. From the other end Mr. Milburn nodded to him. “Good stop, Sloan,” he said. But that was all.

Harrisville again failed to hit or score and the seventh began. Nye was derricked when he had passed the first man up and “Red” Herring ambled to the mound. “Red” was wild for a few minutes but then settled down and, after Young’s clever peg to Cross had retried the man from first, the inning was virtually over. A long fly to right and a stop and throw by Jones settled matters.

The seventh witnessed a change of fortunes. “Sailor” O’Neill led off with a clean single and LaCroix advanced him to second and reached first safely. Ripley retired then and a left-hander named Marks took his place. Marks was a man of wide curves and slow delivery. Wayne tried desperately to get a hit but fanned, which, considering that his advance to the plate had been greeted by applause, was horribly humiliating. But Leary found Marks for one, scoring O’Neill and putting LaCroix on third. Young flied out to deep centre and LaCroix scored, Leary advancing. Herring smashed a liner to shortstop too hot to handle and Leary beat out the subsequent throw to the plate by inches. Cross hit safely but was doubled up with Briggs a few minutes later.

Damascus came back in the first of the eighth and added another run, tying the score at three each. Herring passed the first man up and although he struck out the next two, a momentary let-down paved the way for a two-bagger and sent the tying tally across. A moment later a quick peg from Herring caught the runner at second a foot off the bag and brought relief to the anxious audience.

Jones started the last of the eighth for Harrisville by flying out to pitcher. O’Neill, undaunted, waited until the score was two-and-three and then busted the next offering through the infield for a long rolling hit that placed him on second and wrought the spectators to a frenzy of delight. LaCroix was up next and Wayne followed LaCroix. Wayne was wondering anxiously whether he would have better success this time. Already four hits had been made off Marks, proving that he was far from formidable, and yet when Wayne, swinging his bats between bench and plate, saw LaCroix match his wits against Marks’ and come off second best in the contest it seemed futile for him to hope to succeed. LaCroix swung at one and missed it, judged two balls wisely, fouled into the first base stand for a second strike and then let go at one and popped it nicely into shortstop’s glove. Wayne dropped one of the two bats he had been swinging and stepped to the rubber.

Two out, a man on second and a run needed to break the tie! A hit, nothing less, was expected of Wayne, and he realised it. At first the thought was horribly disturbing. He heard the applause from the stands, less hearty this time, since he had failed them before, and it added to his tremors. He felt himself absurdly young and inexperienced and—yes, actually scared! He wished himself back on the bench, any place save where he stood, facing the pitcher with the muscles at the back of his legs trembling! They were talking to him and at him, his own side and the enemy, but what they said was confused and meaningless, and it was not until the Damascus catcher called down to his pitcher to “Fan the kid, Walt!” that any words registered on his brain.

“Fan the kid!” That meant him. He didn’t mind being called a kid by his fellow players, but the catcher’s tone was a veiled insult, and something very much like anger welled up in Wayne’s breast. He tugged down his visor, seized the bat more firmly, and determined to show them that a kid could hit! He made up his mind then and there to forget everything but the task in front of him, to even forget that there were already two out and that so much depended on him, and suddenly, why he couldn’t have told, the certainty that he could hit possessed him firmly.

Marks looked him over. He leaned forward to get the catcher’s signal. Then he stood for an instant and Wayne knew that he was undecided what to offer him. “I’ll have a good look at the first one,” Wayne told himself, “no matter what it is!”

And when it came it was well worth looking at, for it was a nice curve over the corner of the plate and was a strike.

“’Ata, boy!” called the Damascus catcher. “You’ve got him beaten, Walt.” But Wayne paid no heed. His conviction that he could hit that ball was still strong. He had watched the first offering all the way and had had no trouble keeping it in sight. Marks evidently thought his curve ball, an outcurve to a right-handed batter, had fooled the latter once and that he had better try it again. Wayne was ready for it and meant to try very hard to hook it low into right field. His guess was correct, for what came was the same sort of delivery. But it was a little lower and Wayne missed it and heard the second strike called on him.

But even yet he was confident. With two strikes against him he still felt certain of getting that hit. It surely looked as if Marks had him in a hole, but Wayne somehow knew that he hadn’t. Followed then two wide ones, just outside the plate, and Wayne, expecting them, made no offer. He knew that Marks was tempting him to bite at them and resolutely held back. And then came the fifth delivery.

It looked good as it left the pitcher’s hand. It was coming to Wayne about waist-high and he thought it would break toward him and drop a trifle. As it neared the plate he stepped to meet it, and when it broke he put all his strength into the lunge and tried to send it between first baseman and the bag. He met it hard and started with the crack of the bat. He saw the ball shooting low inside the foul line, saw first baseman leap toward it, and, digging harder than ever, saw the ball strike the bag and go bounding out into the field!

He knew then that he was safe, knew that he had done what was expected of him, and was terrifically glad. As he turned first he saw second baseman standing idle and heard the voice of Steve Milburn in the coaching box yelling him on, and he legged it hard for second. He saw the ball coming in then, but the throw was to the plate and he slid to second unchallenged. As he got to his feet again he was fairly dismayed by the pandemonium that arose from the stands, and then, for the first time since he had determined to forget everything save the business of hitting the ball, he remembered O’Neill!

Anxiously he looked to third. He was not there. But of course not! He had either scored or been put out at the plate! He turned to the Damascus shortstop. “Did you get him?” he asked.

“No,” was the disgusted reply. “He was safe by a mile!”

And then Wayne understood why the stands were cheering and roaring! Harrisville had scored! The Badgers were one run to the good!

Gradually the babel of sound died away. Leary was at bat. Wayne led off, danced back again, keeping an eye on the shortstop, watching the pitcher as well, listening to warnings from the coachers. If only Leary would come through! But Leary failed. A sharp crack, a sudden leaping dive by second baseman as Wayne sped along the path, a left-hand toss to first and the inning was over, and Wayne, turning disappointedly back to his position, heard the cheers and clapping break forth afresh, and wondered!

It was all over ten minutes later, all over, that is, but the shouting, and that didn’t last long after the Harrisville players scuttled from field to dressing-room. In the doorway, smiling broadly now, stood Mr. Milburn, and as Wayne pushed through with the rest the manager’s arm shot out and seized on his shoulder and dragged him aside.

“I’m going to tear up that contract, Sloan,” he said.

“Tear it up!” faltered Wayne.

“Yes.” The manager’s eyes twinkled. “It wasn’t any good, anyway! Tomorrow I’ll have a new one ready for you. I’m going to sign you on to play second base, Sloan, at a hundred and ten a month. That suit you?”

Wayne only nodded, but the expression on his face was answer enough. Mr. Milburn laughed and pushed him good-naturedly on. “All right! Sign up tomorrow morning, and——”

But his remark was never finished, for just then there was an excited barking outside and a little yellow dog burst through the doorway and leaped at the boy. And following Sam appeared the grinning face of June.

“Mas’ Wayne, sir, I hear down to the hotel as you-all’s playin,” panted June, “an’ I jus’ nachally had to come, sir! I reckon I done lose my job, but I ain’ carin’!”

“Never mind your job,” laughed Wayne, as he picked Sam up in his arms. “You’ve got a new job after today, June.”

“Say I is? What I goin’ do, Mas’ Wayne?”

“You’re going to look after me, June; and Sam. We’re going to find those rooms tomorrow and go to keeping house. We—we’re going to live like white folks again!”

“Lawsy-y-y!” cried June.

THE END