Sam’s knee was so much better the next morning that he announced his
intention of joining the campers that afternoon. Mr. York pressed him
to stay until next day, but, seeing that Sam really preferred to take
his departure, studied the itinerary that Mr. Langham had left with Sam
and helped him locate the expedition.
“Take the two-fifty-two from here,” advised Mr. York, “and change
at Wickston for Norrence. Let’s see what train you can get.
Wickston–Wickston–south-bound–Here we are. Leave Wickston at
four-twelve and arrive Norrence at five-thirty-six. That’s rather late,
isn’t it? And after you get there you’ll have to find the camp.”
“I guess it won’t take long,” said Sam. “This thing says, ‘Norrence,
Lindenville road, east of village.’ That oughtn’t to be hard to find.”
“No, if they camp where they say they will you can get them in half an
hour, I dare say. Besides, it doesn’t get really dark until nearly
seven. I’d like to have you stay longer, but if you insist on going,
why, I’ll take you over for that two-fifty-two. I made a mistake in
giving that knee of yours such a good rubbing last night, Craig.”
“It certainly cured it, sir. It doesn’t hurt a mite to-day, unless
I punch it.” And Sam pressed the knee experimentally, to Mr. York’s
amusement.
“You’re a regular boy, Craig,” he laughed. “I remember when I was a kid
and had a toothache I’d put my finger in my mouth and bite down on it
as hard as I could to see how badly it would hurt! Well, we’ve got four
hours before lunch, and if you want to try out that leg of yours we’ll
stroll around and see the place.”
The morning passed quickly. The subject of college was not mentioned
again until, at half-past two, they were speeding along the road to the
station in the grey roadster. Then Mr. York said:
“Craig, could you pass a college examination next fall if you had to?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Sam. “I don’t just know what the requirements
are, Mr. York. I’ve never thought much about it, you see, because
it’s never seemed I had any chance to get to college. I guess I’d have
trouble with my Latin, though.”
“Well, look here, I wish you’d try this winter and see if you can’t
get yourself ready. If nothing comes of it, it won’t do you a bit of
harm. But–well, I hope something will come of it, old man. I’d like
very much to be sure that you were going through college. Perhaps you
think I’m a strange sort of a chap to meddle so much in your affairs,
but you’ve made quite a hit with me, Sam, especially since last night;
and when I like anyone I want to see him get all that’s coming to him.
I don’t care a continental what college you go to or whether you play
ball or don’t. That’s out of it. But I would like to see you get to
college.”
“I’d like it myself, Mr. York. Only I wouldn’t want to go unless I
could do it fairly.”
“You’re right, old man. The end doesn’t always justify the means. Well,
I’m going to put my thinking cap on and see if between us we can’t
find a way. I’ll write to the secretary at Warner and see if there’s a
scholarship you could try for. I’ll write to the other colleges around
here, too. Look here, if you could get a real job next summer that
would pay you, say, eighteen or twenty dollars a week, would you take
it?”
“I’d jump at it!” said Sam. “But I don’t believe I know enough to make
that much, Mr. York. There isn’t much I can do, I guess.”
“Seems to me you can do a good many things. You told me you’d canvassed
for books, sold newspapers, and worked in a mill. And now you’re being
councillor in a boys’ camp.”
“None of those jobs paid eighteen dollars a week, though, sir.”
“No, but what I’m getting at is that if you can do those things you can
do other things. The only problem is to find something that will bring
you real money. With, say, a couple of hundred dollars I dare say you
wouldn’t be afraid to start college.”
“N-no, sir. Two hundred wouldn’t go very far, though, would it? Even at
a state university?”
“It would pay your tuition, maybe. Tell you what I want you to do, Sam,
when you get home. You go and see John Holden. I’m going to write to
him about you. He’s a fine fellow. You can’t help liking him. And he
is going to be a good man to know before very long. He’s only just
making his start now, but he’s the sort you can’t stop, and in five
years he will be Somebody in your town. You go and see him and tell
him who you are. Get to know him. John and I are pretty good friends;
have been ever since we were freshmen in college; they used to call us
the Pair of Jacks. In that way you and I’ll be able to keep in touch.
I’m a fairly busy man when I get back to work and I’m not much of a
letter-writer, but if you’ll let me hear from you now and then I’ll see
that your letters don’t go unanswered. And I’ll keep my eyes open and
see if I can’t find some job that will put some money in your pocket
when next summer comes.”
“I’d like that,” responded Sam gratefully. “I’d be willing to do ’most
anything, I guess. Only–only I wouldn’t want you to–to just _make up_
a job for me, Mr. York.”
“You’re certainly suspicious!” laughed the other. “But I give you my
word, Sam, that if I find anything for you it will be real work and
well worth the pay. Here we are, with four minutes to spare. By the
way, how about funds? All right that way, are you?”
“I have enough, thanks.”
“Quite sure? Glad to lend you a few dollars. You can return it when you
reach camp, you know.”
“I have plenty, sir, truly.”
The car swept up to the platform and they jumped out, Sam with his
battered valise. By the time he had purchased his ticket to Norrence
the train was bustling in. Mr. York went to the car-steps with him and
shook hands there.
“Good-bye, Sam. Take care of yourself, and let me hear from you,
please. I certainly enjoyed having you with me, old man, and next
summer, if we can fix it, you must come up again. Good-bye! Try
throwing from your ear and shorten your swing!”
Sam’s own farewells were drowned by Mr. York’s and abruptly cut short
by the sudden starting of the train, but he managed a more or less
coherent speech of thanks before he got beyond hearing. The last he
saw of Mr. York was that gentleman standing beside his car evoking
excruciating blasts on the electric horn with one hand and waving
farewell with the other.
Before dark Sam had found the encampment outside Norrence and was
eating a belated supper. The following three days were pleasant ones.
They broke camp every morning after an early breakfast, fixed their
packs, and hiked until an hour before noon. Then came a three-hour rest
by the road, with dinner, and at about two they were off again. They
did about eighteen miles a day, ate ravenously, slept like logs, and
reached Indian Lake the evening of the fourth day after leaving Mount
Placid, a little footsore but only healthily tired. Kitty-Bett had a
hot supper awaiting them and they more than did justice to it.
Sam found a letter awaiting him from Tom Pollock. As it was short and
concise we may as well quote it in full. “Dear Sam,” wrote Tom, “when
are you coming home? The reason I want to know is that Lynton is to
play us here on the sixteenth. She beat us the first game and we beat
her last Saturday, 5 to 1, and we’re going to play off the tie. We
want you to catch for us. I looked up that letter from Mr. Langham and
it said the camp ran to September 13th. If that’s so you’ll be back
here by Thursday, I guess. Let me know if you will and if you’ll play
Saturday. All well here and I’m very busy. Sid is kicking his heels
against the counter as I write this and wants to be remembered. Yours
as ever,
“TOM.”
Sam answered the epistle the next morning and saw it off by Jerry the
mailman. (The boys took delight in referring to Jerry according to the
duty he was at the moment engaged in, as “Jerry the scullion,” “Jerry
the iceman,” “Jerry the woodman,” and so on. On one occasion, Dick
Barry discovered the versatile Jerry painfully inditing a letter and
promptly dubbed him “Jerry the scribe.”) Sam told Tom that he expected
to be back in Amesville the sixth and would be glad to catch for the
Blues the following Saturday, if nothing prevented.
A few days later came Visitors’ Day, and the camp took on a gala
appearance. Strings of flags blossomed along the fronts of the
buildings, pine and hemlock branches were festooned about the
dining-hall, floors were scrubbed until they shone, and no one, even
with a microscope, could have discovered a bit of paper or any sort of
litter from the landing back to the pulpit tree. The visitors were not
many in number, for parents and friends living at a distance found
it impossible to reach Indian Lake before noon, but some twenty-odd
appeared, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the programme supplied for
their entertainment. There was an aquatic carnival in the morning,
with swimming and diving competitions and canoe races, and another
thrilling tilting contest, to say nothing of a swimming exhibition by
Junior Councillor Craig. And at one o’clock there was a special dinner
for the guests, followed by one not quite so “special” for the boys.
There was no siesta that day, which alone made it blessed in the eyes
of the fellows! In the afternoon there were athletic events and a final
ball game between the Indians, “Camp Champions,” as the banner which
they displayed proudly announced, and the Mascots. True to precedent
the Indians won in six innings, thus finishing their season in a final
burst of glory. The score was 16 to 4! But then, George Porter, with
his mother and sister to watch him admiringly, pitched a remarkable
game.
Some of the visitors stayed overnight, and for these tents were
erected. Camp-fire was an especially merry occasion that evening. Very
agreeably, the moon came up, big and mellow, at nine and, so to speak,
joined the party. The musicians were never better, and the songs were
sung with unusual enthusiasm if no more melodiously. Bedtime was set
back a full hour on this last night and it was nearly midnight when
quiet finally settled over the moonlit camp.
The next morning the exodus began and by noon only a half-dozen or so
fellows remained to bolt a hurried dinner and then tumble into the
waiting coach and disappear, cheering, toward the village.
The councillors all remained with Mr. Langham until the next day.
Shutters were to be closed and everything made ready for the winter
before they left. Supper that evening was a pleasant meal. All were
fairly tired, and they sat late about one end of the Chief’s table and
comfortably talked over the summer and their plans for winter. There
was a little impromptu speech by Mr. Langham, in which he thanked the
others for their help. And Mr. Haskins, replying for the councillors,
was quite funny in his serious way, and they finally pushed back their
chairs in laughter and strolled over to the office feeling very kindly
toward each other.
Mr. Langham, Mr. Haskins, and Sam travelled southward together the next
morning, Mr. Gifford and Steve Brown parting from them at Indian Lake.
Sam, with nearly sixty dollars in his pocket, a deep coat of tan over
most of his body, and a fine appearance of rugged health, stepped from
the train at Amesville at a little after four o’clock into the arms of
Tom and Sidney.
“Tom, do you know Mr. John Hall?”
Sam, swinging his legs from the counter at Cummings and Wright’s, had
to wait a full minute for an answer, for Tom Pollock finished writing
an order for football supplies before he raised his head. It was a
little before nine o’clock on the morning following Sam’s return to
Amesville, and the store was empty of customers. Tom signed “Cummings
and Wright Hardware Co., T. Pollock,” blotted the sheet, and pulled an
envelope toward him.
“John Logan Hall?” asked Tom then, glancing up. “The lawyer, Sam?”
“Yes, I think so. What’s he like?”
“Sort of tall and thin; clean-shaven; wears a Panama hat about ten
years old; lives at the Amesville Club, and has his office in the new
building. Why?”
“Mr. York wants me to go and see him. They’re great friends. He was
visiting Mr. Hall when he saw that game last spring, like I told you.
Is he nice?”
“John Hall? I guess so. I don’t know him except to speak to. He’s been
in here once or twice for golf balls. They say he’s one of the best
players at the Country Club. He seems a nice sort, Sam. I don’t believe
he’d bite you, anyway.”
“N-no,” answered Sam seriously, “but it seems sort of cheeky, doesn’t
it? To call on a man you’ve never even seen, I mean.”
“You used to call on men you’d never seen when you sold that ‘Popular
History of Ohio,’ or whatever it was, didn’t you?”
“That was different.”
“Yes; you were trying to do them out of their hard-earned money. All
you want from Mr. Hall is a kind word.”
“That was a perfectly good book,” answered Sam defensively. “When do
you suppose I’d find him at his office?”
Tom glanced at the little tin clock on his desk. “After nine, I guess.”
He put his clasped hands behind his head, leaned back, and viewed his
friend amusedly. “Sam, you’re an awful coward about some things, aren’t
you?” he asked. “You wouldn’t hesitate to try and sell a book to a man,
but you hate to just call socially.”
“I used to be scared to death every time I rang a doorbell when I was
selling that book,” replied Sam, with a shake of his head. “I wish Mr.
York had given me a letter of introduction to him.”
“Want me to go over with you and introduce you?” laughed Tom. “If you
feel so bashful why not take a book with you and try to sell it to
him? I’ll lend you our telephone directory. You can call it anything
you like–‘Child’s History of Amesville,’ ‘Things Every Lawyer Should
Know,’ ‘How to Tell the Trolley Cars’—-”
“Dry up,” said Sam. “What about this game Saturday?”
“Why, nothing, except that we want like anything to win it, Sam. Lynton
does too. Fact is, there’s quite a little rivalry between us this year.
They beat us pretty badly the first game and so Sid got them to play us
again. Then we licked them. That was a week ago last Saturday. Then
they decided they’d have to play a third game and so they’re coming
over to-morrow.”
“How did they happen to get away with the first game?” asked Sam.
“Principal reason, better playing,” laughed Tom.
“Did they get to you?”
“Not once.”
“Then how the dickens—-”
“I didn’t play. We’d just got in a big invoice of goods and I had to
stay and help here at the store. Mr. Cummings wanted me to go, but I
saw that Mr. Wright thought I ought to stick around.”
“Who did pitch?” asked Sam.
“Various members of our brilliant team–Buster, Tommy Hughes, and Joe
Kenny. I believe even Sid tried an inning. I dare say it was a lot of
fun for Lynton.”
“What was the score?”
Tom gazed at the ceiling. “Eighteen to three,” he said softly.
Sam whistled. Then, “What about to-morrow?” he asked anxiously. “Any
more invoices in sight?”
Tom laughed. “Not a one. To-morrow, Sam, we’ll everlastingly whale
those chaps! Revenge is the order of the day. By the way, they tried to
get us to agree to play the same line-up, but we told them we couldn’t
promise that.” Tom grinned. “Then I wrote to you. How are you hitting,
Mr. Councillor?”
“Not much. Mr. York says I take too long a swing. I guess I do, too.”
“Oh, never mind that if you hit the ball; results are what count.”
“Mr. York says if I take a shorter swing I’ll hit oftener.”
“Look here, Sam, I dare say this Mr. York of yours is a fine chap and
all that, but if you don’t stop talking about him I’ll throw a fit! I
haven’t heard much else since yesterday but ‘Mr. York’!”
“He thinks you’re a great little pitcher, Tom,” replied Sam, with a
twinkle.
Tom smiled. “Why? Because I have big ears?”
“Big ears?” Sam looked puzzled. “He didn’t say anything about your
ears.”
“That was a joke,” explained Tom patiently. “There’s a saying that
little pitchers have big ears, you know, and you said he said–Oh,
shucks! Never mind, you’ll see it after a while.”
“You ought to label your jokes,” replied the other gently. “How’s a
fellow to know? How do you feel about school, Tom?”
“Full of enthusiasm,” answered Tom. “I dearly love my school. Next
Monday it’s back to the grind, eh? When are you going to call fall
practice?”
“As soon as possible, I guess. I’ve got to see Mr. Talbot pretty soon.”
“Bat isn’t back yet, I think. He went out West about three weeks ago,
he and Mr. George; Grand Canyon and all that. I suppose they’ll be back
in a day or two, though. Excuse me a minute, Sam.”
A customer had entered and Tom arose to wait on him. “I’ll see you
later, Tom,” said Sam. “Guess I’ll go and call on Mr. Hall.”
“All right. The directory’s in the booth back there.”
Sam smiled gently and took his departure. Main Street had quite a busy
look now. A few blocks further along, and on the opposite side, what
Tom had called the “new building” reared its fourteen stories high
above the older structures. It was there that Mr. Hall had his office,
and Sam, as he approached, searched the signs on the lower windows. He
didn’t see Mr. Hall’s name, however, and before he could begin on the
next tier there was a collision and Sam, recovering his balance and
murmuring an apology, looked up into the smiling face of a tall man of
about thirty years of age.
“No harm done,” said the man pleasantly. “My fault, too, I guess.”
He stepped to the right and at the same instant Sam embarrassedly
stepped to the left. “Beg pardon,” muttered Sam, and stepped further
toward the curb. So did the tall man. Sam felt the blood creeping into
his face. The man laughed.
“Well, we’ll never get anywhere this way, will we?” he asked. “Now I
tell you what we’ll do. You stand quite still”–the man held up an
admonishing finger–“and I’ll carefully walk around you. Don’t move!”
Sam, very red of face, obeyed silently and the tall man circled him to
the left. “All right!” he said. “We’re off again!”
Sam looked after him. He walked with a quick, springy stride and wore
a yellow and somewhat battered Panama hat. The horrible suspicion
forced itself into Sam’s mind that the man was John Hall! Tom had said
that he was tall and thin, and wore a ten-year-old Panama. Sam couldn’t
be certain about the age of that hat, but it looked as if it might
easily have seen ten summers, and the man was tall, decidedly tall and
thin. There could be no doubt about it! Sam very cautiously moved to a
window and gazed unseeingly into it, conscious of the amused glances of
several bystanders and of the heightened colour in his face. What an
idiot Mr. Hall must think him, he mused. Well, there was no use trying
to find him in his office now, for he had disappeared in the throng
in the other direction. Sam was heartily glad of it, for he had very
little taste left for that visit. Perhaps to-morrow–or the next day—-
He made his way back toward Cummings and Wright’s. He had meant to make
a purchase there and had forgotten it. He was still thinking of that
awkward moment on the sidewalk when he entered the store, and didn’t
observe that Tom was busy with a customer until he had himself reached
the counter. Even then he paid no heed to the man beside him until Tom
caught sight of him, and grinned maliciously and observed:
“Hello, Sam! How are directories selling?”
Then, following the other’s glance, Sam discovered, to his
embarrassment, that the customer was none other than the man in the
Panama hat. The latter was selecting half a dozen golf balls from a
box that Tom had presented, and had been very intent on his task until
Tom’s greeting called the newcomer to his attention. Then he glanced
up, and a smile of recognition came to his face.
“Ah,” he said, “my late adversary!”
Tom looked puzzled and Sam most unhappy. He tried to smile, but made
a poor effort of it. The man in the Panama returned to a study of the
golf balls. After a moment he completed his selection and nodded to Tom.
“I’ll take these,” he said. Then, as Tom proceeded to do them up,
he turned toward Sam, who was looking very intently at something in
a show-case, and viewed him appraisingly. Sam, well aware of the
scrutiny, felt his cheeks growing hot again.
“I’ve been wondering ever since if it was an aëroplane,” said the man
presently. Sam tried to pretend that he didn’t know the remark was
addressed to him, but something compelled him to meet the issue.
“What, sir?” he asked.
“I said I’d been wondering if it was an aëroplane,” repeated the other.
“I’m interested in aëroplanes and wouldn’t want to miss seeing one. It
was that, wasn’t it?”
“I–I don’t quite understand,” stammered Sam.
“I refer to your intent study of the heavens,” replied the other, with
deep gravity. “You seemed to be so absorbed—-”
“I was looking at the new building, sir. I–I’m sorry I was so stupid!”
“So that was it? Well, I’m glad it wasn’t an aëroplane.”
Tom, handing the package across and accepting the bill proffered in
payment, was plainly nonplussed. It sounded to him as though the two
had gone quite crazy! He looked at Sam and then at the man in the
Panama, and, finally, as he returned the change, he blurted:
“You two have met, then!”
“Oh, yes, indeed–violently,” replied the man. “Still, if you can
introduce us properly—-”
“Why, I thought—-” began Tom. Then he laughed. “Mr. Hall,” he said,
“this is my friend Sam Craig. Sam is selling directories, and I think
he was looking for you.”
“He found me,” replied the other quizzically as he shook hands. “I’ve
been trying to place you, Mr. Craig, ever since we bumped. I remember
now that I saw you catch a game against Petersburg last spring. You’re
still playing ball, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir; that is, I–sometimes.”
“I really feel honoured in possessing the acquaintance of two such
talented players. I want to see you chaps in action again sometime.”
“Better come to the game to-morrow, Mr. Hall,” said Tom. “We’re going
to play Lynton at the school field at three.”
“To-morrow? Why, I’m afraid–The fact is, I’m playing golf to-morrow
afternoon. Sorry. Wish I might see the game. Now, what about these
directories, Mr. Craig? I don’t believe I want to invest, but if you
care to tell me what it is you’re handling—-”
“That’s only Tom’s joke, sir,” said Sam apologetically. “I’m not
selling anything.”
“Oh, then you weren’t looking for me?”
“No, sir–yes, sir, I was, only—-”
“The plot thickens! Only what?”
“I mean I was going to your office, but after I ran into you I thought
there wouldn’t be any use going, and so I came in here. I didn’t know
you were here, sir.”
Tom was enjoying Sam’s embarrassment hugely. “Better confess
everything, Sam,” he said soberly, “if you want Mr. Hall to help you.”
“Eh?” said Mr. Hall. Sam frowned.
“Cut it out,” he muttered.
“Look here, Mr. Craig, your story interests me strangely,” declared the
man. “You were looking for me, only you weren’t. Sounds a great deal as
though you thought I was a dentist. By the way, how did you know who I
was when we collided?”
“Tom told me that–I mean, he described you.”
“I’d like to have heard the description,” chuckled Mr. Hall. “What was
it, Pollock?”
It was Tom’s turn to be embarrassed. “I don’t just remember, Mr. Hall.
This idiot was told to call on you by a friend of yours, and he’s too
bashful to say so.”
“A friend of mine? Really?” Mr. Hall turned to Sam interestedly. “Who
was it, Mr. Craig?”
“Mr. York said—-”
“John York?” demanded the other eagerly.
“Yes, sir. He said when I got home I was to call and tell you he sent
me. He said he would write to you about it.”
“Just the sort of thing he would do!” laughed Mr. Hall. “Sent you along
without a letter of introduction, eh? Well, I’m very glad to know you,
Mr. Craig. Any friend of John’s is my friend.” He shook hands again
heartily. “Where did you meet him? Hold on, though, I must get back to
the office. Can’t you come along and tell me about it? Or are you busy
just now?”
“No, sir, I haven’t anything to do.”
“Then come along. We can talk better at the office. Much obliged,
Pollock. And, come to think of it, I don’t know but what I’ll call off
that golf to-morrow and see you chaps play instead. I suppose you’re
going to pitch?”
“Yes, sir, and Sam’s to catch. Maybe you’d be willing to umpire for us?”
“Thank you for your sweet thought, Pollock, but I’m too useful a member
of this community to risk my life. I’ll yell for you, but I’d rather
not take chances.”
On the way to the office Sam narrated the story of his meeting with Mr.
York, and his companion chuckled at intervals. Sam had not concluded
his narrative when they passed through the door of the Adams Building
and entered the elevator. Up they shot to the tenth floor and there Mr.
Hall led the way to an office on the side of the building. The door
held the inscription, “John T. Hall, Attorney and Councillor-at-Law.”
The office was small, but light and cheerful, and was plainly
furnished. Mr. Hall hung his Panama on a hook behind the door and
pulled a chair forward for his visitor, seating himself at his desk
between the two broad windows.
“Now we can be comfortable,” he said. “So John said he’d write me a
letter, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Didn’t he–hasn’t he—-”
“No, nor ever will,” laughed the other. “I’ve known him for almost
twenty years and I’ve never had but three letters from him! He hates
them like poison; writing them, I mean. But it doesn’t matter a bit,
Craig. I’m just as glad to know you as if he’d written twenty pages
about you. Besides, you can tell me more than he can, anyway. You live
here in Amesville, of course?”
“Yes, sir, on Curtis Street.”
“Then we’ll soon get acquainted. Your name sounds familiar to me, by
the way. Have I met your father, perhaps?”
“No, sir, he’s dead. There’s just my mother and sister and me, sir. You
might have met my sister, though. She does typewriting here. She has a
room on the third floor.”
“Of course! Miss Craig and I have had a lot of business together. So
she’s your sister, is she? Well, she’s a fine, smart girl, Craig, and
a good stenographer, too, by George! I suppose you and John talked
baseball a good deal, eh?”
“Yes, sir, quite a lot.”
“And he gave you a heap of advice, too, I’ll wager!”
“Yes, sir, some.”
“Of course! He’s as full of advice as a pudding is of plums. He’s the
sort who wants everyone to do things his way,” chuckled Mr. Hall. “We
used to have some fine old spats when we were in college together. John
not only wanted to catch, but pitch, too. If he could have had his way
he’d have played every position on the team, I guess!”
“He told me two or three things I didn’t know about catching, Mr. Hall.”
“Oh, he can tell you things, all right! He’s full of perfectly
wonderful information. He’s the sort who, if he was presented to the
King of England, would start right off telling that gentleman how to
improve his batting average!”
Sam smiled. “What he told me sounded pretty good, though,” he said
defensively.
“It _was_ good; no doubt about that, Craig. Theoretically, John York
was the best catcher Warner ever had. Actually, he was the most
uncertain. You see, he was full of theories. He doped everything out
ahead and when things didn’t go the way he’d arranged them there’d be
trouble. He’d study a new batter when he came up and decide that the
man would hit a high ball over the outside corner into left field.
Then he’d signal for a low one and the batter would crack it into the
middle of next week, and John would be so surprised and grieved about
it! After the inning he’d sit on the bench and prove conclusively to
you that the man had no business hitting a low one, that he was built
for high ones! The trouble with John was that he wouldn’t practise what
he preached. He knew how a thing ought to be played, but he had a hunch
that he’d get better results if he played it differently. I used to
tell him he thought too much with his head. But in spite of all that
we loved him. He was one of the most popular fellows in college. And
you’re not to think that he always went wrong with his game, for he
didn’t. Lots of times his theories worked out like miracles.”
“I remember”–Mr. Hall picked up a paper-knife and, leaning back in his
swivel chair, played with it and smiled reminiscently–“I remember a
game we played with Michigan. John was captain that year. (We made him
captain because he’d have been it anyway and we thought there’d be no
use having two.) We were two runs behind Michigan in the seventh and
hadn’t got a run across for three or four innings. Michigan’s pitcher
had us eating out of his hand, and if anyone did start a rally their
infield cut it off. So, in the seventh John said, ‘Look here, fellows,
we’re playing too close to the ground. What we’ve got to do is cut
loose and run wild for a couple of innings. Now I want every one of
you to hit at anything you see, as long as you don’t have to walk out
of the box for it, and when you get on first I want you to go down to
second on the first ball. And when you get to second, try for third.
Those chaps aren’t used to fireworks. Let’s show them some.’
“Well, we wanted that game; we were always crazy to beat Michigan; and
it didn’t look as if we were going to get it. Michigan was playing
one of those scientific games–every man fielding perfectly; pitcher
and catcher working together like two cog-wheels; everything figured
according to the laws and commandments of baseball. There didn’t seem
to be anything to lose by following John’s scheme and so we tried
it. The first batter up for our side acted as if he’d never heard
of waiting. He whaled away at everything in sight and got a scratch
hit somehow and went to first. And then he started down the path on
the first delivery. He was thrown out, though. But you could see
that Michigan was beginning to wonder. Our next man slammed around
and knocked fouls and finally got a clean hit, the first for half an
hour. He followed instructions and stole second easily, in spite of a
pitch-out, catcher throwing low to the base. Then we had them going.
The next man drew his base and the man on second lighted out for third.
He ought never to have got it, but he did. Someone fumbled. After that
we ran wild on the bases. Even with two out we didn’t show any sort of
baseball sense. We did everything we shouldn’t have done, and Michigan
found herself as far up in the air as a balloon. We got five runs
across in that inning on two hits and a pass!”
“And won the game?” asked Sam.
“N-no, we didn’t, as a matter of fact. We ought to have, but those
chaps got to me in the ninth and knocked me out of the box. I suppose
romping around the bases and sliding on my ear sort of tuckered me.
Anyway, they hammered me to the bench and then got two hits off Whipple
and scored enough to win. Still, as John showed us, we _ought_ to have
won!”
“I’d like to have seen it,” said Sam.
“It was some game,” assented the other. “I guess I’ll have to go out
to-morrow and see you fellows play. I will if you’ll let me sit on the
bench and mix in.”
“I wish you would,” said Sam. “I dare say you could tell us some things
that might help, Mr. Hall.”
“Oh, I’m no John York!” laughed the lawyer. “I haven’t many theories,
Craig. I’ve always played the game by rule of thumb, so to say. This
close-harmony, inside stuff has always been a bit beyond me.”
“But there’s a good deal in it, isn’t there?” asked Sam. “Inside
baseball, I mean.”
“Oh, yes, I guess so. Only I never could figure it. What time do you
play to-morrow?”
“Three o’clock, sir.”
“I’ll be there.” He opened a desk drawer and dropped the package he
had brought from the store into it. “Those can wait,” he said. “I like
golf, but I guess I’d rather see a good ball game, after all.”
“I don’t know how good to-morrow’s game will be, Mr. Hall,” said Sam
doubtfully. “Most of the fellows are pretty young and we make lots of
mistakes.”
“Well, what’s the odds, eh? It’s fun, isn’t it? Hold on, don’t run
away, Craig.”
“I guess I’ll be going, sir, thanks. I’ve got some things to do at
home. I’ve been away so long things have sort of got behind there.”
“Well, you know where to find me. And, look here, do you ever play
golf?”
“No, sir, I’ve never tried it.”
“You’re not too old,” replied the other, with a smile. “Some day you
and I’ll go out to the Country Club and have a whack at it. You’ll like
it, and I’ve got plenty of clubs. Want to?”
“Yes, thanks, only it–it wouldn’t be much fun for you.”
“How do you know that? You don’t know me well enough yet to say what
my sort of fun is, Craig.” He smiled quizzically. “As a matter of
fact, I’d like it. I’ll see you to-morrow. By the way, I live at the
Amesville Club. Come around some evening and chin. There’s something
that passed between you and John York that you haven’t told me about
yet. Good-bye.”
Sam shook hands again and took his leave, descending by the stairs to
the sixth floor and making his way to a door whose ground-glass bore
the legend, “Miss Craig, Stenographer,” and from behind which came the
busy clatter of a typewriter. Nell Craig was hard at work when Sam
entered, and she only nodded and smiled until she had finished the
sheet she was on and had pulled it from the carriage. Then she laid it
aside and turned to view Sam questioningly. She was a rather pretty
girl of eighteen, with light hair and more delicate features than her
brother’s. She looked alert and capable, and quite businesslike in the
plain black gown she wore.
“I saw him,” said Sam. “He seems rather nice.”
“Of course he does. I told you you’d like him,” replied Nell. “He’s the
nicest customer I have.”
“He said you were a smart girl and a good stenographer,” answered Sam.
“Looks like a case of what-do-you-call-it–mutual admiration.”
Nell laughed. “It’s more fun working for men you like, Sam. Some of
them are rather gruff and horrid. What did he say to you?”
“Nothing much. Said he was glad to know me.”
“But didn’t you talk at all?”
“Yes, I suppose so. We talked baseball a good deal, I guess.”
Nell’s nose wrinkled. “Baseball! Is that all you could find to talk of?
Did you tell him what Mr. York said about you going to college?”
Sam shook his head. “No. I guess that wouldn’t interest him much.”
“But you ought to. Maybe he might know of someone who would help you
or–or something, Sam.”
“I don’t believe so. Anyway, I don’t want to–to know folks just so’s
they can help me, do I? He’s coming to see us play Lynton to-morrow.
And he wants me to go to the Country Club with him some day and learn
golf.”
“Well, I think you got on splendidly,” said Nell delightedly. “Everyone
says he’s awfully smart, Sam, and I guess he’s beginning to get quite
a practice. I know I do three times as much work for him as I did at
first. I’m sure he will be a splendid man for you to know.”
“I don’t want to know him just because he might do something for me,”
objected her brother. “Folks can be friends for–for other reasons,
can’t they?”
“Of course, but there’s no harm in having friends that are influential,
Sam,” replied Nell wisely. “Folks who get on, I notice, cultivate
friends who can help them. That’s plain common sense, Sam.”
“Plain common selfishness, you mean,” he answered. “All folks can’t do
that sort of thing, because look at the people who have been nice to me
lately. Much good I could do them!”
“I’m not so sure,” replied Nell thoughtfully, smiling a little. “There
are lots of ways to help a person, Sam. Now, that Mr. York, I dare say
you helped him.”
“Helped Mr. York!” ejaculated Sam. “I’d like to know how!”
“I don’t know that. Maybe, though, you took his mind off some worry, or
cheered him up when he was feeling unhappy.”
“I guess he never needed cheering up,” said Sam. “But I see what you
mean, sis. It doesn’t sound so bad that way. Well, I must get along.
I asked Tom up to supper to-night. He and I are going to practise a
little for to-morrow. If you’re going home early, I’ll wait around
awhile for you.”
“I’m not, Sam, not very early to-day, thanks. I’ll try to get home by
one, though. Tell mother not to wait for me. I’ve promised all this by
twelve, and then I’ve got some letters to take for Mr. Hall.”
“Oh,” said Sam musingly, watching Nell deftly introduce a “carbon
sandwich” into the carriage of the typewriter. “Mr. Hall.”
“Exactly,” replied Nell, spacing briskly.
“Hm. I wonder, now—-”
“What?” she asked as he stopped.
“I wonder whether Mr. Hall likes me. He sort of seemed to.”
“Why shouldn’t he?” she asked cheerfully.
“That’s so. Maybe I could help him, you know.”
“Of course! That is–well, in what way, Sam?”
“There are lots of ways, you said. I might”–Sam edged toward the
door–“I might say a good word for him to my sister!”
Nell tossed her head. “You can’t tease me about Mr. Hall, Sam,” she
said untroubledly. “He and I are good friends, but we’re both of
us–businessmen!”
“Then what are you blushing for?” demanded Sam meanly.
“I’m not blushing, silly! Do run away and let me get to work!”
“Oh, all right.” Sam went out, but, just before the door closed finally
behind him, he added softly, “Say, sis!”
“Go away, please!”
“He’s not bad-looking, is he?”
The hurried clatter of the machine followed him along the hall until,
with a little smile around his eyes, he turned the corner and pressed
the elevator signal.
