But it wasn’t altogether one-sided, for Sam learned somewhat of his host that morning, and more subsequently. Mr. York--John Orville York, in full--was an architect by profession and lived in Cleveland. He was alone in the world save for a sister whom he called Topsy--Sam didn’t learn her real name. Topsy, Mr. York explained, was just now away on a visit to friends in the East and he was keeping bachelor’s hall. He had been at “Greysides” since the middle of July, with an occasional visit to the city, and his vacation would be at an end in another ten days. Although he did not say so, his visitor concluded that he was wealthy; everything at “Greysides” indicated it. He had graduated from Warner College, where he had played three years on the baseball team, and had afterwards studied his profession in Chicago. He confessed to two passions. One, he said, was baseball, and the other chess. Did Craig play chess? No? Well, he ought to learn it. It was the finest thing in the world. After dinner they’d get the board out and have a lesson, by Jove! Almost before Sam realised that the morning had gone luncheon was announced and they adjourned, Sam leaning on Mr. York’s shoulder, to a screen-enclosed porch that opened from the dining-room, and sat down at a small table laid for two. “Hope you’ll find enough to eat,” said Mr. York. “We don’t have very hearty lunches. I usually play golf in the afternoon and find that a heavy meal makes me slow.” Sam truthfully replied that he didn’t doubt but what there was more than enough, and events proved him right. After cold meats and two vegetables and a salad and hot rolls and a pastry and two tall glasses of iced-tea he wondered what Mr. York would consider a heavy meal! “If you want to do anything--play golf, I mean, sir--please don’t mind me,” said Sam when he had hobbled back to the veranda. “I’ll be all right alone. I can read or--or just sit here and look at things.” “Not many things to see, are there?” laughed Mr. York. “I mean just the view. It’s fine to be able to see so far, isn’t it?” “It’s quite a view, and that’s a fact. But I don’t care for golf to-day, Craig. Later on I’ll run over to the village and get a letter off. Meanwhile we’ll chin some more and then you’d better lie down a while and have a nap. How’s the knee now?” “It isn’t nearly so sore, I think.” “That’s good, but we ought to moisten that bandage again. I’ll tell William to bring some water in a basin, and, as there’s no one to see, we’ll perform the operation right here.” They talked baseball while the sun travelled into the west and the shadows began to lengthen under the trees. Mr. York had many reminiscences of college days, some exciting and some humorous, and Sam was well entertained. From stories Mr. York switched to the subject of catching. “There’s one thing you ought to learn, Craig,” he said, “and that’s to throw ‘from your ear.’ Ever try it?” “I don’t believe I know what you mean, Mr. York.”