The boy looked doubtful, but after a moment of hesitation gave a nod of agreement. Three or four other members of the team came around the corner of the stand, followed by the coach, Gus Cousins, and, subsequently, by Cicero Brutus Robinson, pushing a wheelbarrow containing base sacks, bat bag, protector, mask and the daily paraphernalia of practice. Cicero, who was extremely black, very squat and interestingly bandy-legged, deposited his vehicle at the end of the bench and, wiping his glittering ebony forehead with the sleeve of a faded blue shirt, lifted the base sacks from the wheelbarrow and ambled leisurely away with them. A smallish, attenuated boy who had entered on Cicero’s heels, dragged the bat bag forth and unstrapped it. More players arrived, accompanied by a studious looking senior in street attire who clutched a large score-book in one hand and a box of balls in the other. Babe Linder gave greetings to the newcomers and, thudding the big mitten approvingly, even affectionately, moved along the bench. Unnoted by him, the red-haired youth kept close beside him. Babe selected a discolored baseball from among the dozen in the bottom of a fiber bucket and―― “Say!” Babe looked down. “Son,” he asked gently, “do I owe you money, or what?” “No, sir.” Two deep blue eyes looked appealingly up from a tanned and freckled face. “Say, do you want a bat boy?” “A bat boy? No. I couldn’t use one.” “I mean the team, sir.” “Oh! Why, we’ve got one, son. That’s he over there.” “Yeah, I seen him.” There was much contempt in the boy’s tone. “He ain’t no good, sir.” “Eh? Well, confidentially, I agree with you, but there he is, what?” Dave Cochran, dean of the pitching staff, joined them and Babe addressed him gravely. “This young gentleman, Davy, seeks a position on the team.” Dave studied the boy smilingly. “Well, we sure do need a catcher,” he said. “Can you catch, kid?” The boy nodded, digging his toe again. “Yeah, but he’s just kiddin’, Mister. I want to be your bat boy.” “Oh, that’s it? Well, you’re about a month late. We already have young Cecil acting in that capacity.” “Is that his name, honest?” inquired the boy with what might be called hopeful disgust. “No, not honest, but that’s what he’s called,” replied Babe. “After all, what’s in a name? And, speaking of names, son, what is yours?” “Gi――――” He swallowed and started fresh. “Robert Burke.” “Fine! And what do they call you?” asked Dave. “Ginger.” The boy smiled for the first time, a smile that lighted up his homely countenance and won both members of his audience instantly. “Son,” said Babe, “if this was my outfit I’d engage you like a shot, but it isn’t. You see, we’ve got a bat boy――” “I can lick him easy,” remarked Ginger Burke conversationally. Then he added, hopefully: “If that guy wasn’t around could I have his job?”