At that moment a stout man wearing a faded sweater whose alternate rings of red and white added to his apparent circumference and who walked with a rolling gait and chewed gum fast and furious, appeared on the scene and was instantly pounced on by Mr. Milburn. “Where have you been, Jimmy?” demanded the manager irately. “Had your dinner yet? Or are you just up from breakfast?” “It’s my usual time, Steve,” was the placid reply. “Got through with ’em?” “Yes, I’m through with them.” The manager’s tone implied that he was vastly relieved. “Take them, and if you can do anything with them, do it for the love of mud!” “All right, Boss. Over to the net, boys. Bring them bats, some of you. Get a hustle on now. Some of you look like you was falling asleep on your pedals. Get goin’, get goin’!” The players moved off with more or less alacrity to the further side of the field where two batting nets were set, and the manager, after watching them a moment with the utmost contempt, turned toward the bench and caught sight of Wayne. The latter wished then that he had acted on Nye’s advice and left the field when he had had the chance. Steve Milburn strode up to him belligerently. “What are you doing in here?” he barked. “Who let you in? Don’t you know you fellows aren’t allowed in here without permission? Get out and stay out!” Wayne found himself on his feet. There was something extremely compelling in the manager’s voice and manner! But the next instant his fingers had closed around that letter and he was pulling it forth from his pocket. “I--I was sent to see you, sir----” “See me at the hotel then. You newspaper fellows make me sick, anyway. Who sent you?” “Mr. Farrel.” “Farrel? Who’s Farrel?” “Mr. Chris Farrel, sir. He told me--he gave me----” “Chris sent you? What have you got there?” “A letter.” Wayne offered it and the manager pulled it impatiently from his hand, tore open the envelope, and ran a quick and frowning gaze over the contents. Then he squeezed letter and envelope into a tight ball and tossed them under the bench. “He’s a fool! I don’t need infielders, and he knows it. Nothing doing, kid.” “But--he said you’d give me a try-out, sir,” exclaimed Wayne with a sinking heart. “He’d tell you anything. Look here, now, and get this. I don’t need infielders and wouldn’t sign one up if he was a Baker and a Collins all rolled into one. I told Chris to find me an outfielder who could hit and he goes and sends me a second baseman! And robs the nursery, too! The man’s crazy! You might as well beat it, kid. Back to the crib for yours.” “I’m old enough to play ball, sir,” answered Wayne. “Nothing doing,” replied the man wearily. “I can pick them up any day like you.” “But he said you’d give me a try-out, Mr. Milburn. He--he promised me that. He wrote another letter to you yesterday----”