At first Wayne threw to Briggs or Fawcett or the third fielder, Leary, and let them peg the ball back to the pitcher, but presently, when he had stopped a grounder well in, he took courage and threw the ball in himself and threw it so well that Fawcett turned and regarded him with new interest. “Can you do that every time, stranger?” inquired the substitute outfielder. “’Cause, if you can, you’d better strike the boss for a job!” After a while Fawcett, Briggs, and Leary went in to take their turns at the net and a new trio came out to field. One was “Sailor” O’Neill, the left fielder, and “Sailor,” sauntering out toward Wayne, observed him curiously. “Where’d you come from, kid?” he asked. “Medfield,” replied Wayne. “Steve signed you on, has he?” “Not yet.” “Is he going to? Are you the fellow ‘Red’ was telling me about?” “I reckon so,” was the answer. “Mr. Farrel sent me here for a try-out, but Mr. Milburn says he don’t need me.” “Huh! One of Chris’ finds, eh? Well, he picks a good ’un now and then; about once in three years. Keep after him, kid. He’ll come across all right.” Further conversation was interrupted by a sizzling grounder that reminded “Sailor” of his duties. The morning’s work-out ended with practice on the bases and Wayne went back to the bench. He didn’t have it to himself now, for Jimmy Slattery, very warm and puffing from his recent exertions, was there, as were four of the pitching staff, “Hop” Nye amongst them. “Hop” recognised Wayne and nodded. The others viewed him with mild curiosity. Only Jimmy challenged his presence there. “How do you happen to be in here, kid?” he asked when Wayne had seated himself on the bench. “I’m waiting for a try-out,” answered the boy as casually as he could. “Mr. Farrel sent me.” “Oh.” But the trainer was still evidently puzzled. After a minute, spent in surreptitious examination of the boy, he inquired with a trace of sarcasm: “And what might you be? A pitcher or a catcher or what?” “Infielder, sir. Second baseman, for choice.” “Huh! You’ve got a choice, have you? That’s fine! What’s the boss say?” “He hasn’t decided yet.” Nye, who had overheard the conversation, leaned forward and spoke to the trainer. “He’s all right, Jimmy,” said “Hop.” “Chris sent him up and Steve won’t give him a look-over. _Says_ he won’t, anyway. What’s your name, kid?” “Sloan, sir.” “Well, Sloan, you take my advice and keep right after him. You’ll have to if you want to get anything out of him. Ain’t that so, Jimmy?” “It’s true as true, my boy. I don’t see, though, what for Chris Farrel sent us an infielder. Can you hit the ball any?” “I--yes, sir, a little.” “A little won’t get you anything, my boy. What the boss is lookin’ for is fellers as can swing on ’em hard. Still and all, I ain’t saying you mightn’t develop if Steve’ll take you on. Who was you playing with last?” “Medfield,” answered Wayne. “Medfield? I never heard of them,” pondered the trainer. “It’s an amateur team, sir.”