“I don’t know. I heard that they’re going to use a fellow named Ripley, and they say he’s almost as good as Woodworth. He’s a spit-ball pitcher.” “I am’ never see nobody pitch one of them yere spit-balls,” said June. “Who goin’ pitch for us, sir?” “I suppose it will be Nye. It’s his turn, I think. Either Nye or Cotton. I reckon if Damascus plays the way she played today tomorrow’s game is going to be worth seeing.” “Why don’ you-all go an’ see it, Mas’ Wayne?” “Can’t afford it, June. We’ve been here a week now and----” “You ain’ got to ’ford it,” chuckled June. “Mister Milburn say if I want to see a game jus’ let him know an’ he goin’ pass me in. I’ll ask him about it tomorrow an’ you can take the ticket.” “He wouldn’t want you to give it to anyone else, June. Maybe I’ll try walking in past Mike at the players’ gate. I don’t believe he would stop me, and I don’t believe anyone would mind, because I’ve helped a good deal out there in the mornings, June.” “Sure you has, Mas’ Wayne! You got a perfec’ly good right to see them games, yes, sir.” Wayne exhibited his stepfather’s letter then and June, after he had slowly puzzled through it, snorted with disgust. “Ain’ that like him, Mas’ Wayne, sir? Ain’ it jus’ _like_ him? Firs’ thing he thinks of is money! I can’ ever say jus’ what I thinks of that gen’leman ’cause he’s a sort o’ relation o’ yours, Mas’ Wayne, but I certainly does do a heap o’ thinkin’!” “Anyway, he intends to let me alone, June, and that’s what I wanted. As for money, why, he will have to give me some when I’m twenty-one because mother left me almost twelve hundred dollars and he only has it in trust.” “Reckon he ain’ wishin’ for you-all to remember that,” replied June, shaking his head. “An’ if I was you, Mas’ Wayne, I’d write to Lawyer Ackerman an’ tell him to keep a mighty sharp watch on that yere stepdaddy of yours, yes, sir!” “He can’t very well run off with the farm, June,” laughed Wayne, “and as long as that’s there I reckon I can always get my money.” June was passing along the second floor corridor of the Congress House the next morning, laden with a number of empty ice-water pitchers and crooning a song, when a door opened and Mr. Milburn confronted him. “Boy! Run down and get me a Philadelphia paper. Any one will do. Oh, is that you, January?” “No, sir, Mister Milburn, I ain’ January yet, sir; I’m jus’ June.” “Well, all right, June,” chuckled the manager. “Hustle up that paper. I’ve got a dime here that’s looking for a home.” “Yes, sir, don’ you do nothin’ with it till I returns,” answered June, sprinting for the stairs. When he came back and knocked on the door and was told to enter Mr. Milburn was seated at a table clipping things from various newspapers and pasting them in a huge scrapbook. “That’s the boy,” he said, “and here’s your dime, June. How did they come to call you June, eh?” “’Tain’ really June, sir, it’s Junius; Junius Brutus Bartow Tasker is my full name, Mister Milburn.”