“‘Full’ is good! Going out to see my boys play today, Junius Brutus And-so-forth?” “I can’ get off today, sir, but I got a friend that would like powerful much to see that game.” “Oh, I’m not proposing to supply your friends with tickets, boy. Hasn’t this friend got a quarter?” “Yes, sir, but he’s needin’ all the quarters he’s got, jus’ like me, sir.” “Oh, all right.” Mr. Milburn produced a slip of paper and scrawled a hurried signature on it. “There you are. Tell him to show that to the man at the ticket office and he will fix him out. Haven’t you seen my club play yet?” “Once, Mister Milburn. We seen ’em lick those Billies last--last Friday, I reckon it was. An’ we seen some ball playin’! Yes, sir, we surely did so!” “Who are ‘we’? You and this friend of yours?” “Yes, sir. He ain’ exac’ly a friend, though.” “Isn’t he?” Mr. Milburn turned the pages of the paper June had brought him and hurriedly scanned them. “Isn’t an enemy, is he?” “No, sir, he’s--he’s my boss.” “Your boss? What do you mean by that?” The manager dropped the paper to the floor, glanced at his watch and turned an amused gaze on the boy. “Well, sir, he’s Mas’ Wayne Sloan, sir, an’ the Sloans is quality down in Colquitt County. You see, Mas’ Wayne’s mother she up an’ die ’bout three-four years ago an’ this yere stepdaddy of his ain’ no earthly ’count, no, sir, he ain’. He jus’ pesker Mas’ Wayne somethin’ fierce till him an’ me we jus’ lit out an’ come up North here.” “Sloan?” inquired Mr. Milburn. “He’s a white boy, then?” “Yes, sir.” “Sloan, eh? Look here, that isn’t the kid that Farrel sent to me for a try-out, is it? A dark-haired chap with----” “Yes, sir, that’s Mas’ Wayne. How come you-all ain’ given him that yere try-out yet, sir?” “Because he’s an infielder, June, and we don’t need infielders. I told him that days ago, but he’s still hanging around, I see.” “Yes, sir, we’re waitin’.” “Well, I’m afraid waiting won’t do him any good, June. You’d better tell him so. I like the kid’s perseverance, but he’s wasting his time. If he was a couple of years older and could play a little I’d give him a chance.” “Yes, sir, an’ I reckon he’s goin’ be a couple years older if you-all don’ hurry up!” June’s grin robbed the statement of offence. “Mister Milburn, please, sir, can I tell you somethin’?” “Go ahead, June.” “Well, sir, Mas’ Wayne’s surely one fine ball player,” said June earnestly, “an’ you-all ain’ actin’ sensible if you don’ grab him, sir.” “Oh, that’s just your idea of him, June,” was the good-natured reply. “We get dozens like him every spring, fellows fresh from high school or college who think that if they can hold a ball when it’s thrown to them they’re regular Big Leaguers.” “How come this yere Mr. Farrel done send him over here, sir?” “Oh, Farrel plays it safe, June. He has instructions to pick up anything that looks good and ship him over for me to see. But he isn’t supposed to rob the nurseries. We can’t use them until they’re grown up.”