“Here’s your man now, Steve!” exclaimed someone, and Wayne, pausing doubtfully inside the doorway, embarrassedly found himself the target of all eyes. But it was for an instant only. The next thing he knew Steve Milburn had him by the arm and was dragging him forward. “Where have you been?” he was demanding irately. “I told that nigger boy of yours to send you out! Jimmy, hustle a uniform! Someone find me a contract form in the closet! Yellow box on the shelf!” He turned to Wayne. “Now, Sloan, you wanted a try-out and you’re going to get it,” he said grimly. “Jimmy’ll give you a uniform. Pile into it and--can you play third? Where have you played?” “Second, sir.” “Take it then! That lets me out!” “I can’t find any forms here, Boss,” sung out Briggs from the closet. “Never mind! This’ll do!” The manager dropped into the chair by the littered table, opened a drawer and pulled out a pad of paper and wrote hurriedly for a moment. And as he wrote he stabbed at Wayne with short sentences. “You got your chance! Show what you know, youngster! Make good and I’ll treat you white! Cap here will give you the dope. Do as he tells you. Now sign your name here. Witness this, Cap.” “Hurry up, kid, and climb into these,” called Jimmy Slattery from the dressing-room doorway. Wayne neither knew then nor later what he signed. Had there been time to read the half-dozen lines he could scarcely have done so, for Mr. Milburn’s writing was not the sort to be deciphered offhand. But he hardly tried. The manager pushed a pen into his hand, Captain Cross waited at his elbow and in thirty seconds he was hurrying toward the armful of togs that the trainer impatiently dangled at the door. Jimmy helped him change, or tried to help, and all the time dealt out advice freely, none of which Wayne afterward recalled. Five minutes later he was trotting out at the trainer’s heels, conscious of a thumping heart and of the fact that the shoes on his feet were at least a size too large for him. Then he was around the corner of the stand and Jimmy Slattery was pushing him in the general direction of second base. “Go ahead, kid, and good luck to you!” said Jimmy. “Keep your nerve!” But that was far easier said than done. The stands were crowded and a fringe of enthusiasts stood, three and four deep, inside the rope that had been stretched along the left field side of the enclosure. Balls were travelling back and forth, from base to base and base to plate, bewilderingly, while overhead the long flies arched to the outfield. As he passed in front of LaCroix, at first, the lantern-jawed, hook-nosed giant grinned as he speared a high throw, and almost in the same motion tossed it underhand to Wayne. “Chuck it in, Bill,” he directed.