A few days later someone produced a bran-new bat and the fun increased. At the end of a week or so they were playing “scrub” every noon-hour, and by common consent the truckmen left their vehicles at the far end of the platform so that there would be more room for playing. Even so the diamond was pretty narrow and the distance from first base to third was ludicrously short. A ball hit to right or left performed strange antics, bounding from wall or platform and landing almost anywhere in infield or out. Freight handlers, truckmen, clerks from the main office, switchmen, even “Big Tom” Maynard, who ran the Limited and laid over in Medfield twice a week, took part. And there was a slim, good-looking youth named Pattern who worked in the office of the coal company several blocks away and who could pitch a ball so that you couldn’t see it until it had passed you. With the exception of Pattern and possibly a truckman named Donovan, who had once played semi-professional ball on some team in New Jersey, Wayne was the star of the gatherings. He never failed of a hit save when Pattern was in the points, and even then was the only one who could come near to meeting that youth’s offerings, and fielded remarkably. So, at least, the less adept considered. “Big Tom,” who by virtue of having the best run on the road was accorded unusual respect, told Wayne he was wasting his time. It was a noon when a sudden shower had driven them to the shelter of the overhang. “If I had a wing like you’ve got, kid, I’d be training for the Big League. I surely would. You’re a natural-born ball player, son. I know a fellow up in Lebanon who’ll be glad to give you a try-out if you say the word.” “I reckon I’d better stick to what I’m sure of,” laughed Wayne. “I reckon I wouldn’t last very long up there.” “Sure you would,” said Big Tom earnestly. “And look at the money you’d be getting! They wouldn’t pay you a cent under twenty dollars, kid!” “But I’m getting thirty-five here, Mr. Maynard.” “You’re what? Thirty-five a week?” “No,” stammered Wayne, “thirty-five a month.” “What you talking about then? Twenty a week’s what they’d pay you up in Lebanon. Maybe a lot more. Tell you what I’ll do, kid; I’ll tell this fellow about you the next time I see him, eh?” But Wayne shook his head. “Thanks, but I reckon I’ll stick here,” he answered. Big Tom told him he was making a mistake and appealed for confirmation to Pattern who had joined them. Pattern laughed. “Twenty dollars, you say? What sort of a team is it, Maynard?” “It’s a corking good team, that’s what sort----” “I mean is it professional? Or semi or what?” “Why, I guess it’s a professional team. Sure it is. They play in the Central City League.”