It was all over at half-past six and the fellows walked back toward the centre of town together, still very full of spirits, disappearing one by one down side streets until at last only Hal Collins, a tall youth named Wheelock, and Wayne remained. Wheelock played first base and was thin and angular and wore glasses over a pair of pale, peering eyes. He was about nineteen, Wayne judged, and had a slow, drawling manner of speech and a dry humour. Collins was a quick, nervous youngster, inclined to be sarcastic. Wayne liked Jim Wheelock best, although for a while he was never sure whether Jim’s remarks were serious or otherwise. It was Jim who praised Wayne’s throws to first base as they tramped along Whitney Street. “You peg the ball across like you were looking where you were sending it,” drawled Jim. “Playing first would be a cinch if they all did that, Sloan.” “Jim’s idea of playing first,” said Hal Collins, “is to stand on the bag and pick ’em off his chest. He hates to reach for anything.” “My arms are four inches longer than they were before I started playing ball with this gang,” responded Jim, “and I’ve got joints in my legs that aren’t human!” “Don’t any of them look human to me,” said Hal. “Say, where was Harry Brewster today? Someone said he was sick or something.” “Yes, he’s got the sleeping disease,” answered Jim gravely. “Had it ever since he got his berth in the State National. That’s why they call it a berth when you get a job in a bank. They give you a column of figures to add up in the morning and if you’re not asleep by half-past ten they fire you. About four they go around with a pole and jab it through the cages. If you don’t wake up then they put a blanket over you and lock you in. They say Harry’s the best little sleeper they’ve got. Wouldn’t wonder if they made him president pretty soon.” “Oh, quit your kidding,” laughed Hal. “What _is_ the matter with him, Jim?” “Cold. Went to sleep on a New York draft yesterday.” “Sure it wasn’t counting coins? You can catch gold that way, you know.” “Yes, but it’s not so hard to check. Good-night, fellows.” Jim tramped off down a side street and Collins asked Wayne which way he went. “I go down the next street,” was the answer. “Boarding?” “No, I--we keep house. About two miles out.” “Oh! Well, see you again. Here’s my turn. Good-night.”