In the middle of the session of mutual admiration word came from the office that a gentleman was inquiring for Wayne, and Wayne wondered who it could be and decided that Jim Mason had at last accepted his oft-repeated invitation to the Association. But it wasn’t Jim who awaited him. The caller was a somewhat thick-set man of forty with a much wrinkled face from which a pair of shrewd, light-blue eyes peered forth from under heavy brows. He wore a suit of gray plaid, the coat a trifle tight across the big chest, a pair of wonderfully brilliant tan shoes, a heavy gold chain across his waistcoat, and a big diamond ring on one hand, and carried a soft straw hat adorned with a black-and-yellow scarf. Wayne didn’t observe all these details at first, for he was much too busy speculating as to the man’s errand, reflecting, as he crossed to meet him, that the letter to his stepfather had reached him well over a week ago, allowing plenty of time for him to set the law on his track. But the visitor didn’t quite look the part of Authority, for he had a genial smile and a ready expression of polite apology. “This Mr. Sloan?” he asked as Wayne reached him. Wayne acknowledged the fact. “My name’s Farrel, Chris Farrel. Maybe you’ve heard the name.” He held out the ringed hand and Wayne took it, shaking his head. “No? Well, I was before your time. I’m with the Harrisvilles, of the Tri-State League.” “Oh, baseball?” asked Wayne. “Sure! Say, isn’t there a place we can sit down a minute? I’ve got a proposition I’d like to make you, Mr. Sloan.” “I beg your pardon,” said Wayne. “I reckon we can find a corner in the game-room. There’s a crowd in the big room.” He led the way to a couch in a corner that was sufficiently removed from the few groups of chess and domino players. “You’re a ball player?” he asked as the caller cautiously lowered himself into place and dropped his hat to the floor beside him. “Do I look it?” inquired the other, with a chuckle. “Say, I weigh two hundred and eight right now. I’d make a hit, wouldn’t I, chasing around the gravel? No, I haven’t played for six years. I’m interested in the Badgers now. Own a little stock and do a bit of scouting for ’em.” “The Badgers?” “Yes, that’s what they call the Harrisville team. John K. Badger, the Southern Pennsylvania Coal Company man, is the owner: him and Steve Milburn and me. Him owning ninety per cent, and me and Steve dividing the rest.” Mr. Farrel chuckled again. “Ever see our team play, Mr. Sloan?” “No, sir, I haven’t been up North very long.” “So a fellow was telling me. Said Georgia was your home, I think. Well, they grow peaches down there. Ty Cobb, for instance. Guess you’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” “Yes, a good many times, Mr. Farrel.”