Wayne wanted advice, and it was to Arthur Pattern that he went. A quarter of an hour after Mr. Farrel’s departure Wayne and Arthur were sitting on the steps of the State National Bank talking it over. Now and then the sound of exploding fireworks sounded and occasionally the sparks of a distant rocket lighted the sky beyond the roofs or red, white, and blue stars floated high against the purple darkness of the night, but the celebration was nearly over and the main street was nearly deserted. “I remember Chris Farrel,” Arthur Pattern was saying. “That is, I remember reading about him. He used to be a crackajack catcher some years ago. Played for a long time with one of the western clubs; Cincinnati, I think. Then he was with Washington and left them to manage some team like the Baltimores. Don’t think it was Baltimore, though. I don’t know much about this Harrisville outfit, but the Tri-State League’s been going for a good many years. It’s a six-club league. Harrisville and Doncaster in this state, Paterson and Trenton in New Jersey, and Utica and some other place in New York State.” “Damascus, I think he said.” “Yes, Damascus. Some of those are good baseball towns, and they ought to make money. Still, I don’t suppose they do much better than split even after expenses are paid. Saturdays and holidays are about the only times they draw big attendances, they charge about half what the big leagues charge for admission, and players’ salaries, travelling expenses, and so on count up fast. Men like this Mr. Badger own ball teams more for amusement than anything else, I guess. Some of them go in for steam yachts, some for trotting horses, and some for ball teams. I guess they net about the same on the investment,” ended Arthur drily. “Then you think this Harrisville team isn’t very good?” asked Wayne. “Better than some, not so good as others. If you’re going in for professional baseball playing, Wayne, you’ve got to get experience, and one team’s about the same as another, so long as you get your salary. You can’t afford to choose and pick, I guess, because it isn’t easy for a youngster like you to get a try-out. If a chance comes to you, grab it. After all, it doesn’t make much difference where you start. If you’re any good you won’t stay long in the bushes. The main question is: Do you want to be a ball player?” Wayne considered in silence for a long minute. Then: “Well, it’s like this, Arthur,” he answered slowly. “I wouldn’t want to play ball all my life. It isn’t good enough. But there isn’t much I can do--yet. It isn’t as though I’d been trained for something, like engineering or keeping books or--or farming. I’m not good for anything at all--yet. The only thing I can do half-way well is play baseball. So it seems to me that it’s a sensible thing for me to play ball and make some money so that I can learn to do something better. If I made some money in the summer I could go to school or college in the winter, couldn’t I?”