The practice wasn’t much different from what the Chenangos were accustomed to. Harrisville showed more certainty and ease and speed in handling the ball, and there were fewer slip-ups, but, on the other hand, Wayne thought there was something rather perfunctory about the work. Manager Milburn was after his charges every minute, barking and snarling, and nothing appeared to please him the least bit in the world. Wayne began to wonder whether it would not be the part of wisdom to take himself off and let the interview wait until after dinner or even tomorrow. There came no sign from the red-haired pitcher--his name appeared to be Herring, according to the irate manager, and “Red,” if you believed the players--who was working out near by in company with three other twirlers and two catchers. Manager Milburn was behind the plate and the rest of the players, with the exception of two, were in the field. The two took turns at batting, laying down bunts, cracking out liners and arching long flies at the behest of the manager. A short, stocky youngster named Nye was pitching. It was interesting enough and Wayne would have enjoyed it had it not been for that letter in his pocket toward which his hand strayed every minute or two. After a while Nye gave way to one of the batters, who, it appeared, was also a pitcher, and retired to the bench beside Wayne. Several not over-clean towels draped an end of the seat and Nye seized one and patted the perspiration from his streaming face. “Getting hot,” he said to Wayne. The latter agreed. “Newspaper man?” asked the pitcher. Wayne shook his head. “Thought I didn’t know your face. What’s your line, friend?” “I’m after a place on the team,” replied the boy. “Mr. Farrel sent me.” “Honest? How old are you?” Wayne hesitated an instant. Finally, however, since he had a fondness for the truth, he told it. The pitcher raised his brows. “Well, if Steve asks you you’d better tack on a couple of years,” he advised. “You look like you might be eighteen, easy. Where do you play?” “Second, sir.” “Well, you aren’t likely to get there this season. Jones is as good as they make ’em. Seen him yet?” “Jones?” “No, Steve Milburn.” “No, sir, not yet. He didn’t seem to be in very good humour and so I thought maybe I’d better wait awhile.” “Hop” Nye chuckled. “You got it about right, kid. If I was you I’d beat it and come around tomorrow. He won’t get any better today, I guess. Not this morning, anyway.” “Is he always like--like he is now?” asked Wayne anxiously. “Steve? No, this is a little extra. Some of the boys went off to a picnic night before last and yesterday we got licked to a fare-ye-well by the ‘Billies.’ Oh, no, Steve has his fits now and again, but we don’t mind ’em much, and he gets over ’em. He’s a good sort--for a manager.”