After Walter had safely handled a score of boxes, he gained confidence and worried less about "'splodin' himself to glory," as he toiled to keep pace with the other men. The humid heat was exhausting, but as the afternoon wore on his efficiency steadily increased. When the quitting hour came, Mr. Naughton told him: "I'll be glad to keep you on until the cargo is out. Where are you living?" "Nowhere at present. I can't afford to go to a hotel, and even if I had the price I am afraid Colon might disagree with me." "Oh, it is a healthy town nowadays. Our people have cleaned it up like a new parlor." "I mean the police--" began Walter, but this sounded so suspicious that he blushed, thought it hardly worth while explaining, and concluded, "I guess I can find a bed somewhere." Mr. Naughton whistled, cocked a scrutinizing eye, and observed: "So you got into trouble with the Spiggoty police? Anything serious? I won't give you away." "Nothing against my morals," smiled Walter. "My manners were disliked." "I'll take your word for it. One of my minor ambitions has been to punch the head of a Panamanian policeman. The chesty little beggars!" drawled Mr. Naughton. "You don't belong with the laborers, Goodwin, and you wouldn't like their quarters. I can find you a place to sleep at our bachelor hotel, and you can get commissary meals at thirty cents each. Uncle Sam is a pretty good landlord." Cordially thanking him, Walter exclaimed as he straightened his aching back: "I haven't been as lame and tired since I pitched a twelve-inning game for the high-school championship of the State. Phew! I must have moved enough dynamite already to blow Colon off the map. But I'll be glad to report in the morning, sir." This casual reference to base-ball had a most surprising effect upon the placid Mr. Naughton, who had seemed proof against excitement. He jumped as if he had been shot at, grasped Walter by the arm, and shouted eagerly: "Say that again. Can you pitch? Are you a real ball-player? Man alive, tell me all about it!" Walter stared at the "powder man" as if suspecting him of mild insanity. "We have a crack nine in Wolverton for a high-school," he replied. "It is a mill town, you see, and most of the fellows begin playing ball on the open lots as soon as they can walk. We were good enough last season to beat two or three of the smaller college teams." "And you were the regular pitcher?" breathlessly demanded Mr. Naughton, as he backed away and surveyed the broad-shouldered youth from head to foot. "Yes, I pitched in all the games." "Well, you handle yourself like a ball-player, and I believe you are one. You come along to supper with me." "But what in the world--" began the bewildered Walter. "Leave it to me. Your destiny is in my hands," was the mysterious utterance of Mr. Naughton.