For a while he could not make out the meaning of their low, hoarse whispering; but as it grew louder he caught the drift. The men were thieves; they had robbed someone and were quarrelling over the spoils. One was a negro, judging by his voice, and it was evident the other two were leagued against him.
The train started up with a rattle and clatter, gathered headway, and rolled on with steady roar. From time to time Chase heard angry voices even above the din of the wheels. He was thankful for the dark and the noise. What they might do if they discovered him caused him to grow cold with fear. He shrank into the corner and listened.
Whether it was after a few minutes or a long hour he had no idea, but when the whistle shrieked out again and the train slackened for another stop, he realized the thieves were fighting. Hoarse cries and sodden blows, curses, and a deep groan told of a deed of violence.
“Let’s beat it,” whispered one, in the sudden silence. “Here comes a brake.”
The train had stopped. Footsteps grated outside, and streaks of light flickered into the car. Chase saw two men jump from the door and heard a brake man accost them. He lay there trembling. What if the brakeman flashed his light into the car? What would be seen in the other corner? But the footsteps died away. Before he noticed it the train got in motion again; and he lay there wavering till the speed became so great that he dared not jump off.
To ride with a dead thief was not so frightful as to ride with a live one, thought Chase, but it was bad enough. His mind began to focus on one point, that he must get out of the car, and the more he thought the more fearful grew his state. While he lay there the train rolled on and the time flew by. All at once it appeared the blackness had given way to gray shadow. It grew lighter and lighter. He rose and went to the door. Day was dawning.
The train was approaching a hamlet and ran parallel with a dusty road. Without a second’s hesitation Chase leaped from the car. Through a rush of wind he alighted on his feet, bounced high, to fall heavily and roll over and over in the dust.
CHAPTER III
FAME
Chase would have sustained worse bruises than he got to rid himself of the atmosphere of that car. When he was once free of it, however, he fell to wondering if the negro were really killed. Perhaps he had only been wounded and was in need of assistance that Chase could have rendered. This thought cut him, but he dismissed it from mind, and addressed himself once more to his problem.
The village consisted of a few cottages; there was no railroad station, and on a siding stood a car marked T. & O. C.
Chase sat in the grass beside the track and did not know whether to walk on or wait for another train. Meanwhile, the sun rose warm and bright, shining on the bursting green leaves; meadowlarks sang in a field near by, and flocks of blackbirds winged irregular flight overhead.
That May morning was full of life and hope for Chase, but even so, when two hours passed by with no train or even person putting in appearance, he began to grow restless and presently made a remarkable discovery. He was hungry. He had not given a thought to such a thing as eating. It was rather discomfiting to awaken to the fact that even in quest of fortune, meals were necessary.
A column of blue smoke was curling lazily from one of the cottages, and thither Chase made his way. He knocked on the kitchen door, which was opened by a woman.
“Good-morning,” said Chase.
“May I have a bite to eat?”
“You ain’t a tramp?” queried she, eying him shrewdly.
“No, indeed. I can pay.”
“I thought not. Tramps don’t say ‘Good-mornin’. I reckon you kin hev somethin’. Sit on the bench there.”
She brought him milk, and bread and butter, and a generous slice of ham. While he was eating, a boy came out to gaze at him with round eyes, and later a lanky man with pointed beard walked up the path, his boots wet with dew.
“Mornin’,” he said cheerily, “be yew travellin’ fur?”
“Quite far, I guess,” replied Chase. “How far is Columbus, or the first big place?”
“Wal, now, Columbus is a mighty long way, much as fifty miles, I calkilate. An’ the nearest town to hum here is Jacktown, cross fields some five miles. It’s a right pert place. It’ll be lively today, by gum!”
“Why?” said Chase, with his mouth full of ham.
“Wal, Jacktown an’ Brownsville hev it out today, an’ I’ll bet it’ll be the dog-gondest ball game as ever was.”
“Ball game!”
“You bet. Jacktown ain’t ever been beat, an’ neither has Brownsville. They’ve been some time gittin’ together, but today’s the day. An’ I’ll be there.”
“I’m going, too,” said Chase, quietly. “I’m a ball player.”
After Chase had crossed this Rubicon, he felt more confident. He knew he would have to say it often, and he wanted practice. And the importance of his declaration was at once manifest in the demeanor of the man and the boy.
“Wal, I swan! You be, be you? I might hev knowed it, a strappin’ young feller like you.”
The boy’s round eyes grew rounder and took on the solemn rapture of hero worship.
“How might I find my way to Jacktown?” inquired Chase.
“You might wait an’ ride with me. Thet road leads over, ’round about. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you, I shan’t wait. I’ll walk over. Good-day.”
Chase headed into the grassy lane without knowing exactly why. The word “game” had attracted him, as well as the respective merits of the two teams; but it was mostly that he wanted to play. After consideration, it struck him that he would do well to get into a few games before he made application to a salaried team.
He spent the morning lounging along the green lane, sitting under a tree, and on a mossy bank of a brook, and killing time in pretty places, so that when he reached Jacktown it was noon.
At the little tavern where he had lunch, the air was charged with the electricity of a coming storm. The place was crowded with youths and men of homely aspect; all were wildly excited over the baseball game. He was regarded with an extraordinary amount of interest; and finally, when a tall individual asked him if he were a ball player, to be answered affirmatively, there was a general outburst.
“He’s a ringer! Brownsville knowed they’d git beat with their home team, so they’ve loaded up!”
That was the burden of their refrain, and all Chase’s stout denials in no wise mitigated their suspicion. He was a “ringer.” To them he was an object of scorn and fear, for he had come from somewhere out of the vast unknown to wrest their laurels from them.
Outside little groups had congregated on corners and in the street, and suddenly, as by one impulse, they gathered in a crowd before the tavern. Ample reason there was for this, because some scout had sighted the approach of the visiting team. Chase gathered that Brownsville was an adjoining country town, and, since time out of mind, a hated rival.
Wagons and buggies, vehicles of all kinds and descriptions, filed by on the way to the ball-grounds; and a haywagon with a single layer of hay and a full load of husky young men stopped before the tavern. The crowd inspected the load of young men with an anxiety most manifest, and soon remarks were heard testifying that the opposing team had grace enough to come with but one ringer.
The excitement, enthusiasm, and hubbub were amusing to Chase. He knew nothing of the importance of a game of ball between two country towns. While he was standing there a slim, clean-faced young man came up to him.
“My name’s Hutchinson,” he said. “I’m the school-teacher