“Where now, Larry?” asked ’Squire Mead, meeting Larry Boyne, on Stone River bridge, one wintry day in November. Cold weather had set in early, and huge cakes of ice had already formed on the edge of the dam, and a light fall of snow gave promise of sleighing for Thanksgiving week, then not far off. Larry was mounted on a sorry-looking nag, borrowed from a Sugar Grove neighbor, and he carried behind him a big bundle of knitted mittens, the handiwork of his mother and sisters, to be exchanged for goods at one of the stores in town.

“Oh, I’m just going to town to trade a bit, and I have a message from Al Heaton that he and his father want to see me about joining a new baseball club to be gotten up here. Know anything about it, ’Squire?”

“Well, yes,” replied the ’Squire, “I’m told that there is something of a stir in town about the matter.” The crafty old lawyer did not say how much the stir was indebted to him for its existence. “Quite a stir, Larry, and they do say that they will get up a new nine; even if they have to hire players to go into it.”

Larry’s cheeks flushed even deeper red as he replied, “There is no disgrace in hiring players to help out, I suppose, ’Squire? I was paid a share of the gate money while I was with the Jonesville Nine, and they have offered me a regular salary if I go with them next season. But I wouldn’t touch a penny of it if I thought it was the least bit off-color for a fellow to take pay for his services.”

“No, no,” said the ’Squire, warmly, “there is nothing in that that an honorable and high-toned young fellow like you are could object to; and if I were you, I would make the very best terms I could for next year. You have been obliged to give up studying law, I hear, on account of the death of your father. If you do well in the ball-field, next summer, you might save up enough to set you right next year, so far as studying is concerned. And, between you and me and the gatepost, Al Heaton and his father are bound to have you in the new nine. So make as good a bargain for yourself as you can. Al can’t play next season.”

“Why, what is the matter with Al? Why can’t he play any more?”

“It’s mighty cold standing here talking on the bridge, Larry, and I don’t know that I have any right to give Al’s reasons, but I have a notion that his mother objects to his going around the country playing baseball. She’s got high and mighty airs since her Uncle George was elected to Congress from the Sangamon District, and I reckon that that is what is the matter with Al’s baseball business. Pity ’tis, too, for Al is a first-rate catcher. Nobody like him, unless it is Larry Boyne,” he added with a kindly smile.

Larry thanked the ’Squire, and, with a hearty “goodbye,” went thoughtfully on his way across the bridge. As his steed climbed Bridge Street, Larry was conscious that he had several new ideas in his head. And when, his little errands done, he found his way to Mr. Heaton’s counting-room in the mills near the dam, he had made up his mind that Jonesville had no claim on him and that he belonged no more to Jonesville than he did to Catalpa. In other words, he was in the market for employment. The mortgage on the farm must be paid off; his sisters and the little brother must be kept at school, and he had his own way to make in the world. To take one season’s compensation as a baseball player would help matters at home very much. It was a gleam of hope in an otherwise gloomy outlook for the young man.

“Glad to see you, Larry,” said Mr. Heaton, heartily. “Al’s been waiting for you this some time, and we may as well go right to business. The boys are talking of getting up a first-class nine, and as my son cannot very well go into it, next year, he has coaxed me to turn in and help the others. And so I will, for I want to see old Catalpa come out ahead at the end of the season.”

Young Heaton, with evident regret, told Larry that he would be unable to play in the Catalpa nine, but that it was his dearest wish that the club should be the champion club of the state. “So,” said he, “with my father’s consent, I have agreed to give my monthly allowance for the benefit of the club, and that will help make up a pool to pay expenses. We can’t get good players (I mean players to compete with Chicago and Springfield, and other large cities), without paying them something⁠—gate-money anyhow, and perhaps more.”

Larry said not a word. It was yet a new proposition, this of earning money as a professional ball player. Somehow it did not strike him pleasantly. But he listened respectfully while Mr. Heaton unfolded the plans that had been slowly matured since the signal defeat of the Catalpas, last October. They must organize a new nine. Some of the old players must be dropped, and two, Al and Lewis Morris, had already declined to play any longer. New men must be found to take their places. Would Larry join the new nine? Did he recommend any other players in the vicinity?

Larry’s ruddy face glowed as he walked up and down the little counting-room, thinking over the situation. Mr. Heaton watched the young man’s well-knit and graceful figure with admiration, and winked at Albert, as if to say, “That is your man. Get him if you can.”

“I’ll consider any offer that you make in behalf of the new nine, Mr. Heaton,” said Larry, “and if I were to suggest any other players from the Jonesvilles, I should like to say a good word for Sam Morrison and Neddie Ellis. Morrison is our first baseman, and Neddie is as good a pitcher as there is in the country, unless it is Charlie King. I hope your men don’t think of letting out Charlie?”

“Oh, no,” replied young Heaton, “they want him to stay, and he says that he’ll not only stay but will give in his share of the gate-money for the use of the club. Oh, Charlie’s clear grit, he is, and he’ll stand by the club,” said the young man, with friendly warmth, dashed with a little regret, perhaps, that family complications forbade him a similar sacrifice.

The details of the bargain could not be settled at once. Mr. Heaton and his son were the representatives of a company of public-spirited citizens who were bent on getting up a good baseball club. They could only secure Larry’s promise to wait for terms from them before accepting any other engagement, and to give them some hint as to what compensation he should expect. This last, however, Larry resolutely declined to do; and, after some debate, young Heaton exclaimed, “Well, hang it all, Larry! What’s the use beating round the bush! I think our folks have made up their minds that they will give you a share of the gate-money, say one eighth, and a salary of a thousand dollars for the season. Does that strike you favorably?”

Larry’s eyes shone as he said, “It strikes me as being more than I am worth.”

“Well, this is all informal and entirely between us, you know,” said Mr. Heaton. “You will keep the matter to yourself until we have reported to the rest of the committee, for there is a committee,” he added with a smile. And so the matter was concluded, and Larry, mounting his horse, with a cheery salutation to father and son standing in the mill-door, rode across the bridge into the November twilight, with a light heart.

The next day, Lewis Morris rode over to Sugar Grove to expostulate with Larry. He had heard that the Heatons had offered Larry one thousand dollars and one-eighth of the gate-money. “Now,” said he to Larry, “I cannot play with the nine, next season, neither can Al Heaton, and the chances are that Will Sprague will drop out, too. Charlie King does not need any pay or any income from the playing to induce him to go. So he will not want any gate-money. Geo. Buckner says he will go along as an extra man, and he will take neither salary nor gate-money. If we get Sam Morrison and Neddie Ellis, we shall have to pay them gate-money at least. But there will be, according to my figuring, only seven out of ten to draw on the gate-money, for Hiram Porter, I am sure, will decline to take anything for his services.”

Larry expressed his entire satisfaction with the terms offered him by Mr. Heaton, on behalf of the new club. He was willing to do what he could, short of any great sacrifice, to make up a strong nine. He would take less salary, or less of the income of the club, if that were necessary to induce the best men to join it.

“That’s very good of you, Larry, old boy,” said Morris, heartily, “but you can’t afford to waste your summer playing baseball for nothing. I want them to take Bill Van Orman from the Dean County boys. How do you think he would do?”

“First-rate! First-rate!” cried Larry, with enthusiasm. “I do not think of another fellow on the river as good as he is as catcher, unless it is Al Heaton, and he is out of the question.”

“Unless it is Larry Boyne,” said Morris, reproachfully. “You are a great sight better catcher than Bill Van Orman, and I should hope you would take that place if you were to go into the new Catalpa Nine.”

Larry protested that he had watched Van Orman’s catching for two seasons, and had made up his mind that he was the best man in that position that could be got, now that Al Heaton was out of the field. Would Van Orman serve at all?

“Oh, yes,” replied Morris. “All of the Dean County boys are just wild to get into the new nine. They are willing to play for Catalpa, and they don’t care whether they are in their own nine or in a new one. They drop all thoughts of rivalry, so far as the future is concerned.”

As Lewis Morris cantered back from his visit to Sugar Grove, he met Cyrus Ayres, driving homeward from town, his lumber-wagon making a great din as it rattled and rumbled over the rough, frozen road. The two young men exchanged greetings as they passed, and Cyrus call out to Lewis something which the noise of the wagon drowned; so, turning back, he said, “What was that you were saying about Bill Van Orman?”

“Oh, I only said that Bill is to be catcher in the new nine. I was in Jase Elderkin’s store, just now, and he allowed that Bill would take anything the boys had a mind to give him. But Charlie King and Ben Burton said that Larry Boyne wouldn’t want to serve as catcher, if he did go into the new nine, and that Bill would be the next best man, and Larry would go on one of the bases. Say first base. How’s that, think ye?”

“I don’t like it,” said Lewis, “but we’ll see what we shall see. I am willing, so far as I am concerned, to leave it all to Larry. He has got a level head, and don’t you forget it.”

“Right you are,” responded Cyrus, as, giving the reins to his impatient team, he rattled noisily down the river road.

As he passed Judge Howell’s handsome house, Lewis looked up and caught the glance of Miss Alice, who was sitting in the window-seat, curled up on a big cushion, and scribbling something that seemed to puzzle her very much. The girl wrote, rewrote, erased and wrote again. Finally she held her work, somewhat blurred and scratchy as it was, at arm’s length, and said in soliloquy,

“I really think that is the very best thing that could be done! But I wonder what I put that young Irishman’s name at the head of the list for?”

With a faint pink tint suffusing her cheek, she drew a line through the name at the top of the page, wrote it at the bottom, and then laughed softly to herself. Just then Lewis Morris rode by, gallantly taking off his cap as he passed the house. If Mr. Lewis could have looked over Alice’s shoulder, he would have read this list of names:

Alice concealed the paper in her pocket, as she saw her father drive up the road from the bridge. Then she took it out again with a pretty little air of determination, saying to herself. “My papa knows that I am so much interested in the new nine scheme, why shouldn’t I tell him that this is what I think about the reorganization?”

So, when the Judge, that night, drew his motherless child to his knee, she brought to him the list of players which she had made out.

“Perhaps you will think it mannish in me, papa,” she said, “but I have made out a list of the players in the new Catalpa nine. I have a whim that this is about the way they will be placed.”

The Judge took the crumpled and blurred paper, and running his eyes over it, said, “That is a good cast, as they say in the theaters, Alice; but don’t you think you are a little premature? The new nine is not yet formed, and until they begin to practice they can hardly tell where each player should be placed. I don’t pretend to know much about the game; not so much as my little daughter does, for example, but isn’t that about the way it strikes you?”

Alice admitted that her father was right. But she had given a great deal of thought to the matter. Everybody in the town was discussing this absorbing topic. And, out of all that she had heard, she had evolved this cast of characters, so to speak. Anticipating the story of the Catalpa nine a little, it may be said that Alice Howell’s list, although its features were known only to herself and her father, was adopted with two exceptions, Larry Boyne was chosen to the third base and Bill Van Orman took the position of catcher. But this was not done until far later in the winter, when the new nine was finally organized for the summer campaign.