CHAPTER IV

JOE FINDS A FRIEND

“Walk or ride?” asked Sam, when they were on the sidewalk.

“Just as you like,” answered Joe. “Walk, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d rather.” And Sam set off along the street at a brisk pace. “That’s the new Adams Building,” he said presently, nodding toward the tall structure across the street. “We’re rather proud of it, as it’s our only skyscraper. The old one――it wasn’t old, though――burned last Fall. I’ve been working for the architects who are putting that up.”

“Really? It must have been a peach of a fire! Was the old building as big as that one?”

“Bigger. It had fourteen floors and this has only twelve. The water pressure here isn’t good enough yet for high buildings. That’s why we left off seventeen feet this time. Still, this new building’s fireproof from top to bottom and I guess you could start a fire in it and have to lug fuel to keep it going! Rather good-looking, isn’t it?”

“Awfully,” agreed Joe.

“I suppose you’ve got office buildings in Akron that beat it, but we think it’s some building. We turn off here.”

They left the busy part of town and walked briskly along a residence street until, at last, open country was reached. Sam, having exhausted the subject of the new Adams Building, didn’t have much to say and conversation was desultory until Joe, hunting for a topic, remembered baseball.

“Pollock said you were captain of the baseball team, didn’t he?” he questioned.

Sam nodded. “Yes. Tom could have had it, but he wouldn’t. So they hit on me.”

“Pollock, you mean?”

“Yes. He has charge of the sporting goods department there at Cummings and Wright’s and thought he wouldn’t have time to look after the team. Where have you played?”

“In Akron. Oh, you mean what position? Last Spring I played first base for our Second Team. How――how did you know I played at all?”

“Felt that crooked finger of yours. Break it?”

“Yes, and didn’t know it for a couple of days. Thought it was just a strain. Then when it came out of the splints it had an out-curve. I guess I’ll have to have it broken again some day and set right.”

“Well, it didn’t _look_ so bad,” said Sam judicially. “I happened to notice it when we shook hands. We’ll be glad to have another candidate for the bases. You’ll have a couple of pretty good fellows to fight, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you made good somewhere. How are you at the bat?”

Joe shook his head ruefully. “Pretty rotten last year. I used to hit pretty well when I was on the grammar school team, but I guess the pitching was awfully soft. I suppose you begin practice indoors some time next month?”

“About the middle. You’ll have a chance to get your batting-eye. We usually put the fellows through a good deal of bunting work in the cage. It seems to help a lot when they get outdoors. There’s the pond over there. Let’s cut across here; it’s shorter.”

The pond was some three acres in extent, and was long and narrow, curving back around the shoulder of a hill and looking at first glance like a river. As Joe and his guide climbed a rail-fence and crossed a snow-covered meadow, following a well-trodden track, the pond proved to be well populated. Skaters were gliding and turning, many armed with hockey-sticks, and at the nearer end of the ice two sets of goal-posts were in place. Some of the hockey players had already thrown aside their coats and were warming up, their blue-stockinged legs twinkling over the glassy surface.

“We usually practise on the river,” explained Sam, “but it isn’t good enough yet. We’ve got some nets, but there’s no way of getting them out here, and so we just use the posts. They’re mean things, though; always getting pushed out of place. Come over here and meet some of the fellows.”

Sam’s appearance was vociferously hailed by a knot of boys at the edge of the ice. Some of the younger fellows had started a fire there and were scurrying around, far and near, for fuel. Joe was introduced to seven or eight chaps, many of whose names he either didn’t catch or promptly forgot. Those he did recall later were Arbuckle, Morris and Strobe. Arbuckle proved to be the coach, although he was apparently no older than several of the players, and Morris was the captain. Morris, whose first name was Sidney and who was universally called Sid, was a handsome chap, lean, well-conditioned, and a marvel on skates. He was of about Sam Craig’s age. Arbuckle was a heavier fellow of eighteen and bore signs on his upper lip of an incipient mustache. Strobe Joe remembered chiefly because his name was unusual, although the latter wasn’t certain whether it was Strobe or Strode at the time.

They were all far too interested in hockey to pay more than passing attention to the stranger and Joe presently retired from the group and donned his skates. By the time he was ready for the ice Steve Arbuckle had blown his whistle and fourteen eager youths were racing and twisting about after the flying puck. In front of the First Team’s goal Sam Craig, sweatered and padded, leaned on his broad-bladed stick and calmly watched. Then a Second Team forward somehow stole the puck from under Captain Morris’s nose and, digging the points of his skates, slanted down the rink, dodging and feinting, until only the point remained between him and goal-keeper. Behind him the pursuit sped, but he was due for a shot if he could fool the point, and fool the point he