THE STEAM-SHOVEL MAN
This argument had weight, although Naughton was still anxious as he strolled to his office. By noon the stiffness had been sweated out of Walter's back and shoulders, and the supple vigor was returning to his good right arm. Shortly before five o'clock the inconsistent Naughton, who lived in daily peril of his life with all the composure in the world, was fairly fidgeting to be off to the base-ball field. A battered victoria and a rat of a Panama pony hurried them thither, and they found Harrison and several other players busy at practice against a background of cocoanut palms and bread-fruit trees.
The Cristobal catcher trotted up looking immensely pleased:
"Hello, Goodwin, you don't know me," said he, "but my kid brother was on that Elmsford freshman team that you trounced so unmercifully last season. I saw the game. Brewster is my name. When Harrison told me he had been lucky enough to discover you, I chortled for joy."
This was a cheering indorsement for the others to hear and it gave Walter the confidence
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