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Dark Age Pierce Brown Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Pierce Brown
ISBN(s): 9780425285947, 0425285944
Edition: Hardcover
File Details: PDF, 8.69 MB
Year: 2019
Language: english
 Dark Age is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Pierce Brown

Map copyright © 2019 by Joel Daniel Phillips

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of
Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House
LLC.

Hardback ISBN 9780425285947

International edition ISBN 9781984817501
Ebook ISBN 9780425285954

randomhousebooks.com

Book design by Caroline Cunningham, adapted for ebook

Cover design: Faceout Studio, Charles Brock

Cover illustrations: © Shutterstock

v5.4
ep
 Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Map: The Planet Mercury: Continent of Helios
Dramatis Personae
The Sovereign

Prologue

Part I: Mischief
Chapter 1: Darrow: Till the Vale
Chapter 2: Lysander: Annihilo
Chapter 3: Darrow: Storm God
Chapter 4: Lysander: Ajax, Son of Aja
Chapter 5: Darrow: Voyager Cloak
Chapter 6: Lysander: Carnivores
Chapter 7: Darrow: The Calm
Chapter 8: Lysander: The Machine
Chapter 9: Darrow: Angelia
Chapter 10: Lysander: The Ash Rain
Chapter 11: Darrow: Red Reach
Chapter 12: Lysander: White Golems
Chapter 13: Darrow: Plains of Caduceus
Chapter 14: Lysander: Into the Storm
Chapter 15: Darrow: Tyche
Chapter 16: Lysander: Rider of the Storm
Chapter 17: Darrow: Heliopolis
Part II: Craft
Chapter 18: Virginia: Sovereign
Chapter 19: Virginia: Stiletto
Chapter 20: Virginia: Politicos
Chapter 21: Ephraim: Mauler, Brawler, Legacy Hauler
Chapter 22: Ephraim: Unshorn
Chapter 23: Ephraim: Queen
Chapter 24: Ephraim: Skuggi
Chapter 25: Virginia: Oligarchs
Chapter 26: Virginia: The Goblin’s Prey
Chapter 27: Virginia: Pack
Chapter 28: Ephraim: Karachi
Chapter 29: Virginia: The Dust of Reverie
Chapter 30: Virginia: Ocular Sphere
Chapter 31: Virginia: Day of Red Doves
Chapter 32: Darrow: In Wake
Chapter 33: Darrow: The Devil’s Deal
Chapter 34: Lysander: Shadows of War
Chapter 35: Darrow: Endure
Chapter 36: Lyria: Victim
Chapter 37: Ephraim: Heart of Venus
Chapter 38: Lysander: The Horizon
Chapter 39: Lysander: The Mind’s Eye
Chapter 40: Ephraim: Kjrdakan
Chapter 41: Ephraim: Obsidian Rising

Part III: Treason

Chapter 42: Lysander: A Chorus Upon the Pale
Chapter 43: Lysander: The Enemy
Chapter 44: Ephraim: Hunt of the Last Light
Chapter 45: Ephraim: Nightgaze
Chapter 46: Ephraim: Whirlpool
Chapter 47: Lyria: They Are Sleeping
Chapter 48: Lyria: Monsters
Chapter 49: Lyria: Run
Chapter 50: Lyria: Parasite
Chapter 51: Lyria: Jade Witch
Chapter 52: Ephraim: Pale Rain
Chapter 53: Virginia: Pandemonium
Chapter 54: Virginia: Justice of the Meek
Chapter 55: Virginia: The Wolf and the Mother
Chapter 56: Virginia: A Maze with No Center
Chapter 57: Virginia: Black Cathedral
Chapter 58: Darrow: Sevro’s Palace
Chapter 59: Lysander: The Impaler
Chapter 60: Lysander: Pup One
Chapter 61: Darrow: Hero of Tyche
Chapter 62: Lysander: The Warlord and the Libertine
Chapter 63: Darrow: Unremarkable
Chapter 64: Lysander: To Master a Maker
Chapter 65: Lyria: Ulysses
Chapter 66: Lyria: The Julii’s Bill
Chapter 67: Lyria: Numb
Chapter 68: Lyria: Shh
Chapter 69: Lyria: The Childwives
Chapter 70: Lyria: Thunder Bottle
Chapter 71: Ephraim: From the Static
Chapter 72: Lyria: One Last Tooth
Chapter 73: Lyria: At Last, She Screams
 Chapter 74: Ephraim: Son of the Rising
Chapter 75: Ephraim: Grarnir
Chapter 76: Ephraim: He Who Walks the Void
Chapter 77: Ephraim: Worthy

Part IV: Pride

Chapter 78: Lysander: A Visitor
Chapter 79: Darrow: Bad Blood
Chapter 80: Lysander: Heir of Arcos
Chapter 81: Darrow: Dark Age
Chapter 82: Lysander: This Summons Legions
Chapter 83: Darrow: Hazard Bedlam
Chapter 84: Darrow: Meat Straw
Chapter 85: Lysander: Lune Invictus
Chapter 86: Darrow: Legion’s End
Chapter 87: Lysander: Ghost
Chapter 88: Lyria: Mercury Has Fallen
Chapter 89: Lysander: Triumph of the Long Night
Chapter 90: Lysander: The Love Knight
Chapter 91: Virginia: Salvation or Vengeance
Chapter 92: Lysander: Graveyard of Tyrants

Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Pierce Brown
About the Author
 THE SOLAR REPUBLIC
DARROW OF LYKOS/THE REAPER Former ArchImperator of the Solar Republic,
husband to Virginia, a Red
VIRGINIA AU AUGUSTUS/MUSTANG Reigning Sovereign of the Solar Republic, wife
to Darrow, Primus of House Augustus, sister to the Jackal of Mars, a Gold
PAX Son of Darrow and Virginia, a Gold
KIERAN OF LYKOS Brother to Darrow, Howler, a Red
RHONNA Niece of Darrow, daughter of Kieran, lancer, Pup Two, a Red
DEANNA Mother to Darrow, a Red
SEVRO AU BARCA/THE GOBLIN Imperator of the Republic, husband to Victra,
Howler, a Gold
VICTRA AU BARCA Wife to Sevro, neé Victra au Julii, a Gold
ELECTRA AU BARCA Daughter of Sevro and Victra, a Gold
DANCER/SENATOR O’FARAN Senator, former Sons of Ares lieutenant, husband to
Deanna, Tribune of the Red bloc, a Red
KAVAX AU TELEMANUS Primus of House Telemanus, client of House Augustus, a
Gold
NIOBE AU TELEMANUS Wife to Kavax, client of House Augustus, a Gold
DAXO AU TELEMANUS Heir of House Telemanus, son of Kavax and Niobe, senator,
Tribune of the Gold bloc, a Gold
THRAXA AU TELEMANUS Praetor of the Free Legions, daughter of Kavax and Niobe,
Howler, a Gold
ALEXANDAR AU ARCOS Eldest grandson of Lorn au Arcos, heir to House Arcos, allied
to House Augustus, lancer, Pup One, a Gold
CADUS HARNASSUS Imperator of the Republic, second in command of the Free
Legions, an Orange
ORION XE AQUARII Navarch of the Republic, Imperator of the White Fleet, a Blue
COLLOWAY XE CHAR A pilot, reigning kill-leader of the Republic Navy, Howler, a Blue
GLIRASTES THE MASTER MAKER Architect and inventor, an Orange
HOLIDAY TI NAKAMURA Dux of Virginia’s Lionguard, sister to Trigg, client of House
Augustus, Centurion of the Pegasus Legion, a Gray
QUICKSILVER/REGULUS AG SUN Richest man in the Republic, head of Sun
Industries, a Silver
PUBLIUS CU CARAVAL Tribune of the Copper bloc, senator, a Copper
THEODORA Leader of the Splinter operatives, client of House Augustus, a Rose Pink
ZAN ArchImperator of the Republic following Darrow’s removal, commander of Luna’s
defense fleet, a Blue
CLOWN Howler, client of House Barca, a Gold
PEBBLE Howler, client of House Barca, a Gold
MIN-MIN Howler, sniper and munitions expert, client of House Barca, a Red
SCREWFACe Howler, client of House Augustus, a Gold
MARBLES Howler, hacker, a Green
TONGUELESS Former prisoner at Deepgrave, an Obsidian
FELIX AU DAAN Bodyguard to Darrow, client of House Augustus, a Gold

THE SOCIETY
ATALANTIA AU GRIMMUS Dictator of the Society, daughter of the Ash Lord Magnus
au Grimmus, sister to Aja and Moira, former client of House Lune, a Gold
LYSANDER AU LUNE Grandson of former Sovereign Octavia, heir to House Lune,
former patron of House Grimmus, a Gold
ATLAS AU RAA/THE FEAR KNIGHT Brother to Romulus au Raa, Legate of the Zero
Legion (“the Gorgons”), former ward of House Lune, client of House Grimmus, a
Gold
AJAX/THE STORM KNIGHT Son of Aja au Grimmus and Atlas au Raa, heir of House
Grimmus, Legate of the Iron Leopards, a Gold
KALINDORA AU SAN/THE LOVE KNIGHT Olympic Knight, aunt to Alexandar au
Arcos, client of House Grimmus, a Gold
JULIA AU BELLONA Cassius’s estranged mother and Darrow’s enemy, Primus of the
House Bellona remnant, a Gold
SCORPIO AU VOTUM Primus of House Votum (the metal mining magnates and builders
of Mercury), a Gold
CICERO AU VOTUM Heir to House Votum, son of Scorpio, Legate of the Scorpion
Legion, a Gold
ASMODEUS AU CARTHII Primus of House Carthii (the shipbuilders of Venus), a Gold
RHONE TI FLAVINIUS Lunese subPraetor, former second officer of the XIII Dracones
Praetorian Guard under Aja, a Gray
SENECA AU CERN Dux of Ajax, Centurion of the Iron Leopards, a Gold
MAGNUS AU GRIMMUS/THE ASH LORD Former ArchImperator to Octavia au
Lune, the Burner of Rhea, a Gold, killed by the Howlers and Apollonius au Valii-Rath
OCTAVIA AU LUNE Former Sovereign of the Society, grandmother to Lysander, a Gold,
killed by Darrow
AJA AU GRIMMUS Daughter of Ash Lord Magnus au Grimmus, a Gold, killed by Sevro
MOIRA AU GRIMMUS Daughter of Ash Lord Magnus au Grimmus, a Gold, killed by
Ragnar

THE RIM DOMINION

DIDO AU RAA Co-consul of the Rim Dominion, wife to former Sovereign of the Rim
Dominion Romulus au Raa, née Dido au Saud, a Gold
DIOMEDES AU RAA/THE STORM KNIGHT Son of Romulus and Dido, Taxiarchos of
the Lightning Phalanx, a Gold
SERAPHINA AU RAA Daughter of Romulus and Dido, Lochagos of the Eleventh Dust
Walkers, a Gold
HELIOS AU LUX Co-consul of the Rim Dominion, with Dido, a Gold
ROMULUS AU RAA/THE LORD OF THE DUST Former Primus of House Raa,
former Sovereign of the Rim Dominion, a Gold, killed by ceremonial suicide

THE OBSIDIAN
SEFI THE QUIET Queen of the Obsidian, leader of the Valkyrie, sister to Ragnar Volarus,
an Obsidian
VALDIR THE UNSHORN Warlord and royal concubine of Sefi, an Obsidian
OZGARD Shaman of the Firebones, an Obsidian
FREIHILD Skuggi spirit warrior, an Obsidian
GUDKIND Skuggi spirit warrior, an Obsidian
XENOPHON Advisor to Sefi, a White logos
RAGNAR VOLARUS Former leader of the Obsidian, Howler, an Obsidian, killed by Aja

OTHER CHARACTERS
EPHRAIM TI HORN Freelancer, former member of the Sons of Ares, husband to Trigg ti
Nakamura, a Gray
VOLGA FJORGAN Freelancer, colleague of Ephraim, an Obsidian
APOLLONIUS AU VALII-RATH/THE MINOTAUR Heir to House Valii-Rath,
verbose, a Gold
THE DUKE OF HANDS Syndicate operative, master thief, a Rose Pink
LYRIA OF LAGALOS Gamma from Mars, client of House Telemanus, a Red
LIAM Nephew of Lyria, client of House Telemanus, a Red
HARMONY Leader of the Red Hand, former Sons of Ares lieutenant, a Red
PYTHA Pilot, companion to Cassius and Lysander, a Blue
FIGMENT Freelancer, a Brown
FITCHNER AU BARCA/ARES Former leader of the Sons of Ares, a Gold, killed by
Cassius au Bellona
“C ITIZENS OF THE SOLAR REPUBLIC, this is your Sovereign.”
I stare half blind into a firing squad of fly-eyed cameras. Out the
viewport behind my stage, battle stations and ships of war float
beyond the upper atmosphere of Luna.
Eight billion eyes watch me.
“On Friday evening last, the third day of the Mensis Martius, I
received a brief indicating that a large-scale Society military
operation was under way in the orbit of Mercury. The largest in
materiel and manpower since the Battle of Mars, five long years ago.
“We are responsible for this crisis. Lured by the false promises of
an enemy plenipotentiary, we allowed our resolve to weaken. We
allowed ourselves to believe in the better virtues of our enemy, and
that peace was possible with tyrants.
“That lie, seductive though it was, has been exposed as a cruel
machination of statecraft designed, perpetrated, and executed by the
newly appointed Dictator of the Society remnant, Atalantia au
Grimmus—daughter of the Ash Lord. Under her spell, we
compromised with the agents of tyranny. We turned on our greatest
general, the sword who broke the chains of bondage, and demanded
he accept a peace he knew to be a lie.
“When he did not, we cried Traitor! Tyrant! Warmonger! In fear
of him, we recalled the Home Guard elements of the White Fleet
from Mercury back to Luna. We left Imperator Aquarii at half
strength, exposed, vulnerable. Now, her fleet, the fleet which freed all
our homes, floats in ruins. Two hundred of your ships of war
destroyed. Thousands of your sailors killed. Millions of your
brothers and sisters marooned upon a hostile sphere. Quadrillions of
your wealth squandered. Not by virtue of enemy arms, but by the
squabbling of your Senate.
“I have heard it said in these last months, in the halls of the New
Forum, on the streets of Hyperion, on the news channels across our
Republic, that we should abandon these sons and daughters of
liberty, these Free Legions. I have heard them called, in public,
without shame, ‘the Lost Legions.’ Written off by you, despite the
courage they have summoned, the endurance they have shown, the
horrors they have suffered for you. Written off because we fear to
part with our ships will invite invasion of our homeworlds. Because
we fear to once again see Society iron over our skies. Because we fear
to risk the comforts and freedoms the men and women of the Free
Legions purchased for us with their blood…
“I will tell you what I fear. I fear time has diluted our dream! I fear
that in our comfort, we believe liberty to be self-fulfilling!” I lean
forward. “I fear that the meekness of our resolve, the bickering and
backbiting on which we have so decadently glutted ourselves, will rob
us of the unity of will that moved the world forward to a fairer place,
where respect for justice and freedom has found a foothold for the
first time in a millennium.
“I fear that in this disunity we will sink back into the hideous
epoch from which we escaped, and that the new dark age will be
crueler, more sinister, and more protracted by the malice which we
have awoken in our enemies.
“I call upon you, the People of the Republic, to stand united. To
beseech your senators to reject fear. To reject this torpor of self-
interest. To not quiver in primal trepidation at the thought of
invasion, to not let your senators hoard your wealth for themselves
and hide behind your ships of war, but to summon the more
wrathful angels of their spirits and send forth the might of the
Republic to scourge the engines of tyranny and oppression from the
Mercurian sky and rescue our Free Legions.”
 At that moment, three hundred eighty-four thousand kilometers
from my heart, in orbit one thousand kilometers above the wayward
continent of South Pacifica, projectiles skinned with Sun Industries
stealth polymer race into the void at 320,000 kilometers per hour
toward Mercury, ferrying not death, but supplies, radiation
medicine, machines of war, and, if my husband is alive, a message of
hope.
You have not been abandoned. I will come for you.
Until then, endure, my love. Endure.
A GRAVEYARD OF
Mercury.
REPUBLIC WARSHIPS floats in the shadow of

Of the triumphant White Fleet that liberated Luna, Earth, and

Mars, nothing remains but twisted shards and blackened hollows.
Shattered by the might of the Ash Armada, the broken ships spin in
orbit around the planet they liberated only months before. No longer
filled with Martian sailors and legionnaires loyal to Eo’s dream, their
cold halls are naked to vacuum and populated only by the dead.
This is the last laugh of the Ash Lord, and the debut of his heir.
While I burned the old warlord to death in his bed on Venus with
Apollonius and Sevro, his daughter Atalantia stepped out from his
shadow to take up his office of Dictator. She slipped the greater part
of their armada away from Venus and used the sun’s sensor-
distorting radiation to ambush the White Fleet in orbit over Mercury.
Orion, my fleet’s commander and the greatest naval tactician in
the Republic, never saw them coming. It was a massacre, and I was
three weeks too late to stop it. The frantic Mayday calls of my friends
tortured me as I crossed the void, slipping farther and farther away
from my son and wife toward bedlam.
The White Fleet may be gone, but the Free Legions they ferried to
Mercury are not dead yet. Soon I will join them on the surface of
Mercury, but first I have work to do.
It would be easier with Sevro. Everything violent is.
My breath rasps in my vacuum-proof suit as I traverse the
graveyard. My magnetic boots land silently along the broken spine of
a Republic dreadnought, and I peer into a great fissure in the hull to
check on the progress of my lancer. The wound in the hull is thirty
decks deep. Jetsam floats in the darkness—bits of metal, mattresses,
coffeepots, frozen globes of machine fluid, and severed limbs. No
sign of Alexandar.
The rigid corpse of a sailor in a mechanic’s kit drifts upward feet-
first. His legs have been congealed into a single crooked stump from
the heat of a particle blast. His mouth is locked in a silent scream, as
if to ask, “Where were you when the enemy came? Where was the
Reaper I swore to follow?”
He was deceived by his enemies, by his allies, by himself.
While the Republic Senate fooled itself into believing peace could
be made with fascist warlords, I pretended killing the Ash Lord
would end war in our time. That I held the key to unlocking a future
where I could put down the slingBlade and return to my child and
wife to be a father and a husband. My desperation let me believe that
lie. The Senate’s naïveté let them believe Atalantia’s. But I know the
truth now.
War is our time. Sevro thought he could escape it. I thought I
could end it. But our enemy is like the Hydra. Cut off one head, two
more sprout. They will not sue for peace. They will not surrender.
Their heart must be excised, their will to fight ground to the finest
dust.
Only then will there be peace.
 Lights flicker in the chasm beneath my feet. Several minutes later,
a Gold in an EVA suit drifts upward to set down with me on the hull.
For fear of enemy sensors, he puts his faceplate to mine to give his
sound waves a medium.
“Reactor is primed and ready for necromancy.”
“Well done, Alexandar.”
He nods stoically.
The young soldier is no longer the callow, insecure youth who
entered my service as a lancer four years ago. After war, most men
shrink. Some from the rending of flesh. Some from the loss of
fellows. Some from the loss of autonomy. But most in shame at
discovering their own impotence. Confronted with horror, their
dreams of destiny crumple. Only a cursed few relish the dark thrill in
discovering they are natural-born killers.
Alexandar is a killer. He has proven himself the worthy heir to the
legacy of his grandfather Lorn au Arcos. And I have begun to wonder
if he will inherit my burden. He alone held back the tide atop the Ash
Lord’s spire when Thraxa, Sevro, and I had been knocked to our
knees. It woke the hunger in him. Now, he craves revenge on
Atalantia for the murder of our fleet.
I miss that purity of purpose.
What was it that Lorn said again? “The old rage in colder ways, for
they alone decide how to spend the young.”
How many more must I spend? What is Alexandar’s life worth?
What is mine worth? As if to find the answer, I glance to my right.
Past the hull of the drifting dreadnought, the eastern rim of Mercury
throbs like a molten scythe.
The planet is barely larger than Luna, but this close it seems a
giant. The shadows of a Society minesweeper pass over its face. It
searches for the atomic mines Orion left in orbit to cover our army’s
frantic retreat after Atalantia’s ambush. Few mines remain. When
they are gone, only the tropospheric shields that cover the prized
continent of Helios will forestall the wrath of the Ash Armada. The
black ships prowl beyond the graveyard, safely out of reach of
Republic ground cannons, waiting to launch an Iron Rain against my
marooned army.
When the shields fall, so will the planet.
Ten million of my brothers and sisters will face annihilation.
That is why Atalantia has come. To crush the White Fleet. To kill
the Free Legions. To take back Mercury and with its metals and
factories, feed the Gold war machine on Venus to prepare for a
single, irresistible thrust toward the heart of the Republic.
A tiny laser flickers against the hull between Alexandar’s feet. I put
my helmet to his again. “They’re moving her,” I say. His eyes harden.
“Time to go.”
Together, we push off the hull to float back into the graveyard. We
cross through seas of frozen corpses and shattered ripWings to land
two kilometers from the dreadnought on the broken fuselage of a
dead torchShip. We skip along its surface until we reach a dark
hangar bay. Inside, a prototype black shuttle waits—the
Necromancer, the personal deepspace shuttle of the Ash Lord, which
I stole from his fortress and rode from Venus to Mercury. Today I
will make it earn its name.
“Anteater to Dark Tango, do you register?” The Fear Knight’s
voice is cold and intelligent as it echoes over the speakers in the
Necromancer’s ready bay. The voice matches the man. Atlas au Raa,
Atalantia’s most effective field commander, is a far cry from his
honorable brother, Romulus. Implanted on the surface with his Zero
Legion guerrillas, Atlas sows chaos behind our lines and is
responsible for my delayed reunion with my army. They don’t even
know I am here. But neither does the enemy.
The planet was blockaded by the Ash Armada when I arrived to
Mercury three weeks ago. Fortunately, the Necromancer’s stealth
capabilities are the most advanced in the Society armada, and the
debris field hid our approach.
Hiding in the graveyard, I have used the decryption software on
the Necromancer to eavesdrop on the Fear Knight’s correspondence.
He reports his horrors, his impalements, his mutilations, with the
detachment of a doctor administering medicine to a patient. Today,
he discusses a different matter.
“Dark Tango registers, go for Anteater.” A thin Copper voice
answers for Atalantia. Some sinister blackops administrator on the
Annihilo.
“Slave Two is packaged and prepped for delivery,” Atlas drawls.
“Blood Medusa primed. Dance floor’s looking crowded, confirm
escort landfall and chaperone overwatch.”
“Landfall confirmed. Escorts: Love, Death, and Storm delivered
to chalk, minus twenty. ETA to handshake forty minutes.
Chaperone overwatch primed. Request escort handshake
confirmation. Delivery active pending your go.”
“Registers. Will confirm handshake. Anteater out.”
The audio clicks off.
Slave Two they call my friend. Since the day Sevro and I hijacked
Orion’s ship in our escape over Luna, the Blue has been my
confidante, my stalwart ally, my saving grace against the incredible
sophistication of Gold naval Praetors. Now she is their captive.
Slave Two. Those motherfuckers.
Before we arrived, Orion was kidnapped by the Fear Knight from
her headquarters in Mercury’s capital of Tyche. Her personal guard
slaughtered. Her fingers left on her bed to mock the Free Legions.
Unable to extract her to orbit, the Fear Knight managed to stay a
step ahead of the trackers my commanders sent in pursuit. I listened
to the bastard’s reports as he skinned some of them alive and
tortured Orion in his hidden mountain bases. Today, he attempts to
ferry her to orbit to face Atalantia’s arcane psychotechs. It will be a
neural extraction—a science in which only my wife is Atalantia’s
equal. Orion may have resisted torture, but when Atalantia peels
through the layers of her mind, the planetary defense architecture of
the Republic will be laid bare.
I cannot permit that to happen.
“Fascist assholes,” my niece, Rhonna, mutters and tightens her
synaptic gloves in Alexandar’s direction.
Other documents randomly have
different content
 “Well, it would look a bit funny, wouldn’t it, to trust folks as to put
their money in the box and then chain the box down?”
“I don’t see——” began Jack. But just then an elevator descended,
the door opened, and out walked Mr. Adams.
“Ready for business, eh, boys? Well, you look very nice, very nice,
indeed. Hm; cigars, cigarettes, magazines, candy—quite a stock of
goods. Got any Vista de Isla cigars? I see you haven’t, though. It
might pay you to keep a box, boys. I run out of them now and then
and I might as well get them from you as send around to the club
for them. Well, I’ll take a Recorder, I guess. Have to patronise home
industries, you know.”
Mr. Adams laid down his two pennies and took a paper from the
pile. Then:
“Hello,” he said, “you’ve got the Springfield paper, eh? Good idea.
I’ll take that. And Cleveland and Cincinnati and—Well, you’re
enterprising! Are these today’s? Guess I’ll take the Cincinnati paper,
too. Will you have these regularly?”
“Yes, sir, and others besides; Chicago and Pittsburg and probably
New York.”
Mr. Adams viewed Joe curiously across the counter. “You ought to
get on, my boy,” he said finally as he counted out an additional ten
cents. “You’re the first person in this city ever thought of keeping a
Chicago paper. I don’t know that you’ll ever sell one, but you
certainly deserve to. Business good so far?”
“Well,” replied Joe, with a twinkle, “we’ve sold three newspapers
for twelve cents.”
“Eh? Oh, then I’m the first customer, am I? Quite an honour, I’m
sure. I’ll have to continue my patronage, boys. Good luck to you and
good-night.”
A few minutes later the exodus from the building began and no
one passed out of the building without pausing to look at the news-
stand, whether he purchased or not. But many did purchase. The
pile of evening papers went fast and long before the building had
emptied itself Joe had to make a hurried trip down to the Recorder
Building and get a new supply. Several sales of cigars and cigarettes
were made as well, while a young lady typewriter smilingly
purchased a box of candy. The only department of the establishment
not patronised was the magazine department, and when, at six, they
closed up shop for the night, Jack remedied that by buying a copy of
a monthly devoted to scientific achievements.
Before they went they counted their receipts and found that they
totalled three dollars and ten cents. Just how much of that amount
represented profit they could not reckon off-hand, but they were
very well satisfied with the result of a little more than an hour’s
business. After everything had been stowed away under the counter
and locked up for the night the partners took themselves off, arm in
arm, looking as much as possible like prosperous merchants.
 CHAPTER VIII
MR. CHESTER YOUNG

The Adams Building News Stand prospered from the first. There
was never a doubtful moment. On Thursday business started off
with a rush and when, just before half-past eight, Joe and Jack had
to hurry unwillingly away to school, even Joe, now the more
pessimistic of the two, had to acknowledge that success seemed
assured. After school they flew back again to discover that the stand
was well-nigh exhausted of aught save magazines and that even
those were half gone! They had placed what they supposed to be a
sufficient supply of cigars, cigarettes, and tobacco on top of the
case, but one cigar-box was utterly empty, another held but three
cigars, all but two packages of cigarettes had disappeared, and the
candy was down to the final layer of boxes! The morning papers had
been pretty nearly sold out before they had left, and so the sight of
the empty counter to the left of the showcase produced no surprise.
But the inroad made on the rest of their stock brought gasps of
astonishment. An awful fear assailed the partners and with one
accord they grabbed at the cash-box. But its weight and the
pleasant clinking sound it gave out reassured them, and when, after
they had taken account of stock and had reckoned up the contents
of the box, they discovered that not only had every purchase been
honestly paid for, but that someone had dropped in five cents too
much, they viewed each other triumphantly.
“Eight dollars and fifty-five cents!” exclaimed Jack awedly. “What
do you know about that? And it’s not four o’clock yet!”
“What’s troubling me,” replied Joe happily, “is how we are to stock
up again by morning! We can get the cigars, all right, but we’ve got
to have more candy and it takes a day or two to get that. And the
magazines are more than half gone, too.”
“Couldn’t we telegraph to Cincinnati for the candy?”
“Yes, but I guess we’d better buy some here meanwhile.”
“But there won’t be any profit on it!” wailed Jack.
“No, but we can’t help that. We’ve got to keep the stock up. We’ll
telegraph the Cincinnati folks to send fifty pounds this time.”
“Fifty!” exclaimed Jack doubtfully. “Isn’t that a lot?”
“Yes, but we’ve sold five pounds already and we don’t want to
have to order oftener than a week. The way they pack it, it keeps
fresh for a long time. Maybe it would be a good idea to put in a few
pound boxes of a better grade. Guess I’d better go around to the
cigar folks now and get a couple more boxes. What was that brand
that Mr. Adams mentioned?”
“Mister Dyler, or something like that,” answered Jack. “I didn’t get
it.”
“Neither did I. But I guess they’ll know what I’m after. And we
ought to have some more magazines, I suppose, if only for show.
It’s most time for the March numbers to come out, though, and we
don’t want to overstock on the February. I’ll telephone to the news
company and ask them to send a half-dozen with the out-of-town
papers. I’d better hurry, too, or they’ll be here. Where is the nearest
telephone? Look here, Jack, Mr. Adams ought to have a public booth
down here in the lobby.”
“That’s so. It would be sort of handy for us, wouldn’t it? Do you
suppose he would if we asked him?”
“I don’t know, but I’m not afraid to ask. Maybe, though, we could
afford one of our own.”
“At thirty-six dollars a year? You must be crazy!”
 “Is that what it costs? How about a two-party line? Or——” Joe
stopped and regarded his partner thoughtfully.
“Out with it!” demanded Jack.
“Why couldn’t we have a public ’phone—one of those drop-a-
nickel affairs, you know, and set it here by the wall? I wouldn’t be
surprised if we made enough to get our own calls for nothing.”
“We might,” agreed Jack hesitantly. “How much would we have to
pay the telephone company?”
“I don’t know. Tomorrow I’ll go around there and ask. Well, I’m
off. Pay the news company when they come. And pay for the
Recorders, too. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Why don’t you go across to the store?” asked Jack. “The
telephone’s in the outer office. Just tell them I said you were to use
it.”
“Too cheeky. I’d rather pay for the call myself. Out of the firm’s
money!” he added laughingly as he disappeared through the
revolving doors.
He was back some twenty minutes later. “Anything doing?” he
asked as he deposited two bundles on the counter.
“Lots,” replied Jack. “I sold two cigars, a package of cigarettes,
one Recorder, and a box of these mints. And I paid for the evening
papers and a dollar and twelve cents to the news company.”
“Did you put down what you’d paid out?”
“No. Should I?”
“If you don’t we’ll get all mixed up. I’ve got a small blankbook
here and I guess we’d better start in and keep a careful account of
everything. What papers did the news company bring?”
“All sorts. There’s one from New York. We’ll never sell that, Joey.”
“I don’t believe we will, but it doesn’t matter. After a week or so
we’ll find out just what papers we can sell, and how many, and then
we’ll confine ourselves to those. They brought the magazines I
asked them to? Oh, I see. All right. Things begin to look a bit more
business-like again. Undo this candy, will you, while I get the cigars
out. By the way, what do you think? That cigar that Mr. Adams
smokes is called Vista de Isla and it costs seventeen dollars and
twenty cents a hundred!”
“Great Scott! You didn’t buy any, I hope?”
“Twenty-five; four dollars and thirty cents. Here they are.”
“Well, but, say, Joey, that’s pretty steep! Suppose he doesn’t buy
any?”
“He will. He said he would. And the chap who sold these says we
must have a wet sponge in the case to keep the cigars moist. So I
got one. Also a five-cent glass dish to put it in. Run upstairs and get
it wet, will you, while I arrange these?”
“All right. How much do those cigars sell for apiece, Joey?”
“The man said twenty-five cents, but I don’t suppose Mr. Adams
pays that much at his club for them. I thought I’d ask him. We can
sell them at twenty cents and still make a good profit.”
“Twenty-five cents!” murmured Jack. “Think of paying that much
for one cigar! And they don’t look much, either.”
“You happen to be looking at the ten-centers,” laughed Joe. “The
others are here.” He opened the lid of the flat box and revealed a
row of greenish-black cigars quite different from the others in
appearance and aroma. “I guess these are something extra, eh?”
“Must be, but I think anyone’s a chump to pay a quarter for a
cigar,” responded Jack. “Where’s your old sponge?”
Business that evening was brisk and the seventy-five copies of the
Recorder disappeared like magic and Jack had to hurry out on the
sidewalk and buy extra copies from a newsboy. “Tomorrow we’ll get
a hundred,” said Joe. “If we don’t sell them they can go back.” By
closing time three dollars and thirty-four cents had been added to
the amount in the box, swelling the total sales for the day to over
fourteen dollars!
That evening, in Jack’s room, they tried to figure their profits.
They had taken in in the two days exactly seventeen dollars and
forty-four cents. Since, however, they had not been able to enter
each sale as made, it was difficult to arrive at the desired result.
They knew that on each morning or afternoon paper they made a
profit of one cent, that on each half-pound box of candy they made
eight cents, that magazines netted from four to six cents, and that
cigars, cigarettes, and tobacco sold for from ten to twenty-five per
cent. above cost. After much figuring they came to the conclusion
that their profits were represented by about one-quarter of the
amount taken in, or practically four dollars and thirty cents.
“And at that rate,” said Joe, “we ought to make a monthly profit of
about one hundred and twelve dollars!”
Jack stared unbelievingly. Then his face fell. “But we’ve got to pay
the rent out of that,” he mourned.
Joe laughed. “You’re getting to be a regular Shylock, old man! The
rent is only eighteen and that leaves us ninety-four. And besides that
we haven’t to pay any this month.”
Jack brightened again. “That makes forty-seven dollars a month
for each of us, doesn’t it? And that’s nearly twelve dollars a week!
Joey, we’ll be millionaires before we know it!”
“Well, it pays better than carrying that newspaper route! Another
thing, Jack; there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do better as time
goes on. We can keep other things, you know, like post-cards and—
Look here, why not get a good line of Amesville views?”
“Views? What sort of views?”
“Why, you know; the City Hall and First Presbyterian Church and
the Adams Building, of course, and City Park and all the rest of the
show places. Have them made into post-cards, I mean. There’s a
firm in Detroit that’ll print them for us, and they don’t cost much of
anything.”
“Sounds all right. I guess there are lots of things we could sell that
we haven’t thought of yet.”
“There’s one thing I’d like to do,” said Joe thoughtfully, “and that’s
have a special brand of cigars made for us. That is, we don’t have
them made for us exactly. We just select a good brand and then the
factory puts a special label on them. See what I mean? ‘Adams
Building Perfecto’ or something like that. If we got a real good
quality, Jack, and sort of pushed it we might get quite a trade. As far
as I can see there’s no reason why we should depend on the folks in
the building for our trade. If we carry things people want they will
come in from outside for them. It’s just as easy to drop into the
Adams Building lobby as it is to go into a regular store. We might
run an advertisement in the paper after we get ahead a bit. ‘Try the
Adams Building Perfecto, the best ten-cent smoke in the city. Sold at
the Adams Building News-Stand.’”
“You can think of a lot of ways to spend our profits,” said Jack
sadly.
“Advertising pays,” replied Joe. “Anyway, we haven’t fairly started
yet, Jack. You wait until we’ve been there a couple of months and I’ll
wager our sales will be double what they were today. For one thing,
the building isn’t filled yet. There are lots of offices still vacant. Every
time one is let we get one or two or maybe a half-dozen prospective
customers. Come to think of it, Jack, there’s no reckoning that, for it
isn’t only the folks who occupy offices in the building who will trade
with us, but the folks who have business in the building, folks who
come in and out. I’d like to know, just for fun, how many go through
that door every day. Bet you there’s nearly five hundred of them, or
will be when the offices are all rented! Suppose, now, that only one
out of ten stopped and bought from us, and that they only spent five
cents apiece. That would be—fifty times five—two dollars and a half
right there, besides our regular trade. And I guess they’d average
nearer ten cents apiece than five, too.”
 “How much,” asked Jack, “would we have to pay a clerk to tend
the stand for us?”
“I’ve thought of that,” replied Joe, “and I guess we could get a
young chap for about six dollars a week.”
“The fellow we’d get for that price wouldn’t be worth having,” said
Jack sensibly. “I think it would pay us, perhaps not just now, but
after we’d got going well, to hire a real clerk and pay him ten dollars
a week; some fellow who had sold cigars and things like that and
who could make sales; talk things up, you know, and hustle.”
“I guess you’re right,” answered Joe, after a moment’s thought.
“And I believe it would pay us to do that. I dare say there will be
times when folks won’t have just the right change with them and
we’ll lose sales. Besides, when we get to playing baseball we won’t
either of us be able to be at the stand except just for a few minutes
in the morning and evening. Well, we don’t have to think of that
quite yet.”
“Indeed, we do, though, Joey. In another week we’ll be staying in
the cage until five o’clock or so. Of course, that scheme of putting
folks on their honor has worked all right so far, and I don’t say it
wouldn’t always work, but someone’s got to be at the stand to
receive the papers and pay for them.”
“We might have a monthly account with the papers and the news
company,” said Joe thoughtfully. “I guess they’d be willing. Still,
you’re right, Jack. We’ll start out and see if we can find a clerk. How
would it do to advertise?”
“I suppose that’s the only way. Or, hold on, why not look at the
advertisements? Some fellow may be advertising right now for a job
like this. I’ll go down and get the paper and we’ll have a look.”
They found nothing promising that evening, but two days later
they did, and in response to their reply, left at the Recorder office,
Mr. Chester Young called on them Sunday afternoon. Mr. Young was
a well-dressed, dapper youth of twenty-one or -two who consumed
cigarettes voluminously and had a pair of somewhat shifty black
eyes. The boys didn’t fancy his personality much, but he convinced
them that he knew how to sell goods and presented
recommendations from a former employer in Youngstown that read
extremely well. They dismissed the applicant with a promise to let
him hear definitely from them on Tuesday, and Mr. Chester Young,
tucking his bamboo cane under his arm, took himself smilingly out.
“What do you think?” asked Jack when the front door had closed.
“I think,” replied Joe, “that I wouldn’t trust that chap around the
corner.”
“Me, too. But he looks smart, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. I think he’d be just the fellow for us if—How much does a
small cash register cost?”
“Search me! But if we had one of those——”
“Yes, I guess Mr. Chester Young wouldn’t have much chance to
get absent-minded with the cash. First of all, though, we’d better get
that man he worked for on the long distance and see what he has to
say about Chester. Then, if it’s all right, we can price a cash register.
I suppose we could get one for twenty-five dollars, don’t you?”
“I should hope so! Where’d we get the twenty-five?”
“We’ll have it in another day or two. We’re pretty well stocked up
now and won’t need to buy much for a week, I guess. I wish,
though, that Mr. Chester Young could look you in the eye for more
than a thousandth part of a second!”
“So do I. And did you see the number of cigarettes he smoked in
the time he was here? Do you suppose he’d help himself from
stock?”
“If he did there wouldn’t be any stock very long,” laughed Joe.
“Let’s go through the advertisements in today’s paper again and see
if we missed any. Seems to me there must be more fellows than Mr.
Chester Young looking for work.”
 “Yes, but most of them want to be book-keepers or chauffeurs.
We may want a chauffeur some day, but not quite yet, and as for a
book-keeper——”
“We need one, but can’t afford him,” ended Joe. “You’re right.
There’s nothing here. I guess Chester’s the only thing in sight.”
Five days later Mr. Chester Young was installed behind the counter
in the Adams Building and at his elbow reposed a neat cash register.
The former employer of Mr. Chester Young had reported most
favourably on that gentleman; indeed, to hear him one could not
help wondering why he had deprived himself of Mr. Young’s services!
Joe left the telephone booth rather puzzled, but there seemed no
good reason for doubting the Youngstown man’s veracity, and they
decided after some hesitation to give the applicant a trial—if they
could find a cash register they could afford to buy! Fortune favoured
them. The proprietor of a fruit store whose business was expanding
had one to sell and they closed the bargain with him at seventeen
dollars, thereby securing a machine that had originally cost forty-
five.
Mr. Chester Young started out well. The sales during his first day
at the stand were better than for any other day, and neither Joe nor
Jack could see that the supply of cigarettes had fallen off unduly.
Perhaps, as Jack pointed out, this was because they did not carry
the kind affected by their clerk! They did not find that Mr. Young
improved much on acquaintance, but since he was attending to
business and seemed to take a genuine interest in the venture they
tried to be fair to him and to like him. In any event, it was lucky that
they had found someone to tend shop, for on the fifteenth day of
the month Captain Sam Craig called the baseball candidates
together in the cage in the basement of the school building, and for
a long time after neither Joe nor his partner had much leisure to
devote to their business venture.
 CHAPTER IX
IN THE BASEBALL CAGE

The High School building stood by itself in the centre of a block in

the newer residence district of Amesville. It was a handsome
structure of mottled, yellow-brown brick and sandstone, four stories
in height. On the top floor was a large hall used for meetings and for
morning drill. When, some six years before, the building had been
planned those in charge of the work had believed that in providing
that hall and supplying it with a modest amount of gymnastic
paraphernalia they were providing liberally and for all time. To their
surprise, no sooner was the building occupied than demands came
for additional contrivances, and no sooner had those demands been
satisfied than that troublesome body, the Alumni Association, put
forth a plea for a baseball cage in the basement! It was over a year
before the cage materialised, and another year before shower-baths
and lockers were installed, but at the time of our story those things
were long-established facts and youthful Amesville was deriding the
cage as too small and the shower-baths as out of style!
The basement of the school building was but half underground,
and numerous windows supplied light on one side and one end of
the cage. But in February the days were still short and the light did
not last long, especially when, as on the fifteenth, the sun was
hidden by dull clouds. Since, however, the first week of baseball
practice was confined to setting-up exercises and dumb-bell work,
light was not of great consequence.
Exactly thirty-two boys reported that afternoon at a quarter to
four in the cage. Of this number some fourteen or fifteen were
holdovers from last season’s First and Second Teams, fellows like
Sam Craig, “Buster” Healey, Sidney Morris, Toby Williams, Gordon
Smith, and Jack Strobe. Tom Pollock was not present, since his
duties at the store in which he was employed frequently kept him
from participation in preliminary work. The coach, Mr. Talbot, was a
wide-awake-looking man of some twenty-eight years, a former high
school player and now a lawyer who, in spite of a growing practice,
found time every year to take the baseball players in hand. Today
Mr. Talbot gathered the candidates together and spoke energetically
and to the point.
“I’m sorry not to see more candidates,” he said. “Some of the
fellows think that they can keep away until we get outdoors and
then report. Well, they can, but I give them fair warning that they
will find themselves handicapped. This indoor work isn’t designed
just to keep you fellows out of mischief in the afternoons. It’s real
stuff. It’s important. You can’t go out on the field and make any sort
of a showing if your muscles are bound. That’s what this indoor
practice is for, to limber up your muscles, train your eye, get your
brain working. Some few of you have been playing hockey, and
that’s good preparation for what’s ahead, but most of you haven’t
done a thing since last Fall and your muscles are tied up in knots.
First thing, then, is to get so you can use them without hurting
them, and so, before you touch a baseball or a bat, you’ll have a
week—maybe two—of setting-up drill and dumb-bell exercises, and,
now and then, a run outdoors when the ground gets in shape. It
isn’t interesting, I know, but it’s necessary, and every one of you can
help yourself a lot if you’ll keep in mind all the time that what you’re
doing you’re doing for a purpose and not just to pass the time.
When you stretch a muscle I want you to keep your mind on that.
Don’t merely go through the motions thinking about the moving
picture show you saw last night or wondering how soon you’ll get
through. Put your mind on what you’re doing. Say to yourself, ‘I’m
flexing these muscles to make them strong and supple.’ It will tell
later on. If you don’t believe me, ask the fellows who have tried it
before. Now I’ll ask you to form in lines across the floor, just as you
do upstairs for morning drill. That’s the idea. I guess most of you
know the drill. Those who don’t will watch me and learn it. All right,
fellows. Attention!
“I can see that a good many of you don’t know the position called
for. It’s the position of the soldier. I supposed you learned that in
morning drill. Heels on a line, now, and close together, and feet
turned out at an angle of forty-five degrees. Knees straight, but not
locked. Stand straight from the hips. Put your shoulders back,
arching your chest a little. Let your arms hang naturally, elbows
back, hands slightly to the rear of the trousers seam. Some of you
look as if you were frozen. Get out of it! Ease up! You, third from the
left in the second row, relax a little. That’s better. Now, then, heads
erect, chins in, eyes ahead. There you are. Probably some of you are
finding the position a bit uncomfortable, which shows that you need
just the exercise you’re going to get here. First exercise, fellows.
Remaining at attention, bend the head back as far as it will go and
then forward. Exercise! One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—
eight! Attention! Now, from side to side, keeping the neck muscles
tense. First to the right as far as you can comfortably go and then to
the left. Exercise! Right—left—right—left—right—left—right—left!
Attention!
“Keep your stomach in, Williams. That’s better. Second exercise,
fellows. Raise your arms in front of you, palms down. Now stretch
them sidewise, turning the palms up, keeping the muscles tense
always. Exercise! One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight!
Attention! Now relax the muscles and swing the arms backward and
forward like this. Exercise!... Now your shoulders. Muscles tense.
Move them forward, then up, then back, then down into position
again. Get that? Try it. Exercise! One—two——”
And so it went for thirty minutes, until, in spite of numerous brief
intervals of rest, more than half of those present were out of breath
and aching in all sorts of unaccustomed places! Joe, for one, had
never realised that he had so many muscles in his body as were
called into play this afternoon! The exercises ended with the body-
lift while lying face-downwards, and by that time even the more
seasoned of the candidates were ready to quit. Mr. Talbot viewed the
flushed faces with satisfaction.
“That’s all for today. Tomorrow we’ll try more. After that we’ll use
the bells. Now give your names to Mifflin—Oh, he isn’t here? Well,
I’ll take them. After that get under the shower and don’t stand
around too much. It’s easy to take cold when your pores are open.
Tomorrow we’ll start promptly at four. Try not to be late, please.
Names, now.”
So it went every afternoon for a week. A half-dozen more martyrs
joined the squad in that space of time. Gradually some of the first
exercises were eliminated from the programme and the dumb-bell
drill took their place. That dumb-bell work certainly gave surprising
results, as Joe confided to Jack one evening as they hurried from
school to the Adams Building. “I can turn my wrists in all sorts of
ways,” laughed Joe. “They’re beginning to feel as if they didn’t have
any bones in them!”
“A few days ago I felt as if I didn’t have anything but bones,”
replied Jack. “We’re almost through with this business, thank
goodness. If the weather is all right about Saturday morning you’ll
see us loping across the landscape, Joey. Bat is foxy about that.”
Jack chuckled. “He always has a press of business when it comes to
taking a hike!”
“So would I if I was coaching,” laughed Joe. “Wonder if he
wouldn’t like me to stay behind and help him!”
“Ask him! I dare you to!”
Jack’s prediction proved right. On Thursday of that week the
weather turned warm and windy and the ground, which had been
like a wet sponge, dried so that it was possible to set foot to it
without going in to the ankle. Sam Craig took charge and, lightly
attired, the squad followed him over the better part of a two-mile
journey that led across fields and over walls and, finally, back to
town by the road. They alternated walking with jogging, but there
was no let-up save for some five or six fellows who gave out before
the romp was over. On the following Monday the first baseball
appeared in the cage, and after a short setting-up drill and a brief
session with the wooden dumb-bells the candidates were lined up on
opposite sides of the cage and the ball was passed from side to side.
“Swing your arms, fellows,” instructed the coach. “Act as though
you were going to throw the ball over the building. Get all your
muscles into play. Don’t hurry it, Smith. Slow and easy. That’s the
idea. I want you all to get so you can put the ball squarely into the
next fellow’s hands without making him move out of place for it.”
Later two more balls were started going, and then the idea was to
pass back and forth as quickly as possible, trying to catch the other
fellows unawares. That was fun, and the cage was soon ringing with
laughter. Mr. Talbot, taking his place at one side of the floor, enjoyed
it as much as any of them. A few days after that the battery
candidates were given a half-hour to themselves and practice for the
rest began at four-fifteen. Occasionally Tom Pollock reported and
pitched to Sam Craig or to Jack Speyer, who was slated as Sam’s
understudy. With Tom in the pitching practice were Toby Williams
and Carl Moran. Toby Williams was an able substitute for Tom, but
Moran, who was only sixteen, had a lot to learn. Joe frequently went
early to the cage and watched the pitching staff at work, and his
admiration for Tom Pollock increased vastly as he noted the ease
and certainty with which that youth shot the ball into Sam Craig’s
waiting glove.
Batting practice began about the first of March. A net was
stretched near the further end of the cage and the candidates took
turns facing either Williams or Moran; infrequently, Tom Pollock.
They were supposed to merely tap the ball, but sometimes they
became over-eager and the sphere would go crashing into the iron
netting at the other end of the cage and the pitcher, arising from the
floor, would pathetically request the batters to “Cut out the
slugging!”
One or two of the early volunteers dropped out of the squad for
one reason or another and their places were taken by newcomers.
By the first week in March, at which time, if the spring was a normal
one, they usually got out of doors, the baseball candidates were in
hard and fit condition. Already Coach Talbot was able to form a fairly
correct idea of the possibilities of most of the forty-one or -two
fellows who now comprised the squad. George Mifflin, the manager,
was custodian of a mysterious book, in which, opposite the various
names, was set down much interesting information which the fellows
would have given much to read. In this, at Bat’s command, Mifflin
set down each day little marks and figures after the names,
memoranda practically understandable by Bat alone. Now and then
came one of those cross-country jaunts—there were five of them
that season—and now and then the squad was taken outside, where
the footing was not too soft, and allowed to throw and catch. But
with these exceptions, no outdoor work was indulged in until the
second week in March, for on the fifth a miniature blizzard swept
down the valley, undoing the good work performed by a fortnight of
mild weather and drying winds. That blizzard had a lot of harsh
things said about it. It was probably as unpopular a visitation of
snow and sleet and ice and, subsequently, rain and slush as ever
visited Amesville! But there was nothing for it but to wait for better
conditions and, in the meanwhile, continue the drudgery of indoor
practice, a drudgery that had grown distasteful to everyone by this
time.
Joe firmly believed that the work in the cage had done him a lot of
good, even aside from the matter of physical conditioning. He had
found that he could meet the ball in front of the batting net and roll
it across the floor about as often as most of the fellows, and he was
perhaps more impatient than any of them to get out on the turf and
discover whether his hitting ability had really improved. Jack, himself
a clever batter, predicted that Joe was destined to become one of
the team’s best hitters that Spring.
“You’ve got it all over ‘Handsome Frank’ already,” Jack declared.
“If you can cover the bag half as well as he can you’ll stand a James
H. Dandy chance to cop that position, Joey.”
 “Foley’s been doing fully as well as I have at the net,” responded
Joe doubtfully. “I don’t believe I can beat him out, Jack. He looks
like a pretty good player. He’s built for a first baseman, too, with his
height and reach and—and everything.”
“Well, I don’t see that he’s got so terribly much on you in height,
old man. And as for reach, why, even if your arms aren’t quite as
long as his, you’re a lot spryer on your pins. You’ve got a mighty
nice, easy way of pulling them in to you, Joey. I hope you make it,
that’s all I hope.”
“So do I, but, as I say, Foley——”
“Oh, Foley’s no wonder, after all. That’s what you want to get into
that solid ivory dome of yours. You’ve begun to think that you can’t
beat him; that’s your trouble. What you want to do is to make up
your mind that you’re better than he is and that he’s got to prove
the contrary. That’s the way I beat out Joe Kenney, last year. Joe had
been holding down the job for two years when I got it into my head
that I’d like to play out there in the left garden. So I said to myself,
said I: ‘Jack, you may not think it now, but you’re a perfectly
marvellous left fielder, one of the best, regular first chop, whatever
that is! Try and accustom yourself to the fact and hold your head up
and stick your chest out. And if anyone asks you don’t hesitate to tell
them.’ Well, sir, in a little while I had myself hypnotised into acting
like a regular fielder! When I’d meet Kenney I’d look at him pityingly
and say to myself, ‘You poor old has-been, you haven’t the ghost of
a chance this spring. I’m sorry for you, but it’s my turn.’ I got to
believing it, and so did Kenney! About the middle of the season
Kenney was sitting on the bench and I was pulling ’em down out
there. Of course, a slight ability to hit the ball now and then had
something to do with it, but a lot of it was just conning myself into
thinking I was the real goods. You try it, Joey. It’s a great little trick.”
“You’re a silly ape,” laughed Joe. “The reason you ousted the other
chap was because you batted around three hundred and he didn’t. If
I bat over two hundred I’ll be doing well.”
 “Of course, you will! How many on the team last year hit for over
that, do you suppose? I don’t believe there were four altogether.
Two hundred, say you, slightingly! Two hundred’s good batting for
chaps of our age, and don’t forget it. And my average last year
wasn’t three hundred; it was two-ninety-three. I want credit for
those seven points you stuck on!”
“Foley doesn’t like me,” observed Joe after a moment’s silence.
“You can see that.”
“Why should he?” Jack demanded. “Don’t you suppose he knows
that you’re after his place and that you stand a pretty good chance
of getting it? What do you expect him to do? Hug you?”
“No, but—Oh, well, let’s forget it. I wish, though, we could get out
of doors. When do you suppose we will?”
“In exactly four days,” responded Jack without hesitation. “You see
if I’m not right. Predicting’s the easiest thing I do.”
The prediction proved correct.
 CHAPTER X
STRIKING A BALANCE

It is not to be supposed that devotion to baseball dulled the

partners’ interest in their business venture. That was still absorbingly
exciting. Every morning at a little before eight either Joe or Jack, or
sometimes both of them, went to the Adams Building and
superintended the opening of the stand for the day’s business. The
counter was dressed with its magazines and boxes of confections
and newspapers, the cash register set up and unlocked, and
business was talked over with Young. In the afternoon, usually a
little after five, both boys returned and Young, giving an account of
his stewardship, went off. Young had turned out very satisfactorily
and his employers were a little ashamed of their suspicions
regarding his integrity. It only proved, Joe declared, that it didn’t pay
to judge a fellow by his looks. Young was a smart salesman, polite in
an off-hand way, and, so far at least, had neither caused shrinkage
in the cigarette stock or made away with a penny of cash.
Consequently both Joe and Jack tried to be friendly with him. That
they couldn’t quite succeed was not for the want of trying. There
was just one thing that they found objections to, and that was the
fact that the news-stand was fast becoming a favourite loafing place
for a number of the town’s “sports,” men and boys of about Young’s
age who had no apparent occupation save that of smoking
cigarettes. They had spoken to Young and he had agreed to do what
he could to keep the fellows away, but matters did not seem to
mend and the partners daily feared to receive a protest from Mr.
Adams.
Meanwhile the stand had branched out into new avenues of trade.
The “Adams Building Cigar” had appeared on the market and had
met with favour and rapidly increasing sales. A small advertisement
in the morning and evening papers had drawn attention to the cigar
and to the news-stand and the latter was no longer dependent on
the occupants of the building alone for patronage. The little shop
became a popular place and trade increased until, especially during
the noon hour, it was all Young could do to attend to customers.
A week or so after they had started in business they had been
called on by a young man who had proclaimed himself rather
importantly to be a representative of the Evening Recorder. The
result of his visit had been a half-column story in the next day’s
paper of the novel store where customers helped themselves and
paid on honour. It was a big advertisement for the little
establishment and for several days afterwards folks came in just to
see it and, usually, purchased something if only because of the
novelty.
Post-cards, too, were added, a series of six views of Amesville
scenes, and attained such popularity that Joe’s original order had to
be quickly duplicated. The picture of the Adams Building especially
sold like hot cakes. Puzzles were another addition to the stock,
ingenious contrivances of metal or wood or tin that could be
dropped in the pocket and that sold for exactly double what they
cost when purchased from the news company. The cigar trade,
however, was what accounted for most of the business done. The
little showcase was no longer too large for its contents. On the
contrary, it became more of a problem every week to find room in it
for the goods they wished to display. Instead of five brands of cigars
they now offered twelve, and of each brand they had to keep in
stock from two to four sizes. Cigarettes and smoking tobaccos had
also multiplied, while the top of the showcase held an assortment of
gum, candies, and small confections, as well as the revolving post-
card rack. In fact, the small space was already overcrowded and the
boys had been for some time contemplating making a request to Mr.
Adams for a shelf across the back to hold the cash register and the
overflow from the case.
 One evening Joe and Jack arrived at the building in a pelting rain
which had appeared without warning, and the exclamations of
dismay which he overheard as the feminine population of the
building faced the alternative of getting wet or being late for supper
put a new idea in Joe’s mind. The next day a sign appeared over the
stand: “Umbrellas for Rent.” They put in a dozen cheap cotton
umbrellas which, if not much to look at, performed their mission
satisfactorily. Customers, if they worked in the building, merely left
their names, paid a quarter and were supplied with protection from
the rain. In the course of time the dozen dwindled to five or six, but
by that time each had paid for itself thrice over and instead of
wasting effort in recovering the missing ones Joe bought more.
About this time an automatic telephone instrument was installed on
the counter and proved a great convenience to the boys and to
others as well.
At the end of the first four weeks of business the partners went
over their books—or book, to be more accurate. They found that
they had expended for stock, rent, clerk’s wages and incidentals the
sum of $226.50, that they had taken in $324.17, and that their net
profit was $97.67. While less than the estimate Joe had made, the
amount was held to be satisfactory, for Joe’s estimate had taken no
account of clerk’s wages and they were paying Mr. Chester Young
ten dollars a week. Something like thirty per cent. profit ought to
have satisfied anyone!
They paid off all indebtedness—there were no accounts save that
with the news company, which they settled weekly—set aside the
amount due Mr. Adams for rent to date and halved the balance, each
receiving as his share the sum of $48.83. The odd cent was left in
the treasury! Then Joe paid back to his partner the borrowed thirty
dollars, with interest at six per cent., although Jack insisted that Joe
should wait until the end of the next month at least. But Joe
preferred to get square, he declared, and proceeded to do so by
paying most of the eighteen dollars remaining to him to Aunt Sarah
for board and rent.
 Jack’s father laughingly told them that he thought they had been
in rather a hurry to divide the profits and that it might have been a
good idea to have left a portion of the money in the business. Joe,
however, explained that they would have to buy nothing for nearly a
week, except the newspapers, and by that time they would have
accumulated more profits. “You see, sir, we’re taking in about fifteen
dollars a day on an average, and of that nearly four dollars and a
half is clear profit. So we won’t have to keep any balance on hand.”
“I see,” said Mr. Strobe gravely. “And what do you intend to do
with all the money you make, boys?”
“I’m going to put mine in the bank, I guess,” answered Jack. “I’ve
tried to think of something to spend it for, but I can’t!”
“And how about you, Joe?”
“I think I’ll start a bank account, too, sir, but I won’t be able to for
another month at least. I pay three dollars a week to Aunt Sarah,
you know, and I’d like to send a little money to my mother.”
“You could have done that now if you hadn’t paid back that thirty,”
said Jack reproachfully.
“I know, but I like to feel that I’m squared up with everyone.
When I get, say, five hundred in the bank, if I ever do, I’d like to
invest it in something, Mr. Strobe. Could I, do you suppose?”
“Certainly. An excellent idea, Joe. You might find a small mortgage
through the bank, or you could buy a few shares of some safe stock
that would pay from four and a half to five per cent. You’ll get only
three and a half from the savings bank. When you get ready to
invest you let me know and I’ll help you find something.”
One Saturday evening Joe boarded a train and went to Columbus
to visit his mother, spending a very pleasant Sunday with her and
returning to Amesville late that night.
If there was anyone even distantly connected with Joe’s business
venture who did not thoroughly approve of it, it was Miss Sarah
Teele. Aunt Sarah was doubtless pleased that Joe was earning
money; she had a very healthy admiration for folks who could do
that, and a correspondingly poor opinion of those who couldn’t; but
the fly in Aunt Sarah’s ointment was the fact that her nephew’s
prosperity was due to the sale of cigars and cigarettes and tobacco.
That rather spoiled it all in her eyes, for she was a fervidly
outspoken foe to tobacco in all forms, and considered the use of it
closely akin to the use of intoxicating liquors. Aunt Sarah made one
exception. A decoction of tobacco and water was an excellent
preventive of bugs on her window plants! If she could have had her
way she would have limited its use to that purpose. Consequently,
from the first, she had viewed Joe’s venture askance, hinting darkly
that money earned by catering to the vice of smoking was tainted
money and would bring no benefit to its possessor. Joe argued with
her politely, but was quite unable to shake her conviction. In the end
they agreed to disagree, Aunt Sarah comforting herself with Joe’s
solemn promise not to allow the association with what Aunt Sarah
termed “the filthy weed” to undermine his morals to the extent of
causing him to smoke. For some weeks Joe frequently found Aunt
Sarah regarding him anxiously as though seeking for signs of moral
degeneracy produced by traffic in the obnoxious article. Not
discovering any, however, Aunt Sarah accepted the state of affairs
with the best philosophy she could command, and, to Joe’s
satisfaction, said no more about it. When he announced the result of
that first month’s balance his aunt’s struggle between pleasure and
disapproval was almost ludicrous.
 CHAPTER XI
HANDSOME FRANK

The Saturday forenoon following their conversation regarding

Frank Foley found Joe and his chum leaning against the counter in
Cummings and Wright’s hardware store. Jack was purchasing a new
sweater and Joe was assisting at the task. Joe would have liked just
such a garment as Jack was choosing, himself, but the next division
of profits was a long way off and until that occurred he was bound
to be in straitened circumstances. Jack had virtually decided on a
handsome brown sweater with a broad band of blue across the
chest and Tom Pollock, who had momentarily absented himself to
sell a “Junior League” ball to a grammar school youth, returned to
inquire:
“This one, Jack?”
Jack nodded doubtfully. “I guess so, Tom. It’s sort of heavy for
spring, but I suppose I’d better buy one that’ll be all right for next
fall, too.”
Tom agreed, adding: “The new uniforms will be along next week, I
think. They’re going to be the best ever. I’m getting them from a
different maker this year and he’s putting a lot better material into
them. You’ll need one, I suppose, Faulkner.”
Joe smiled “I’d like to think so,” he replied, “but I’m not counting
on it.”
“You might as well,” said Jack. “You’ll get in as a sub, anyway.
Don’t you say so, Tom?”
“I hope so. I haven’t seen Faulkner work, as a matter of fact, Jack.
Anyhow, with all due respect to Bat, I think it’s the outdoor work
that shows a chap up.”
“That’s what I say,” agreed Jack. “Fellows who can lay down the
cutest, darlingest little bunts on the cement floor swing like gates
when they get out on the turf and have the sky in front of them
instead of the wall of the cage. I’ve seen it happen often.”
“Still,” demurred Joe, “it seems to me all that work indoors must
be of some value. Don’t you consider it is, Pollock?”
“Oh, yes, I do. I think it’s fine for getting fellows in shape and on
edge, especially for the new chaps. What I mean is that when it
comes to actual playing the conditions out of doors are so different
that a fellow has to practically start all over again. At least that’s
been my experience. I’m talking of batting and fielding, you
understand, and not pitching. A pitcher can get his wing in shape
anywhere there’s room. Although, at that, I think working in the air
is away ahead of working down there with the steam pipes.”
“Do you think we’ll get out next week?” inquired Jack.
“Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if we started Monday. Sam tells me
the field’s in pretty good shape; a bit soft in places, but nothing
much.” Tom chuckled as he snapped the string around the bundle
and laid it in front of Jack. “Mr. Hall told a funny yarn one day in
here, fellows. You don’t know him, maybe, Faulkner, but you will
soon. He’s a dandy chap, and a double-dyed ‘fan.’”
“I’ve seen him,” replied Joe. “He knows the right place to buy
cigars.”
“Well, he told one day about a coach they had at college when he
was a freshman. I forget what college he went to; Sam could tell
you. But it seems that they had an awfully wet spring that year and
the diamond was on a rather low piece of ground, anyway, and it
wouldn’t dry out for them. So this coach got the idea of having the
players wear rubbers! Said it would be dangerous to have them work
on such wet ground without them because they might get
rheumatism and sciatica and grippe and various other things, and he
didn’t intend to lose half his team through illness just when it was
needed most. So he sent in a requisition to the athletic committee or
whoever attended to purchasing supplies—probably the manager—
for three or four dozen pairs of rubbers of assorted sizes. There was
a lot of argument about the expense and finally the coach got his
dander up and bought the rubbers himself, and one day the fellows
put them on and went out for their first practice on the field. The
field was as soft as mush and whenever you put your foot down it
went out of sight as far as your shin-bones! Mr. Hall said it was the
funniest thing he ever saw. About every man in college was out to
see what they called the ‘Gumshoe Nine,’ and they almost laughed
themselves to death. Every time a fielder started after a ball he’d
leave one or both of his rubbers sticking in the mud and have to go
back and hunt for them. Mr. Hall said that at one time there were
three pairs of rubbers sticking out of the base-path between second
base and the plate where the runners had left them in their hurry to
get around! Finally the coach sent back to town and got a box of
elastic bands and made the fellows snap them around their ankles
over the rubbers. Practice went better after that, but there was
almost a riot once, when one chap, who had stolen second, went
back to get his rubbers and the second baseman tagged him out!”
The laughter of Tom’s audience was interrupted by the opening of
the door and the advent of Frank Foley. Handsome Frank quite
deserved the title this morning. For a day or two there had been
unmistakable indications of spring, and Foley had responded to them
today by donning a Norfolk suit of very light homespun material with
knickerbockers, a pair of very green golf stockings, and a cap that
matched his suit. A pale heliotrope “sport shirt” from under whose
flaring collar emerged a vividly green scarf completed the costume,
except that he was, naturally, appropriately shod with brown rubber-
soled shoes. Even Tom was a bit taken back by the radiance of the
vision which sought the athletic goods department, and his “Hello,
Frank,” sounded rather feeble. The other boys nodded, Jack adding
a murmured salutation to the nod. Foley returned the greetings with
a remarkable absence of self-consciousness and joined the group.
 “What about a baseman’s glove, Tom?” he asked. “Anything new
in that line this spring?”
“No, nothing much different,” was the answer as Tom pulled some
boxes from a shelf. “You had one of these last year, didn’t you?” he
continued, placing a glove on the counter. Foley examined it
indifferently.
“Yes, that’s like the one I’ve got now. I thought maybe there was
something new on the market. How’s everything, Jack?”
“Pretty good, Frank. My eyes are troubling me a bit, though.”
“What’s the matter with them? They seemed all right at practice
yesterday.”
“I don’t know.” Jack gravely blinked. “They seem sort of weak. I
guess it’s the glare that hurts them, Frank. You couldn’t turn your
coat collar up, could you?”
“Oh, that’s the idea?” said Foley calmly. “Don’t you like what I
wear, Jack?”
“Oh, I like it, all right, but my eyes sort of go back on me. What
are you impersonating, Frank, a custard pie?”
“You chaps have a lot of fun with my clothes, don’t you?” inquired
Foley good-naturedly enough. “I don’t mind, though. I’d certainly
hate to go around looking like a tramp, the way some of you do.”
Foley seated himself on the counter, swinging his brightly-hued legs,
and viewed Jack smilingly. “Any come-back to that?” he inquired.
“There’s a come-back from me,” said Tom quietly. “Gentlemen will
not, others must not, sit on the counters, Frank.”
“Oh, all right; I’ll try to stand up a bit longer. I don’t believe you’ve
got anything there I want, Tom.” He glanced unenthusiastically at
the several gloves displayed. “I’ll use the one I’ve got. It went all
right last year and I guess it’s still good.”
“You won’t need a glove much this spring,” said the irrepressible
Jack. “They’re not worn on the bench, Frank.”
 Foley winked untroubledly. “Don’t worry about me, old chap. I
may not be any McInnes, you know, but I never noticed much
resemblance between you and Tris Speaker. You watch out that you
don’t keep that bench warm yourself.”
“Frank, you know very well,” replied Jack severely, “that when it
comes to playing baseball I’ve got it all over you. You’re not a bad
first baseman when you’ve got time for it, but you know mighty well
you can’t bat over a hundred. I like you, Frank; I appreciate your
many fine qualities, and I just love your picturesqueness, but I don’t
just see you holding down that first sack beyond the middle of
March. I’m saying this to you so you won’t be too awfully
disappointed when you lose your job.”
“Thanks.” Foley laughed amusedly. “Just who is the coming
wonder that gets my position, Jack? Is it Faulkner here? Is he telling
you how good you are, Faulkner?”
“He’s just talking,” replied Joe uncomfortably.
“I’m not saying who it is, Frank,” said Jack. “There are two or
three who look good to me in your place. I’d be sorry to see you go,
though. I certainly do like you, Frank.”
“Yes, you do—like poison,” responded Foley with a grin. “Tell you
what I’ll do, Jack. I’ll bet you anything you like that I’ll play in more
games—contests with outside teams, I mean—than you do this
spring. Want to take that?”
“Ger-ladly, old sport! I’ll bet you”—Jack’s eyes twinkled about the
cases and shelves—“I’ll bet you one of those nice leather bat-cases,
Frank. I’ve always wanted a bat-case. How much are they, Tom?”
“A dollar and a quarter and two seventy-five.”
“I mean the all-leather ones.”
“Two seventy-five.”
“That’s the idea. How does that strike you, Frank? Feel like
spending that much to make me happy?”
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