finally he woke and asked me where we was, and I told him we was about 30 minutes out of Perkinsville. “Where the hell is that?” he said.
“I guess you never heard of the Perkinsville Scarlets,” I said.
“Sure I did,” he said. “I suppose you are 1 of their players.”
“I used to be,” I said.
“I could of guessed it,” he said. “You look like a ballplayer.”
“I am a pitcher,” said I.
We talked for a long time, and I suppose I told him my whole life history the way I been writing it here, though quickened up a good bit, right down to that very morning, and he asked me what was in the package Aaron give me. I clean forgot about it, and I reached up and took it out of my coat pocket.
In the package there was a money belt. It was made of waterproof leather with a zipper down the middle, and inside the zipper there was 5 bills of 10 dollars each, all green and crisp. He said I ought to put the belt on, and we went back in the washroom. There was a gang of men there, standing at the sinks in their undershirt, and this fellow give me a big build-up and told them I was going down to Aqua Clara to play for the Mammoths. Some of the men turned and looked at me, and 1 of them glanced me up and down and asked me if I did not think I was too undergrowed to get anywheres in baseball. We all got a good laugh out of that, for I was about twice as big as him and still growing. I could of stuck him in my pocket.
Then this other fellow showed the belt around, and they felt the material and said it was the best, and I pulled up my shirt and strapped it around my middle, and they all admired it, and a number of them asked me if I was really and truly signed to a Mammoth contract. I did very little talking. This other fellow chattered away, telling them my life history like I told it to him. We had breakfast, and pretty soon we was under the tunnel and in Grand Central, and we said goodby, and he said he would look for my name in the papers, and I said no need to look too close, for it would be up in the headlines. Then he went 1 way and I went another and I have not saw that wretched bum since.
I shuttled across to the west side and down to Penn Station. I had a layover of about 2 hours, and I checked my bags and went across Seventh into the building where the Mammoths have got their New York office. The office had a glass door with a lot of names wrote on it that I never heard of before, and I went in and seen a girl typewriter, and she smiled at me, and I said, “My name is Henry Wiggen,” and she said, “Yes, Mr. Wiggen. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I just come to see what the office looked like.” I looked around. There was a big collection of pictures on the wall, a few baseball players but mostly a lot of men all dressed up sitting around the conference table, and there was a date wrote under each. The typewriter got up and disappeared out a back door, and soon she come back with a man, and he said, “Can I be of some help, Mr. Higgens?”
“Wiggen,” I said.
“Can I be of some help?” he said.
“I was just looking,” I said. “I am Henry Wiggen.” He give the typewriter a look of puzzlement, and she give him 1 back, and I figured they did not catch the name, and I told them again, and the man asked me what my business was, and I said I was a baseball player. “It is funny I do not strike no bell in your head,” I said, “for you have just signed me on. I am on my way down to Aqua Clara.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Of course, there are a great many young men.”
“But there is only 1 of me,” I said.
“That is undoubtably true,” he said, and he give the typewriter another look, and she begun to giggle. The man did not giggle. But he stood there like he was about to bust out laughing, and I said to them, “I would like to know what the joke is all about if you 2 clucks would have the common ordinary decency to tell me.”
“There is no joke,” said the
“I guess you never heard of the Perkinsville Scarlets,” I said.
“Sure I did,” he said. “I suppose you are 1 of their players.”
“I used to be,” I said.
“I could of guessed it,” he said. “You look like a ballplayer.”
“I am a pitcher,” said I.
We talked for a long time, and I suppose I told him my whole life history the way I been writing it here, though quickened up a good bit, right down to that very morning, and he asked me what was in the package Aaron give me. I clean forgot about it, and I reached up and took it out of my coat pocket.
In the package there was a money belt. It was made of waterproof leather with a zipper down the middle, and inside the zipper there was 5 bills of 10 dollars each, all green and crisp. He said I ought to put the belt on, and we went back in the washroom. There was a gang of men there, standing at the sinks in their undershirt, and this fellow give me a big build-up and told them I was going down to Aqua Clara to play for the Mammoths. Some of the men turned and looked at me, and 1 of them glanced me up and down and asked me if I did not think I was too undergrowed to get anywheres in baseball. We all got a good laugh out of that, for I was about twice as big as him and still growing. I could of stuck him in my pocket.
Then this other fellow showed the belt around, and they felt the material and said it was the best, and I pulled up my shirt and strapped it around my middle, and they all admired it, and a number of them asked me if I was really and truly signed to a Mammoth contract. I did very little talking. This other fellow chattered away, telling them my life history like I told it to him. We had breakfast, and pretty soon we was under the tunnel and in Grand Central, and we said goodby, and he said he would look for my name in the papers, and I said no need to look too close, for it would be up in the headlines. Then he went 1 way and I went another and I have not saw that wretched bum since.
I shuttled across to the west side and down to Penn Station. I had a layover of about 2 hours, and I checked my bags and went across Seventh into the building where the Mammoths have got their New York office. The office had a glass door with a lot of names wrote on it that I never heard of before, and I went in and seen a girl typewriter, and she smiled at me, and I said, “My name is Henry Wiggen,” and she said, “Yes, Mr. Wiggen. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I just come to see what the office looked like.” I looked around. There was a big collection of pictures on the wall, a few baseball players but mostly a lot of men all dressed up sitting around the conference table, and there was a date wrote under each. The typewriter got up and disappeared out a back door, and soon she come back with a man, and he said, “Can I be of some help, Mr. Higgens?”
“Wiggen,” I said.
“Can I be of some help?” he said.
“I was just looking,” I said. “I am Henry Wiggen.” He give the typewriter a look of puzzlement, and she give him 1 back, and I figured they did not catch the name, and I told them again, and the man asked me what my business was, and I said I was a baseball player. “It is funny I do not strike no bell in your head,” I said, “for you have just signed me on. I am on my way down to Aqua Clara.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Of course, there are a great many young men.”
“But there is only 1 of me,” I said.
“That is undoubtably true,” he said, and he give the typewriter another look, and she begun to giggle. The man did not giggle. But he stood there like he was about to bust out laughing, and I said to them, “I would like to know what the joke is all about if you 2 clucks would have the common ordinary decency to tell me.”
“There is no joke,” said the
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