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Mr. Ditmas laughed. "Certainly, for a couple of years I was the physical director of the Y.M.C.A. in Akron, and I coached a 'Y' nine every Sunday afternoon."

The idea somehow shocked Abner, but perhaps for that very reason it attracted him; he agreed half-heartedly to the plan.

Mr. Ditmas was accustomed to half-hearted acquiescences so he said with the somewhat mechanical enthusiasm of all men who have been professional organizers of sports, "All right, you tell all the fellows you see to come out. I want our railroad boys to have as good a time as possible. We will organize to-morrow afternoon and will probably be able to get in a game or two."

"I'll tell 'em," agreed Abner dubiously.

Mr. Ditmas had a few more words for the boy, asked him how he was getting on, how he liked his job—the usual list of queries he had used in his "Y" organization work and was meant to found a friendly feeling between himself and his boys.

Abner Teeftallow was entirely unused to this mechanistic benevolence. He felt the spiritual automatism of it and could not make heads or tails of Mr. Ditmas. The two parted company at the intersection of the village streets, and Abner pursued his way to the Scovell House alone, his head filled with all sorts of suspicions as to what Mr. Ditmas might be up to.

The place where Abner boarded was a shabby two-story building with a spraddling mulberry tree in front of it, and nailed up to a limb projecting over the sidewalk was the sign. "Scovell House. Rates, $1.00 per day."

The Scovell House was the second-rate hostelry in Irontown and its patronage came from farmers, lumbermen, book agents, and ordinary labourers. This hotel suited its patrons precisely. No farmer who put up at the Scovell House was ever embarrassed by the conventions of its dining room or its lobby. He could eat in coat, waistcoat, or shirt sleeves; he could convey food to his mouth with spoon, knife, fork, or