ll do all the fighting
for this club. Understand?"

"Yes," replied McCarthy, slowly, without attempting to explain.

"What do you think of my gamecock, Bill?" asked Swanson,
enthusiastically. "Adonis insulted him in the hotel last night and the
kid promised to kick him on the shins. He was just making good. He
offered to shake hands and call it all off, but Adonis wouldn't do it.
He's my roommate from now on. I'll have to take him to keep him from
fighting every one."

The giant's remark caused another laugh, as his record for fights
during his earlier career as a ball player had given him a reputation
which obviated all necessity of fighting.

The majority of the Bears had accepted McCarthy as one of their own
kind after that, and Swanson adopted him. With Swanson he seemed at
home, but the others found him a trifle shy and retiring. He was
friendly with all excepting Williams and Pardridge, who resented his
occupation of third base while pretending to be pleased. Yet with the
exception of Swanson and Kennedy he made no close friends. The
admiration of the rough, big-hearted Swede shortstop for the recruit
approached adoration and he was loud and insistent in voicing his
praises of McCarthy.

The train which was bearing the Bears away from the city of the
Panthers drew slowly out of the great station, plunged through a series
of tunnel-like arches under the streets, and rattled out into the
suburbs, gathering speed for the long night run. Inside the cars the
players were settling themselves for an evening of recreation. Card
games were starting, the chess players were resuming their
six-month-long contest, and McCarthy sought his berth and sat alone,
striving to read. In the berth just ahead of his seat the quartette
commenced to sing.

The Bears possessed a quartette with some musical merit and musical
knowledge. Kennedy, the quiet, big catcher, had a good baritone voice
and it showed training. Norton, who seldom spoke, but always was ready
to sing, led, and Swanson was the bass, his voice deep and organ-like,
making up in power and richness much that it lost in lack of training.
Madden, the tenor, was weak and uncertain yet, as Swanson remarked, "He
can't sing much, but he is a glutton for punishment."

When the quartette started to sing, McCarthy dropped his book and sat
gazing out into the gathering twilight, listening to the strong,
healthy voices. Lights commenced to flash out from the far