records, the treasures, the archives of that body. Moreover, I had been disturbed in the midst of pleasant dreams. Why should the gentleman—my opponent—who imagined himself in possession of all the offices in the Base Ball kingdom, be permitted longer to rest in the solace of that delusive dream? Therefore, at about 4 a. m., I repaired to the hotel where Mr. Young and his son, Robert, were domiciled, and first broke in upon the slumbers of the younger Young. I told him that affairs were becoming very serious in the National League.
"Oh, yes," he said, "I know it. Father is nearly dead, Mr. Spalding. He can't stand another day like this. He's all broken up."
"But," said I, "to-day's nothing to what to-morrow will be. I've been unanimously elected President of the League, and I'm going to raise Cain to-morrow. Where's your father?"
"He's in the next room. I'll call him."
The elder Young soon appeared, rubbing his eyes. He had been in a turmoil of confusion for several days, and had just fallen asleep. He certainly looked ten years older than when he had arrived from Washington. I felt heartily sorry for the old gentleman, and a bit ashamed of myself for disturbing him. I then explained the situation to father and son, and demanded possession of the trunk containing the "archives." I showed Mr. Young that it would at once relieve him of further annoyance and anxiety; that I was in fact the only genuine dyed-in-the-wool executive of the League, and that the papers followed the office.
