“That’s the way! Line ’em out, now!”
“Put some speed into that!”
“Look out for a high one!”
“Oh, get farther back! I’m going to knock the cover off this time!”
These were only a few of the cries and calls that echoed over the ball field at Montville. The occasion was the daily practice of the Pittston nine, and orders had come from the manager and trainer to start in on more lively work. It was Joe’s third day with the professionals.
He had made the acquaintance of all the players, but as yet had neither admitted, nor been admitted to, a real friendship with any of them. It was too early.
Joe held back because he was naturally a bit diffident. Then, too, most of the men were older than he, and with one exception they had been in the professional ranks for several seasons. That one exception was Charlie Hall, who played short.He, like Joe, had been taken that Spring from the amateur ranks. Hall had played on a Western college team, and had been picked out by one of the ever-present professional scouts.
With Charlie, Joe felt more at home than with any of the others and yet he felt that soon he would have good friends among the older men.
On their part they did not become friendly with Joe at once simply for the reason that they wanted to “size him up,” or “get his number,” as Jimmie Mack put it in speaking of the matter.
“But they’ll cotton to you after a bit, Joe,” said the assistant manager, “and you’ll like them, too. Don’t get discouraged.”
“I won’t,” was the answer.
There was one man on the team, though, with whom Joe felt that he would never be on friendly terms, and this was Jake Collin, one of the pitchers—the chief pitcher and mainstay of the nine on the mound, from what Joe picked up by hearing the other men talk. And Collin himself was not at all modest about his ability. That he had ability Joe was ready to concede. And Collin wanted everyone else to know it, too. He was always talking about his record, and his batting average, which, to do him credit, was good.
Collin was not much older than Joe, but a rather fast life and hard living counted for more thanyears. Joe heard whispers that Collin could not last much longer.
Perhaps it was a realization of this that made Collin rather resent the arrival of our hero on the Pittston nine. For he gave Joe but a cold greeting, and, as he moved off to practice, the young pitcher could hear him saying something about “college dudes thinking they can play professional ball.”
Joe’s faced flushed, but he said nothing. It was something that called more for deeds than words.
“Everybody lively now! I want some snappy work!” called Jimmie Mack as the practice progressed. “If we’re going to play the Montville team Saturday we want to snow them under. A win by a few runs won’t be the thing at all, and, let me tell you, those boys can play ball.
“So step lively, everybody. Run bases as if you meant to get back home some time this week. Slug the ball until the cover comes off. And you, Collin, get a little more speed on your delivery. Is your arm sore?”
“Arm sore? I guess not! I’m all right!” and the man’s eyes snapped angrily.
“Well, then, show it. Let’s see what you’ve got up your sleeve, anyhow. Here comes Gregory now—he’ll catch a few for you, and then we’ll do some batting.”
The manager, whom Joe had met and liked,came out to join in the practice. He nodded to our hero, and then took Collin off to one side, to give him some instructions.
Joe under the direction of Jimmie Mack was allowed to do some pitching now. With Terry Hanson the left fielder, to back him up, Joe began throwing in the balls on a space in front of the grandstand.
Joe noticed that Collin regarded him sharply in the intervals of his own practice, but he was prepared for a little professional jealousy, and knew how to take it. He had seen it manifested often enough at school and college, though there the spirit of the university was paramount to personal triumph—every player was willing to sacrifice himself that the team might win. And, in a large measure, of course, this is so in professional baseball. But human nature is human nature, whether one is playing for money or for glory, and in perhaps no other sport where money counts for as much as it does in baseball, will you find more of the spirit of the school than in the ranks of the diamond professionals.
“Take it easy, Joe; take it easy,” advised Terry, with a good-natured smile, as the lad stung in the balls. “You’ve got speed, and I’m willing to admit it without having you split my mitt. But save yourself for a game. You’re not trying topitch anyone out now, you know, and there’s no one looking at you.”
“I guess I forgot this was just practice,” admitted Joe with a laugh. “I’ll throw in some easy ones.”
He did, and saw an admiring look on Terry’s face.
“They seem to have the punch—that’s a nice little drop you’ve got. But don’t work it too much. Vary your delivery.”
From time to time as the practice proceeded Terry gave Joe good advice. Occasionally this would be supplemented by something Mack or Gregory would say and Joe took it all in, resolving to profit by it.
The practice came to an end, and the players were advised by their trainer, Mike McGuire, to take walks in the country round-about.
“It’ll be good for your legs and wind,” was the comment.
Joe enjoyed this almost as much as the work on the field, for the country was new to him and a source of constant delight. He went out with some of the men, and again would stroll off by himself.
Saturday, the day when the first practice game was to be played, found Joe a bit nervous. He wondered whether he would get a chance to pitch. So too, for that matter, did Tom Tooley, thesouth-paw moundman, who was nearer Joe’s age than was Collin.
“Who’s going to be the battery?” was heard on all sides as the Pittston players went to the grounds.
“The old man hasn’t given it out yet,” was the reply of Jimmie Mack. The “old man” was always the manager, and the term conveyed no hint of disrespect.
The Montville team, a semi-professional one, was a good bit like the Silver Stars, Joe thought, when he saw the members run out on the diamond for practice. Still they looked to be a “husky lot,” as he admitted, and he was glad of it, for he wanted to see what he and his team-mates could do against a good aggregation.
“Play ball! Play ball!” called the umpire, as he dusted off the home plate. There was quite a crowd present, and when Gregory handed over his batting list the umpire made the announcement:
“Batteries—for Pittston, Collin and Gregory. For Montville, Smith and Jennings.”
“Um. He’s going to pitch Collin,” murmured Tooley in Joe’s ear. “That means we warm the bench.”
Joe was a little disappointed, but he tried not to show it.
This first game was neither better nor worsethan many others. Naturally the playing was ragged under the circumstances.
The Pittstons had everything to lose by being beaten and not much to gain if they won the game. On the other hand the home nine had much to gain in case they should win. So they took rather desperate chances.
Pittston was first at bat, and succeeded in getting two runs over. Then came a slump, and in quick succession three men went down, two being struck out. The Montville pitcher was a professional who had been in a big league, but who had drifted to a minor, and finally landed in the semi-pro ranks. But he had some good “heaves” left.
Collin walked to the mound with a rather bored air of superiority. There was a little whispered conference between him and the catcher-manager, and the second half of the first inning began.
Collin did well, and though hit twice for singles, not a run came in, and the home team was credited with a zero on the score-board.
“Oh, I guess we can play some!” cried one of the professionals.
“What are you crowing over?” demanded Jimmie Mack. “If we win this I suppose you fellows will want medals! Why this is nothing but a kid bunch we’re up against.”
“Don’t let ’em fool you, though,” advised the manager, who overheard the talk.
And then, to the surprise and dismay of all, the home team proceeded to “do things” to the professionals. They began making runs, and succeeded in stopping the winning streak of the Pittstons.
The detailed play would not interest you, and, for that matter it was a thing the Pittstons did not like to recall afterward. There was a bad slump, and when the seventh inning arrived Gregory called:
“Matson, you bat for Collin.”
Joe felt the blood rush to his face.
“Does that mean I’m going to be taken out of the box?” asked the chief pitcher, stalking angrily over to the manager.
“It means just that, son. I can’t afford to lose this game, and we sure will the way you’re feedin’ ’em in to ’em. I guess you drew it a little too fine the last few days. You need a rest.”
“But—I—er—I——” protested Collin.
“That’ll do,” said Gregory, sharply. “Joe Matson will pitch. It’s a chance, but I’ve got to take it.”
“What’s the matter with Tooley?” demanded Collin. “What do you want to go shove this raw college jake in ahead of us for? Say!”
“Go to the bench!” ordered the manager. “I know what I’m doing, Collin!”
The pitcher seemed about to say something, and the look he gave Joe was far from friendly. Then,realizing that he was under the manager’s orders, he stalked to the bench.
“You won’t do this again, if I can prevent it!” snapped Collin at Joe, as he passed him. “I’ll run you out of the league, if you try to come it over me!”
Only a few players heard him, and one or two whispered to him to quiet down, but he glared at Joe, who felt far from comfortable.
But he was to have his chance to pitch at last.
Joe had hopes of making a safe hit when he came up, but pitchers are proverbially bad batsmen and our hero was no exception. I wish I could say that he “slammed one out for a home run, and came in amid wild applause,” but truth compels me to state that Joe only knocked a little pop fly which dropped neatly into the hands of the second baseman, and Joe went back to the bench.
“Never mind,” consoled Jimmie Mack, “you’re not here to bat—we count on you to pitch, though of course if you can hit the ball do it—every time. But don’t get nervous.”
“I’m not,” answered Joe.
And, to do him justice, his nerves were in excellent shape. He had not played on the school and Yale nines for nothing, and he had faced many a crisis fully as acute as the present one.
Then, too, the action of Collin must have had its effect. It was not pleasant for Joe to feel that he had won the enmity of the chief pitcher of thenine. But our hero resolved to do his best and let other matters take care of themselves.
Whether it was the advent of Joe into the game, or because matters would have turned out that way anyhow, was not disclosed, but Pittston seemed to brace up, and that inning added three runs to their score, which put them on even terms with the home team—the members of which were playing phenomenal ball.
“And now we’ve got to go in and beat them!” exclaimed Manager Gregory, as his men took the field. “Joe, I want to see what you can do.”
Enough to make any young pitcher nervous; was it not? Yet Joe kept his nerves in check—no easy matter—and walked to the box with all the ease he could muster.
He fingered the ball for a moment, rubbed a little dirt on it—not that the spheroid needed it, but it gave him a chance to look at Gregory and catch his signal for a fast out. He nodded comprehendingly, having mastered the signals, and wound up for his first delivery.
“Ball one!” howled the umpire.
Joe was a little nettled. He was sure it had gone cleanly over the plate, curving out just as he intended it should, and yet it was called a ball. But he concealed his chagrin, and caught the horsehide which Gregory threw back to him—the catcherhesitating just the least bit, and with a look at the umpire which said much.
Again came the signal for a fast out.
Joe nodded.
Once more the young pitcher threw and this time, though the batter swung desperately at it, not having moved his stick before, there came from the umpire the welcome cry of:
“Strike—one!”
Joe was beginning to make good.
I shall not weary you with a full account of the game. I have other, and more interesting contests to tell of as we proceed. Sufficient to say that while Joe did not “set the river afire,” he did strike out three men that inning, after a two-bagger had been made. But Joe “tightened up,” just in time to prevent a run coming in, and the score was still a tie when the last man was out.
In the next inning Pittston managed, by hard work, and a close decision on the part of the umpire, to add another run to their score. This put them one ahead, and the struggle now was to hold their opponents hitless. It devolved upon Joe to accomplish this.
And he did it.
Perhaps it was no great feat, as baseball history goes, but it meant much to him—a raw recruit in his first professional league, “bush” though it was. Joe made good, and when he struck out thelast man (one of the best hitters, too, by the way) there was an enthusiastic scene on that little ball field.
“Good, Joe! Good!” cried Jimmie Mack, and even the rather staid Mr. Gregory condescended to smile and say:
“I thought you could do it!”
Collin, suffering from his turn-down, sulked on the bench, and growled:
“I’ll show that young upstart! He can’t come here and walk over me.”
“He didn’t walk over you—he pitched over you,” said George Lee, the second baseman. “He pitched good ball.”
“Bah! Just a fluke! If I hadn’t strained my arm yesterday I’d have made this home team look like a sick cat!”
“Post-mortems are out of style,” said Lee. “Be a sport! It’s all in the game!”
“Um!” growled Collin, surlily.
The team played the game all over again at the hotel that night. Of course it was not much of a victory, close as it was, but it showed of what stuff the players were made, and it gave many, who were ignorant of Joe’s abilities, an insight into what he could do.
“Well, what do you think of my find?” asked Jimmie Mack of his chief that night.
“All right, Jimmie! All right! I think we’ll make a ball-player of him yet.”
“So do I. And the blessed part of it is that he hasn’t got a swelled head from his college work. That’s the saving grace of it. Yes, I think Joe is due to arrive soon.”
If Joe had heard this perhaps he would have resented it somewhat. Surely, after having supplanted a veteran pitcher, even though of no great ability, and won his first professional game, Joe might have been excused for patting himself on the back, and feeling proud. And he did, too, in a sense.
But perhaps it was just as well he did not hear himself discussed. Anyhow, he was up in his room writing home.
The next day was Sunday, and in the afternoon Joe went for a long walk. He asked several of the men to go with him, but they all made good-enough excuses, so Joe set off by himself.
It was a beautiful day, a little too warm, but then that was to be expected in the South, and Joe was dressed for it. As he walked along a country road he came to a parting of the ways; a weather-beaten sign-post informed him that one highway led to North Ford, while the other would take him to Goldsboro.
“Goldsboro; eh?” mused Joe. “That’s where that ‘R. V.’ fellow lives, who thought I robbed hisvalise. I wonder if I’ll ever meet him? I’ve a good notion to take a chance, and walk over that way. I can ask him if he found his stuff. Maybe it’s risky, but I’m going to do it.”
He set off at a swinging pace to limber up his muscles, thinking of many things, and wondering, if, after all, he was going to like professional baseball. Certainly he had started in as well as could be expected, save for the enmity of Collin.
Joe got out into the open country and breathed deeply of the sweet air. The road swept along in a gentle curve, on one side being deep woods, while on the other was a rather steep descent to the valley below. In places the road approached close to the edge of a steep cliff.
As the young pitcher strode along he heard behind him the clatter of hoofs. It was a galloping horse, and the rattle of wheels told that the animal was drawing a carriage.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” mused Joe. “Going for a doctor, maybe.”
A moment later he saw what he knew might at any moment become a tragedy.
A spirited horse, attached to a light carriage, dashed around a bend in the road, coming straight for Joe. And in the carriage was a young girl, whose fear-blanched face told that she realized her danger. A broken, dangling rein showed that she had tried in vain to stop the runaway.
Joe formed a sudden resolve. He knew something of horses, and had more than once stopped a frightened animal. He ran forward, intending to cut across the path of this one, and grasp the bridle.
But as the horse headed for him, and caught sight of the youth, it swerved to one side, and dashed across an intervening field, straight for the steep cliff.
“Look out!” cried Joe, as if that meant anything.
The girl screamed, and seemed about to jump.
“I’ve got to stop that horse!” gasped Joe, and he broke into a run. Then the uselessness of this came to him and he stopped.
At his feet were several large, round and smooth stones. Hardly knowing why he picked up one, just as the horse turned sideways to him.
“If I could only hit him on the head, and stun him so that he’d stop before he gets to the cliff!” thought Joe. “If I don’t he’ll go over sure as fate!”
The next instant he threw.
Straight and true went the stone, and struck the horse hard on the head.
The animal reared, then staggered. It tried to keep on, but the blow had been a disabling one. It tried to keep on its legs but they crumpled underthe beast, and the next moment it went down in a heap, almost on the verge of the steep descent.
The carriage swerved and ran partly up on the prostrate animal, while the shock of the sudden stop threw the girl out on the soft grass, where she lay in a crumpled heap.
Joe sprinted forward.
“I hope I did the right thing, after all,” he panted. “I hope she isn’t killed!”
Joe Matson bent over the unconscious girl, and, even in the excitement of the moment, out of breath as he was from his fast run, he could not but note how pretty she was. Though now her cheeks that must usually be pink with the flush of health, were pale. She lay in a heap on the grass, at the side of the overturned carriage, from which the horse had partly freed itself. The animal was now showing signs of recovering from the stunning blow of the stone.
“I’ve got to get her away from here,” decided Joe. “If that brute starts kicking around he may hurt her. I’ve got to pick her up and carry her. She doesn’t look able to walk.”
In his sturdy arms he picked up the unconscious girl, and carried her some distance off, placing her on a grassy bank.
“Let’s see—what do you do when a girl faints?” mused Joe, scratching his head in puzzled fashion. “Water—that’s it—you have to sprinkle her face with water.”
He looked about for some sign of a brook or spring, and, listening, his ear caught a musical trickle off to one side.
“Must be a stream over there,” he decided. He glanced again at the girl before leaving her. She gave no sign of returning consciousness, and one hand, Joe noticed when he carried her, hung limp, as though the wrist was broken.
“And she’s lucky to get off with that,” decided the young pitcher. “I hope I did the right thing by stopping the horse that way. She sure would have gone over the cliff if I hadn’t.”
The horse, from which had gone all desire to run farther, now struggled to its feet, and shook itself once or twice to adjust the harness. It was partly loose from it, and, with a plunge or two, soon wholly freed itself.
“Run away again if you want to now,” exclaimed Joe, shaking his fist at the brute. “You can’t hurt anyone but yourself, anyhow. Jump over the cliff if you like!”
But the horse did not seem to care for any such performance now, and, after shaking himself again, began nibbling the grass as though nothing had happened.
“All right,” went on Joe, talking to the horse for companionship, since the neighborhood seemed deserted. “Stay there, old fellow. I may needyou to get to a doctor, or to some house. She may be badly hurt.”
For want of something better Joe used the top of his cap in which to carry the water which he found in a clear-running brook, not far from where he had placed the girl.
The sprinkling of the first few drops of the cold liquid on her face caused her to open her eyes. Consciousness came back quickly, and, with a start, she gazed up at Joe uncomprehendingly.
“You’re all right,” he said, reassuringly. “That is, I hope so. Do you think you are hurt anywhere? Shall I get a doctor? Where do you live?”
Afterward he realized that his hurried questions had given her little chance to speak, but he meant to make her feel that she would be taken care of.
“What—what happened?” she faltered.
“Your horse ran away,” Joe explained, with a smile. “He’s over there now; not hurt, fortunately.”
“Oh, I remember now! Something frightened Prince and he bolted. He never did it before. Oh, I was so frightened. I tried—tried to stop him, but could not. The rein broke.”
The girl sat up now, Joe’s arm about her, supporting her, for she was much in need of assistance, being weak and trembling.
“Then he bolted into a field,” she resumed,“and he was headed for a cliff. Oh, how I tried to stop him! But he wouldn’t. Then—then something—something happened!”
She looked wonderingly at Joe.
“Yes, I’m afraidIhappened it,” he said with a smile. “I saw that your horse might go over the cliff, so I threw a stone, and hit him on the head. It stunned him, he fell, and threw you out.”
“I remember up to that point,” she said with a faint smile. “I saw Prince go down, and I thought we were going over the cliff. Oh, what an escape!”
“And yet not altogether an escape,” remarked Joe. “Your arm seems hurt.”
She glanced down in some surprise at her right wrist, as though noticing it for the first time. Then, as she moved it ever so slightly, a cry of pain escaped her lips.
“It—it’s broken!” she faltered.
Joe took it tenderly in his hand.
“Only sprained, I think,” he said, gravely. “It needs attention at once, though; I must get you a doctor. Can you walk?”
“I think so.”
She struggled to her feet with his help, the red blood now surging into her pale cheeks, and making her, Joe thought, more beautiful than ever.
“Be careful!” he exclaimed, as she swayed. His arm was about her, so she did not fall.
“I—I guess I’m weaker than I thought,” she murmured. “But it isn’t because I’m injured—except my wrist. I think it must be the shock. Why, there’s Prince!” she added, as she saw the grazing horse. “He isn’t hurt!”
“No, I only stunned him with the stone I threw,” said Joe.
“Oh, and so you threw a stone at him, and stopped him?” She seemed in somewhat of a daze.
“Yes.”
“What a splendid thrower you must be!” There was admiration in her tones.
“It’s from playing ball,” explained Joe, modestly. “I’m a pitcher on the Pittston nine. We’re training over at Montville.”
“Oh,” she murmured, understandingly.
“If I could get you some water to drink, it would make you feel better,” said Joe. “Then I might patch up the broken harness and get you home. Do you live around here?”
“Yes, just outside of Goldsboro. Perhaps you could make a leaf answer for a cup,” she suggested. “I believe I would like a little water. It would do me good.”
She moistened her dry lips with her tongue as Joe hastened back to the little brook. He managed to curl an oak leaf into a rude but clean cup, and brought back a little water. The girl sippedit gratefully, and the effect was apparent at once. She was able to stand alone.
“Now to see if I can get that horse of yours hitched to the carriage,” spoke the young pitcher, “that is, if the carriage isn’t broken.”
“It’s awfully kind of you, Mr.——” she paused suggestively.
“I’m Joe Matson, formerly of Yale,” was our hero’s answer, and, somehow, he felt not a little proud of that “Yale.” After all, his university training, incomplete though it had been, was not to be despised.
“Oh, a Yale man!” her eyes were beginning to sparkle now.
“But I gave it up to enter professional baseball,” the young pitcher went on. “It’s my first attempt. If you do not feel able to get into the carriage—provided it’s in running shape—perhaps I could take you to some house near here and send word to your folks,” he suggested.
“Oh, I think I can ride—provided, as you say, the carriage is in shape to use,” she answered, quickly. “I am Miss Varley. It’s awfully good of you to take so much trouble.”
“Not at all,” protested Joe. He noticed a shadow of pain pass over her face, and she clasped her sprained wrist in her left hand.
“That must hurt a lot, Miss Varley,” spoke Joe with warm sympathy. “I know what a sprain is.I’ve had many a one. Let me wrap a cold, wet rag around it. That will do until you can get to a doctor and have him reduce it.”
Not waiting for permission Joe hurried back to the brook, and dipped his handkerchief in the cold water. This he bound tightly around the already swelling wrist, tying it skillfully, for he knew something about first aid work—one needed to when one played ball for a living.
“That’s better,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “It’s ever so much better. Oh, I don’t know what would have happened if you had not been here!”
“Probably someone else would have done as well,” laughed Joe. “Now about that carriage.”
Prince looked up as the youth approached, and Joe saw a big bruise on the animal’s head.
“Too bad, old fellow, that I had to do that,” spoke Joe, for he loved animals. “No other way, though. I had to stop you.”
A look showed him that the horse was not otherwise injured by the runaway, and another look showed him that it would be impossible to use the carriage. One of the wheels was broken.
“Here’s a pickle!” cried Joe. “A whole bottle of ’em, for that matter. I can’t get her home that way, and she can’t very well walk. I can’t carry her, either. I guess the only thing to do is to get her to the nearest house, and then go for help—or ’phone, if they have a wire. I’m infor the day’s adventure, I guess, but I can’t leave her.”
Not that he wanted to, for the more he was in the girl’s presence, the more often he looked into her brown eyes, the more Joe felt that he was caring very much for Miss Varley.
“Come, Matson!” he chided himself, “don’t be an idiot!”
“Well?” she questioned, as he came back to her.
“The carriage is broken,” he told her. “Do you think you could walk to the nearest house?”
“Oh, I’m sure of it,” she replied, and now she smiled, showing two rows of white, even teeth. “I’m feeling ever so much better. But perhaps I am keeping you,” and she hung back.
“Not at all. I’m glad to be able to help you. I suppose I had better tie your horse.”
“Perhaps.”
As Joe turned back to the grazing animal there was the sound of a motor car out in the road. He and the girl turned quickly, the same thought in both their minds. Then a look of pleased surprise came over Miss Varley’s face.
“Reggie! Reggie!” she called, waving her uninjured hand at a young man in the car. “Reggie, Prince bolted with me! Come over here!”
The machine was stopped with a screeching of brakes, and the young fellow leaped out.
“Why, Mabel!” he cried, as he came sprinting across the field. “Are you hurt? What happened? Dad got anxious about you being gone so long, and I said I’d look you up in my car. Are you hurt, Mabel?”
Joe made a mental note that of all names he liked best that of Mabel—especially when the owner had brown eyes.
“Only a sprained wrist, Reggie. This gentleman hit Prince with a stone and saved me from going over the cliff.”
“Oh, he did!”
By this time the youth from the auto was beside Joe and the girl. The two young men faced each other. Joe gave a gasp of surprise that was echoed by the other, for the youth confronting our hero was none other than he who had accused Joe of robbing that odd valise.
“Why—er—that is—I’m awfully obliged to you, of course, for saving my sister,” spoke the newcomer—his name must be Reggie Varley, Joe rightly decided. “Very much obliged, old man, and—er——”
He paused, evidently quite embarrassed.
“You two act as though you had met before,” said Miss Varley, with a smile. “Have you?”
“Once,” spoke Joe, drily. “I did not know your brother’s name then.” He did not add that he was glad to find that he was Mabel’s brother, and not a more distant relation.
“How strange that you two should have met,” went on Mabel Varley.
“Yes,” returned Joe, “and it was under rather strange circumstances. It was while I was on my way down here to join the ball team, and your brother thought——”
“Ahem!” exclaimed Reggie, with a meaning look at Joe. “I—er—you’d better get in herewith me, Mabel, and let me get you home. Perhaps this gentleman——”
“His name is Joe Matson,” spoke the girl, quickly.
“Perhaps Mr. Matson will come home with—us,” went on Reggie. Obviously it was an effort to extend this invitation, but he could do no less under the circumstances. Joe felt this and said quickly:
“No, thank you, not this time.”
“Oh, but I want papa and mamma to meet you!” exclaimed Mabel, impulsively. “They’ll want to thank you. Just think, Reggie, he saved my life. Prince was headed for the cliff, and he stopped him.”
There were tears in her eyes as she gazed at Joe.
“It was awfully good and clever of you, old man,” said Reggie, rather affectedly, yet it was but his way. “I’m sure I appreciate it very much. And we’d like—my sister and I—we’d like awfully to have you come on and take lunch with us. I can put the horse up somewhere around here, I dare say, and we can go on in my car.”
“The carriage is broken Reggie,” Mabel informed him.
“Too bad. I’ll send Jake for it later. Will you come?”
He seemed to wish to ignore, or at least postpone,the matter of the valise and his accusation. Perhaps he felt how unjust it had been. Joe realized Reggie’s position.
“No, thank you,” spoke the young pitcher. “I must be getting back to my hotel. I was just out for a walk. Some other time, perhaps. If you like, I’ll try and put the horse in some near-by barn for you, and I’ll drop you a card, saying where it is.”
“Will you really, old man?” asked Reggie, eagerly. “It will be awfully decent of you, after—well, I’d appreciate it very much. Then I could get my sister home, and to a doctor.”
“Which I think would be a wise thing to do,” remarked Joe. “Her wrist seems quite badly sprained. I’ll attend to the horse. So now I’ll say good-bye.”
He turned away. He and Reggie had not shaken hands. In spite of the service Joe had rendered he could not help feeling that young Varley harbored some resentment against him.
“And if it’s her jewelry that is missing, with his watch, and he tells her that he suspects me—I wonder how she’ll feel afterward?” mused Joe. “I wonder?”
Mabel held out her uninjured hand, and Joe took it eagerly. The warm, soft pressure lingered for some little time afterward in his hardened palm—a palm roughened by baseball play.
“Good-bye,” she said, softly. “I can’t thank you enough—now. You must come and get the rest—later.”
“I will,” he said, eagerly.
“Here is my card—it has our address,” spoke Reggie holding out a small, white square. “I trust you will come—soon.”
“I shall try,” said Joe, with a peculiar look at his accuser. “And I’ll drop you a card about the horse.”
Reggie helped his sister into the auto, and they drove off, Mabel waving a good-bye to Joe. The latter stood for a minute in the field, looking at the disappearing auto. Then he murmured, probably to the horse, for there was no other sign of life in sight:
“Well, you’ve gone and done it, Matson! You’ve gone and done it!”
But Joe did not admit, even to himself, what he had gone and done.
Prince seemed tractable enough after his recent escapade, and made no objection to Joe leading him out to the road. The young pitcher soon came to a farmhouse, where, when he had explained matters, the man readily agreed to stable the animal until it should be called for.
And, as Joe Matson trudged back to the hotel he said, more than once to himself:
“You’ve gone and done it, old man! You’ve gone and done it!”
And a little later, as Joe thought of the look on Reggie’s face when he recognized the youth he had accused, our hero chuckled inwardly.
“He didn’t know what to do,” mused Joe. “I sure had him buffaloed, as the boys say.”
Joe was welcomed by his fellow players on his return to the hotel. It was nearly meal time, but before going down to the dining room Joe wrote a short note giving the name of the farmer where he had left the horse.
“Let’s see now,” mused our hero. “To whom shall I send it—to him—or—her.”
When he dropped the letter in the mail box the envelope bore the superscription—“Miss Mabel Varley.”
Practice was resumed Monday morning, and Joe could note that there was a tightening up all along the line. The orders from the manager and his assistant came sharper and quicker.
“I want you boys to get right on edge!” exclaimed Gregory. “We’ll play our opening game in Pittston in two weeks now. We’ll cross bats with Clevefield, last season’s pennant winners, and we want to down them. I’m getting tired of being in the ruck. I want to be on top of the heap.”
Joe, from his study of the baseball “dope,”knew that Pittston had not made a very creditable showing the last season.
The practice was sharp and snappy, and there was a general improvement all along the line. Joe was given several try-outs in the next few days, and while he received no extravagant praise he knew that his work pleased. Jake Collin still held his enmity against Joe, and perhaps it was but natural.
Wet grounds, a day or so later, prevented practice, and Joe took advantage of it to call on the girl he had rescued. He found her home, her wrist still bandaged, and she welcomed him warmly, introducing him to her mother. Joe was made to feel quite at home, and he realized that Reggie had said nothing about the articles missing from the valise—or, at least, had not mentioned the accusation against Joe.
“Will you tell me how, and when, you met my brother?” asked Mabel, after some general talk.
“Hasn’t he told you?” inquired Joe, with a twinkle in his eyes.
“No, he keeps putting it off.”
“Then perhaps I’d better not tell,” said Joe.
“Oh, Mr. Matson, I think you’re horrid! Is there some reason I shouldn’t know?”
“Not as far as I am concerned. But I’d rather your brother would tell.”
“Then I’m going to make him when he comes home.”
Joe was rather glad Reggie was not there then. For, in spite of everything, Joe knew there would be a feeling of embarrassment on both sides.
“I have come to say good-bye,” he said to the girl. “We leave for the North, soon, and the rest of the season will be filled with traveling about.”
“I’m sorry you’re going,” she said, frankly.
“Are you?” he asked, softly. “Perhaps you will allow me to write to you.”
“I’d be glad to have you,” she replied, warmly, and she gave him a quick glance. “Perhaps I may see you play sometime; I love baseball!”
“I’m very glad,” returned Joe, and, after a while—rather a long while, to speak the truth—he said good-bye.
“All aboard!”
“Good-bye, everybody!”
“See you next Spring!”
“Good-bye!”
These were some of the calls heard at the Montville station as the Pittston ball team left their training grounds for the trip to their home city, where the league season would start. Joe had been South about three weeks, and had made a few friends there. These waved a farewell to him, as others did to other players, as the train pulled out.
Joe was not sure, but he thought he saw, amid the throng, the face of a certain girl. At any rate a white handkerchief was waved directly at him.
“Ah, ha! Something doing!” joked Charlie Hall, with whom Joe had struck up quite a friendship. “Who’s the fair one, Joe?”
“I didn’t see her face,” was the evasive answer.
“Oh, come now! That’s too thin! She’s evidently taken a liking to you.”
“I hope she has!” exclaimed the young pitcher,and then blushed at his boldness. As the train pulled past the station he had a full view of the girl waving at him. She was Mabel Varley. Charlie saw her also.
“My word!” he cried. “I congratulate you, old man!” and he clapped Joe on the shoulder.
“Cut it out!” came the retort, as Joe turned his reddened face in the direction of the girl. And he waved back, while some of the other players laughed.
“Better be looking for someone to sign in Matson’s place soon, Mack,” remarked John Holme, the third baseman, with a chuckle. “He’s going to trot in double harness if I know any of the symptoms.”
“All right,” laughed the assistant manager. “I’ll have to begin scouting again, I suppose. Too bad, just as Joe is going to make good.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” advised our hero coolly. “I’m going to play.”
The trip up was much more enjoyable than Joe had found the one down, when he came alone. He was beginning to know and like nearly all of his team-mates—that is, all save Collin, and it was due only to the latter’s surly disposition that Joe could not be friendly with him.
“Think you’ll stay in this business long?” asked Charlie of Joe as he sank into the seat beside him.
“Well, I expect to make it my business—if I can make good.”
“I think you will.”
“But I don’t intend to stay in this small league forever,” went on Joe. “I’d like to get in a major one.”
“That isn’t as easy as it seems,” said the other college lad. “You know you’re sort of tied hand and foot once you sign with a professional team.”
“How’s that?”
“Why, there is a sort of national agreement, you know. No team in any league will take a player from another team unless the manager of that team gives the player his release. That is, you can quit playing ball, of course; but, for the life of you, you can’t get in any other professional team until you are allowed to by the man with whom you signed first.”
“Well, of course, I’ve read about players being given their release, and being sold or traded from one team to another,” spoke Joe, “but I didn’t think it was as close as that.”
“It is close,” said Hall, “a regular ‘trust.’ Modern professional baseball is really a trust. There’s a gentleman’s agreement in regard to players that’s never broken. I’m sorry, in a way, that I didn’t stay an amateur. I, also, want to get into a big league, but the worst of it is that if you show up well in a small league, and prove a drawingcard, the manager won’t release you. And until he does no other manager would hire you. Though, of course, the double A leagues can draft anyone they like.”
Joe whistled softly.
“Then it isn’t going to be so easy to get into another league as I thought,” he said.
“Not unless something happens,” replied his team-mate. “Of course, if another manager wanted you badly enough he would pay the price, and buy you from this club. High prices have been paid, too. There’s Marquard—the Giants gave ten thousand dollars to have him play for them.”
“Yes, I heard about that,” spoke Joe, “but I supposed it was mostly talk.”
“There’s a good deal more than talk,” asserted Charlie. “Though it’s a great advertisement for a man. Think of being worth ten thousand dollars more than your salary!”
“And he didn’t get the ten,” commented Joe.
“No. That’s the worst of it. We’re the slaves of baseball, in a way.”
“Oh, well, I don’t mind being that kind of a slave,” said Joe, laughingly.
He lay back in his seat as the train whirled on, and before him, as he closed his eyes, he could see a girl’s face—the face of Mabel Varley.
“I wonder if her brother told her?” mused the young pitcher. “If he did she may think just ashe did—that I had a hand in looting that valise. Oh, pshaw! I’m not going to think about it. And yet I wish the mystery was cleared up—I sure do!”
The training had done all the players good. They were right “on edge” and eager to get into the fray. Not a little horse-play was indulged in on the way North. The team had a car to itself, and so felt more freedom than otherwise would have been the case.
Terry Blake, the little “mascot” of the nine, was a great favorite, and he and Joe soon became fast friends.
Terry liked to play tricks on the men who made so much of him, and late that first afternoon he stole up behind Jake Collin, who had fallen asleep, and tickled his face with a bit of paper. At first the pitcher seemed to think it was a troublesome fly, and his half-awake endeavors to get rid of it amused Terry and some others who were watching.
Then, as the tickling was persisted in, Collin awoke with a start. He had the name of waking up cross and ugly, and this time was no exception. As he started up he caught sight of the little mascot, and understood what had been going on.
“You brat!” he cried, leaping out into the aisle. Terry fled, with frightened face, and Collin ranafter him. “I’ll punch you for that!” cried the pitcher.
“Oh, can’t you take a joke?” someone asked him, but Collin paid no heed. He raced after poor little Terry, who had meant no harm, and the mascot might have come to grief had not Joe stepped out into the aisle of the car and confronted Collin.
“Let me past! Let me get at him!” stormed the man.
“No, not now,” was Joe’s quiet answer.
“Out of my way, you whipper-snapper, or I’ll——”
He drew back his arm, his fist clenched, but Joe never quailed. He looked Collin straight in the eyes, and the man’s arm went down. Joe was smaller than he, but the young pitcher was no weakling.
“That’ll do, Collin,” said Jimmie Mack, quietly. “The boy only meant it for a joke.”
Collin did not answer. But as he turned aside to go back to his seat he gave Joe a black look. There was an under-current of unpleasant feeling over the incident during the remainder of the trip.
Little Terry stole up to Joe, when the players came back from the dining-car, and, slipped his small hand into that of the pitcher.
“I—I like you,” he said, softly.
“Do you?” asked Joe with smile. “I’m glad of that, Terry.”
“And I’ll always see that you have the bat you want when you want it,” went on the little mascot. Poor little chap, he was an orphan, and Gus Harrison, the big centre fielder, had practically adopted him. Then he was made the official mascot, and while perhaps the constant association with the ball players was not altogether good for the small lad, still he might have been worse off.
Pittston was reached in due season, no happenings worth chronicling taking place on the way. Joe was eager to see what sort of a ball field the team owned, and he was not disappointed when, early the morning after his arrival, he and the others went out to it for practice.
It was far from being the New York Polo Grounds, nor was the field equal to the one at Yale, but Joe had learned to take matters as they came, and he never forgot that he was only with a minor league.
“Time enough to look for grounds laid out with a rule and compass when I get into a major league,” he told himself. “That is, if I can get my release.”
Joe found some letters from home awaiting him at the hotel where the team had its official home. But, before he answered them he wrote to Mabel. I wonder if we ought to blame him?
The more Joe saw of his team-mates the more he liked them—save Collin, and that was no fault of the young pitcher. He found Pittston a pleasant place, and the citizens ardent “fans.” They thought their team was about as good as any in that section, and, though it had not captured the pennant, there were hopes that it would come to Pittston that season.
“They’re good rooters!” exclaimed Jimmie Mack. “I will say that for this Pittston bunch. They may not be such a muchness otherwise, but they’re good rooters, and it’s a pleasure to play ball here. They warm you up, and make you do your best.”
Joe was glad to hear this.
The new grounds were a little strange to him, at first, but he soon became used to them after one or two days’ practice. Nearly all the other players, of course, were more at home.
“And now, boys,” said Manager Gregory, when practice had closed one day. “I want you to do your prettiest to-morrow. I’ve got a good team—I know it. Some of you are new to me, but I’ve heard about you, and I’m banking on your making good. I want you to wallop Clevefield to-morrow. I want every man to do his best, and don’t want any hard feelings if I play one man instead of another. I have reasons forit. Now that’s my last word to you. I want you to win.”
There was a little nervous feeling among the players as the time for the first league game drew near. A number of the men had been bought from other clubs. There was one former Clevefield player on the Pittston team, and also one from the pennant club of a previous year.
That night Joe spent some time studying the batting averages of the opposing team, and also he read as much of their history as he could get hold of. He wanted to know the characteristics of the various batters if he should be fortunate enough to face them from the pitching mound.
There was the blare of a band, roars of cheers, and much excitement. The official opening of the league season was always an event in Pittston, as it is in most large cities. The team left their hotel in a body, going to the grounds in a large ’bus, which was decorated with flags. A mounted police escort had been provided, and a large throng, mostly boys, marched to the grounds, accompanying the players.
There another demonstration took place as the home team paraded over the diamond, and greeted their opponents, who were already on hand, an ovation having also been accorded to them.
The band played again, there were more cheers and encouraging calls, and then the Mayor of thecity stepped forward to throw the first ball. Clevefield was to bat first, the home team, in league games, always coming up last.
The initial ball, of course, was only a matter of form, and the batter only pretended to strike at it.
Then came the announcement all were waiting for; the naming of the Pittston battery.
“For Clevefield,” announced the umpire, “McGuinness and Sullivan. For Pittston, Matson and Nelson.”
Joe had been picked to open the battle, and Nelson, who was the regular catcher, except when Gregory took a hand, would back him up. Joe’s ears rang as he walked to the mound.
“Play ball!” droned the umpire.
Joe glanced over to where Gregory sat on the bench, from which he would engineer this first game of the season. The manager caught the eye of the young pitcher, and something in Joe’s manner must have told the veteran that his latest recruit was nervous. He signalled to Joe to try a few practice balls, and our hero nodded comprehensively.
The batter stepped back from the plate, and Joe thought he detected a smile of derision at his own newness, and perhaps rawness.
“But I’ll show him!” whispered Joe fiercely to himself, as he clinched his teeth and stung in the ball. It landed in the mitt of the catcher with a resounding thud.
“That’s the boy!” called Gregory to him. “You’ll do, old man. Sting in another.”
Joe threw with all his force, but there was a sickening fear in his heart that he was not keeping good control over the ball. Nelson signalled tohim to hold his curves in a little more, and Joe nodded to show he understood.
“Play ball!” drawled the umpire again, and the batter took his place at the plate.
Joe looked at the man, and reviewing the baseball “dope” he recalled that the player batted well over .300, and was regarded as the despair of many pitchers.
“If I could only strike him out!” thought Joe.
His first ball went a little wild. He realized that it was going to be a poor one as soon as it left his hand, but he could not for the life of him recover in time.
“Ball one!” yelled the umpire.
“That’s the way!”
“Make him give you what you want!”
“Wait for a pretty one!”
“That’s their ten thousand dollar college pitcher! Back to the bench for his!”
These were only a few of the remarks, sarcastic and otherwise, that greeted Joe’s first performance. He felt the hot blood rush to his face, and then, as he stepped forward to receive the ball which the catcher tossed back to him, he tried to master his feelings. The catcher shook his head in a certain way, to signal to Joe to be on his guard. Joe looked over at Gregory, who did not glance at him.
“I’ll do better this time!” whispered Joe, fiercely.
He deliberated a moment before hurling in the next ball.
“Here goes a home run! Clout it over the fence, Pike!” called an enthusiastic “fan” in a shrill voice and the crowd laughed.
“Not if I know it!” muttered Joe.
The ball clipped the corner of the plate cleanly, and the batter, who had made a half motion to hit at it, refrained.
“Strike one!” yelled the umpire, throwing up his arm.
“That’s the way, Matson!”
“Two more like that and he’s a dead one!”
Joe caught the signal for a drop, but shook his head. He was going to try another out. Again his catcher signalled for a drop, but Joe was, perhaps, a trifle obstinate. He felt that he had been successful once with an out, and he was going to do it again. The catcher finally nodded in agreement, though reluctantly.
Joe shot in a fast one, and he knew that he had the ball under perfect control. Perhaps he was as disappointed as any of the home players when there came a resounding crack, and the white sphere sailed aloft, and well out over centre field.
“That’s the way, Pike! Two bags anyhow!”
But the redoubtable Pike was to have no suchgood fortune, for the centre fielder, after a heart-breaking run, got under the fly and caught it, winning much applause from the crowd for his plucky effort.
“One down!” called Gregory, cheerfully. “Only two more, Joe.”
Joe wished that he had struck out his man, but it was some consolation to know that he was being supported by good fielding.
The next man up had a ball and a strike called on him, and Joe was a bit puzzled as to just what to offer. He decided on a swift in, and thought it was going to make good, but the batter was a crafty veteran, and managed to connect with the ball. He sent a swift liner which the shortstop gathered in, however, and there was another added to the list of outs.
“One more and that’ll be about all!” called the Pittston catcher. Joe threw the ball over to first for a little practice, while the next batter was picking out his stick, and then came another try.
“I’ve got to strike him out!” decided the young pitcher. “I’ve got to make good!”
His heart was fluttering, and his nerves were not as calm as they ought to have been. He stooped over and made a pretence of tying his shoe-lace. When he straightened up he had, in a measure, gained a mastery of himself. He felt cool and collected.
In went the ball with certain aim, and Joe knew that it was just what he had intended it should be.
“Strike!” called the umpire, though the batter had not moved. There was some laughter from the grandstand, and the batter tapped the plate nervously. Joe smiled.
“Good work!” called Gregory from the bench.
Again the ball went sailing in, but this time Joe’s luck played him a shabby trick, or perhaps the umpire was not watching closely. Certainly Joe thought it a strike, but “ball” was called. Joe sent in the next one so quickly that the batter was scarcely prepared for it. But it was perfectly legitimate and the umpire howled:
“Strike two!”
“That’s the boy!”
“Good work!”
“Another like that now, Joe!”
Thus cried the throng. Gregory looked pleased.
“I guess Mack didn’t make any mistake picking him up,” he said.
The batter knocked a little foul next, that the catcher tried in vain to get. And then, when he faced Joe again, our hero sent in such a puzzling drop that the man was deceived and struck out.
“That’s the boy!”
“What do you think of our ten thousand dollar college pitcher now?”
“Come on, Clevefield! He’s got some more just like that!”
The home team and its supporters were jubilant, and Joe felt a sense of elation as he walked in to the bench.
“Now see what my opponent can do,” he murmured.
McGuinness was an old time pitcher, nothing very remarkable, but one any small club would be glad to get. He had the “number” of most of the Pittston players, and served them balls and strikes in such order that though two little pop flies were knocked no one made a run. The result of the first inning was a zero for each team.
“Now Joe, be a little more careful, and I think you can get three good ones,” said Gregory, as his team again took the field.
“I’ll try,” replied Joe, earnestly.
He got two men, but not the third, who knocked a clean two-bagger, amid enthusiastic howls from admiring “fans.”
This two-base hit seemed to spell Joe’s undoing, for the next man duplicated and the first run was scored. There were two out, and it looked as though Clevefield had struck a winning streak, for the next man knocked what looked to be good for single. But Bob Newton, the right fielder, caught it, and the side was retired with one run.
Pittston tried hard to score, but the crafty pitcher, aided by effective fielding, shut them out, and another zero was their portion on the score board.
“Joe, we’ve got to get ’em!” exclaimed Gregory, earnestly.
“I’ll try!” was the sturdy answer.
It was heart-breaking, though, when the first man up singled, and then came a hit and run play. Joe was not the only player on the Pittston team who rather lost his head that inning. For, though Joe was hit badly, others made errors, and the net result was that Clevefield had four runs to add to the one, while Pittston had none.
They managed, however, to get two in the following inning, more by good luck than good management, and the game began to look, as Jimmie Mack said, as though the other team had it in the “refrigerator.”
How it happened Joe never knew, but he seemed to go to pieces. Probably it was all a case of nerves, and the realization that this game meant more to him than any college contest.
However that may be, the result was that Joe was effectively hit the next inning, and when it was over, and three more runs had come in, Gregory said sharply:
“Collin, you’ll pitch now!”
It meant that Joe had been “knocked out of the box.”
“We’ve got to get this game!” explained the manager, not unkindly. But Joe felt, with bitterness in his heart, that he had failed.