Collin flashed a look of mingled scorn and triumph on Joe as he walked past him. It needed only this to make our hero feel that he had stood about all he could, and he turned away, and tried to get rid of a lump in his throat.
None of the other players seemed to notice him. Probably it was an old story to them. Competition was too fierce—it was a matter of making a living on their part—every man was for himself, in a certain sense. They had seen young players come and old players go. It was only a question of time when they themselves would go—go never to come back into baseball again. They might eke out a livelihood as a scout or as a ground-keeper in some big league. It was a fight for the survival of the fittest, and Joe’s seeming failure brought no apparent sympathy.
Understand me, I am not speaking against organized baseball. It is a grand thing, and one of the cleanest sports in the world. But what I am trying to point out is that it is a business, andfrom a business standpoint everyone in it must do his best for himself. Each man, in a sense, is concerned only with his own success. Nor do I mean that this precludes a love of the club, and good team work. Far from it.
Nor were Joe’s feelings made any the less poignant by the fact that Collin did some wonderful pitching. He needed to in order to pull the home team out of the hole into which it had slipped—and not altogether through Joe’s weakness, either.
Perhaps the other players braced up when they saw the veteran Collin in the box. Perhaps he even pitched better than usual because he had, in a sense, been humiliated by Joe’s preference over himself. At any rate, whatever the reason, the answer was found in the fact that Pittston began to wake up.
Collin held the other team hitless for one inning, and the rest of the game, ordinary in a sense, saw Pittston march on to victory—a small enough victory—by a margin of two runs, but that was enough. For victory had come out of almost sure defeat.
Poor Joe sat on the bench and brooded. For a time no one seemed to take any notice of him, and then Gregory, good general that he was, turned to the new recruit and said:
“You mustn’t mind a little thing like that, Joe.I have to do the best as I see it. This is business, you know. Why, I’d have pulled Collin out, or Tooley, just as quick.”
“I know it,” returned Joe, thickly.
But the knowledge did not add to his comfort, though he tried to make it do so.
But I am getting a little ahead of my story.
The game was almost over, and it was practically won by Pittston, when a voice spoke back of where Joe sat on the players’ bench. It was a husky, uncertain, hesitating sort of voice and it said, in the ear of the young pitcher:
“Never mind, my lad. Ten years from now, when you’re in a big league, you’ll forget all about this. It’ll do you good, anyhow, for it’ll make you work harder, and hard work makes a good ball player out of a middle-class one. Brace up. I know what I’m talking about!”
Joe hesitated a moment before turning. Somehow he had a vague feeling that he had heard that voice before, and under strange circumstances. He wanted to see if he could place it before looking at the speaker.
But it was baffling, and Joe turned quickly. He started as he saw standing behind him, attired rather more neatly than when last he had confronted our hero—the tramp whom he had saved from the freight train.
On his part the other looked sharply at Joe fora moment. Over his face passed shadows of memory, and then the light came. He recognized Joe, and with a note of gladness in his husky voice—husky from much shouting on the ball field, and from a reckless life—he exclaimed:
“Why it’s the boy! It’s the boy who pulled me off the track! It’s the boy!”
“Of course!” exclaimed Joe. Impulsively he held out his hand.
A shout arose as one of the Pittston players brought in the winning run, but Joe paid no heed. He was staring at old Pop Dutton.
The other player—the “has-been”—looked at Joe’s extended hand a moment as if in doubt. Then he glanced over the field, and listened to the glad cries. He seemed to straighten up, and his nostrils widened as he sniffed in the odors of the crushed green grass. It was as though a broken-down horse had heard from afar the battle-riot in which he never again would take part.
Back came the blood-shot eyes to Joe’s still extended hand.
“Do you—do you mean it?” faltered the old ball player.
“Mean it? Mean what?” asked Joe, in surprise.
“Are you going to shake hands with me—with a——”
He did not finish his obvious sentence.
“Why not?” asked Joe.
The other did not need to answer, for at that moment Gregory came up. He started at the sight of Dutton, and said sharply:
“How did you get in here? What are you doing here. Didn’t I tell you to keep away?”
“I paid my way in—MisterGregory!” was the sarcastic answer. “I still have the price.”
“Well, we don’t care for your money. What are you doing here? The bleachers for yours!”
“He came—I think he came to see me,” spoke Joe, softly, and he reached for the other’s reluctant hand. “I have met him before.”
“Oh,” said Gregory, and there was a queer note in his voice. “I guess we’ve all met him before, and none of us are the better for it. You probably don’t know him as well as the rest of us, Joe.”
“He—he saved my life,” faltered the unfortunate old ball player.
“In a way that was a pity,” returned Gregory, coolly—cuttingly, Joe thought, “for you’re no good to yourself, Dutton, nor to anyone else, as near as I can make out. I told you I didn’t want you hanging around my grounds, and I don’t. Now be off! If I find you here again I’ll hand you over to the police!”
Joe expected an outburst from Dutton, but the man’s spirit was evidently broken. For an instant—just for an instant—he straightened up andlooked full at Gregory. Then he seemed to shrink in his clothes and turned to shuffle away.
“All—all right,” he mumbled. “I’ll keep away. But you’ve got one fine little pitcher in that boy, and I didn’t want to see him lose his nerve and get discouraged—as I often did. That—that’s why I spoke to him.”
Poor Joe felt that he had rather made a mess of it in speaking to Dutton, but, he said afterward, he would have done the same thing over again.
“You needn’t worry about Matson,” said the manager, with a sneer. “I’ll look after Joe—I’ll see that he doesn’t lose his nerve—or get discouraged.”
“I—I hope you do,” said the old player, and then, with uncertain gait, he walked off as the victorious Pittston players swarmed in. The game was over.
“Matson, I hope you didn’t misunderstand me,” remarked the manager as he walked beside Joe to the dressing rooms. “I mean in regard to that Dutton. He’s an intolerable nuisance, and I didn’t want you to get mixed up with him. Perhaps I spoke stronger than I should, but I’m exasperated with him. I’ve tried—and so have lots of us—to get him back on the right road again, but I’m afraid he’s hopeless.”
“It’s too bad!” burst out the young pitcher. “Yes, I thought you were a little severe with him.”
“I have to be. I don’t want him hanging around here. I haven’t seen him for some time. He drifts all about—beating his way like a tramp, I guess, though he’s better dressed now than in a long while. What’s that he said about you saving his life?”
“Well, I suppose I did, in a way,” and Joe told of the freight train episode. “But that happened a long distance from here,” he added. “I was surprised to turn around and see him.”
“Oh, Pop travels all over. You’ve probably heard about him. In his day there wasn’t a better pitcher in any league. But he got careless—that, bad companions and dissipation spelled ruin for him. He’s down and out now, and I’m sure he can never come back. He lives off what he can borrow or beg from those who used to be his friends. Steer clear of him—that’s my advice.”
Joe did not respond and after a moment Gregory went on with:
“And you mustn’t mind, Joe, being taken out of to-day’s game.”
“Oh, I didn’t—after the first.”
“It was for your own good, as well as for the good of the team,” proceeded the manager. “If I hadn’t taken you out you might have gone to pieces, and the crowd would have said mean things that are hard to forget. And I want you to pitch for us to-morrow, Joe.”
“You do!” cried the delighted young pitcher, all his bitterness forgotten now. “I thought maybe——”
He paused in confusion.
“Just because you got a little off to-day, did you imagine I was willing to give you your release?” asked Gregory, with a smile.
“Well—something like that,” confessed Joe.
The manager laughed.
“Don’t take it so seriously,” he advised.“You’ve got lots to learn yet about professional baseball, and I want you to learn it right.”
Joe felt a sense of gratitude, and when he reached the hotel that afternoon, he took a refreshing shower bath, attired himself in his “glad rags,” and bought a ticket to the theatre.
Then, before supper, he sat down to write home, enclosing some of his salary to be put in a savings bank at Riverside. Joe also wrote a glowing account of the game, even though his part in it was rather negligible. He also wrote to— But there! I shouldn’t tell secrets that way. It’s taking too much of an advantage over a fellow.
There was an air of elation about the hotel where the players lived, and on all sides were heard congratulations. The evening papers had big headlines with the victory of the home team displayed prominently. Collin’s picture was there, and how much Joe wished that his own was so displayed only he himself knew.
Clevefield played four games with Pittston, and they broke even—each side winning two. Joe was given another chance to pitch, and was mainly responsible for winning the second game for his team.
Joe was fast becoming accustomed to his new life. Of course there was always something different coming up—some new problem to be met. But he got in the way of solving them. It wasdifferent from his life at boarding school, and different from his terms at Yale. He missed the pleasant, youthful comradeship of both places, but he found, as he grew to know them better, some sterling men in his own team, and in those of the opposing clubs.
But with all that, at times, Joe felt rather lonesome. Of course the days were busy ones, either at practice or in play. But his nights were his own, and often he had no one with whom he cared to go out.
He and Charlie Hall grew more and more friendly, but it was not a companionship of long enough standing to make it the kind Joe really cared for.
He had much pleasure in writing home, and to Mabel, who in turn, sent interesting letters of her life in the South. One letter in particular made Joe rather eager.
“My brother and I are coming North on a combined business and pleasure trip,” she wrote, “and we may see your team play. We expect to be in Newkirk on the twentieth.”
Joe dropped everything to look eagerly at the official schedule.
“Well, of all the luck!” he cried. “We play in Newkirk that date. I wonder if she knew it? I wonder——?”
Then for days Joe almost prayed that therewould be no rainy days—no upsetting of the schedule that would necessitate double-headers, or anything that would interfere with playing at Newkirk on the date mentioned. That city, as he found by looking at a map, was on a direct railroad line from Goldsboro.
“I hope nothing slips up!” murmured the young pitcher. From then on he lived in a sort of rosy glow.
The ball season of the Central League was well under way now. A number of games had been played, necessitating travel from one city to another. Some of the journeys Joe liked, and some were tiresome. He met all sorts and conditions of men and was growing to be able to take things as he found them.
Joe worked hard, and he took a defeat more to heart than did any of the others. It seemed to be all in the day’s work with them. With Joe it was a little more. Not that any of the players were careless, though. They were more sophisticated, rather.
The third week of the season, then, found Pittston third in line for pennant honors, and when the loss of a contest to Buffington had set them at the end of the first division there were some rather glum-looking faces seen in the hotel corridor.
“Boys, we’ve got to take a brace!” exclaimed Gregory, and the manner in which he said it toldhis men that he meant it. Joe went to bed that night wildly resolving to do all sorts of impossible things, so it is no wonder he dreamed that he pitched a no-hit no-run game, and was carried in triumph around the diamond on the shoulders of his enthusiastic comrades.
I shall not weary you with an account of the ordinary games. Just so many had to be played in a certain order to fulfill the league conditions. Some of the contests were brilliant affairs, and others dragged themselves out wearily.
Joe had his share in the good and bad, but, through it all, he was gradually acquiring a good working knowledge of professional baseball. He was getting better control of his curves, and he was getting up speed so that it was noticeable.
“I’ll have to get Nelson a mitt with a deeper pit in it if you keep on,” said Gregory with a laugh, after one exciting contest when Joe had fairly “pitched his head off,” and the game had been won for Pittston by a narrow margin.
Gradually Joe’s team crept up until it was second, with Clevefield still at the head.
“And our next game is with Newkirk!” exulted Joe one morning as they took the train for that place. They were strictly on schedule, and Joe was eager, for more reasons than one, to reach the city where he hoped a certain girl might be.
“If we win, and Clevefield loses to-morrow,”spoke Charlie Hall, as he dropped into a seat beside Joe, “we’ll be on top of the heap.”
“Yes—if!” exclaimed the young pitcher. “But I’m going to do my best, Charlie!”
“The same here!”
It was raining when the team arrived in Newkirk, and the weather was matched by the glum faces of the players.
“No game to-morrow, very likely,” said Charlie, in disappointed tones. “Unless they have rubber grounds here.”
“No such luck,” returned Joe.
As he walked with the others to the desk to register he saw, amid a pile of luggage, a certain peculiar valise. He knew it instantly.
“Reggie Varley’s!” he exclaimed to himself. “There never was another bag like that. And it has his initials on it. Reggie Varley is here—at this hotel, and—and—she—must be here too. Let it rain!”
Joe Matson stood spell-bound for a second or so, staring at the valise which had such an interest for him in two ways. It meant the presence at the hotel of the girl who had awakened such a new feeling within him, and also it recalled the unpleasant occasion when he had been accused of rifling it.
“What’s the matter, Matson?” asked Gus Harrison, the big centre fielder, who stood directly behind the young pitcher, waiting to register. “Have you forgotten your name?”
“No—oh, no!” exclaimed our hero, coming to himself with a start. “I—er—I was just thinking of something.”
“I should imagine so,” commented Harrison. “Get a move on. I want to go to my room and tog up. I’ve got a date with a friend.”
As Joe turned away from the desk, after registering, he could not refrain from glancing at the odd valise. He half expected to see Reggie Varley standing beside it, but there was no sign of Mabel’s brother.
“Quite a coincidence that she should be stopping at this hotel,” thought Joe, for a quick glance at the names on the register, ahead of those of the ball team, had shown Joe that Miss Varley’s was among them. “Quite a coincidence,” Joe mused on. “I wonder if she came here because she knew this was where the team always stops? Oh, of course not. I’m getting looney, I reckon.”
Then, as he looked at the valise again another thought came to him.
“I do wish there was some way of proving to young Varley that I didn’t take the stuff out of it,” reasoned Joe. “But I don’t see how I can prove that I didn’t. It’s harder to prove a negative than it is a positive, they say. Maybe he has found his stuff by this time; I must ask him if I get a chance. And yet I don’t like to bring it up again, especially as she’s here. She doesn’t know of it yet, that’s evident, or she’d have said something. I mean Reggie hasn’t told her that he once suspected me.”
Joe went to his room, and made a much more careful toilet than usual. So much so that Charlie Hall inquired rather sarcastically:
“Who’s the lady, Joe?”
“Lady? What do you mean?” responded Joe, with simulated innocence.
“Oh, come now, that’s too thin!” laughed theshortstop. “Why all this gorgeousness? And a new tie! Upon my word! You are going it!”
“Oh, cut it out!” growled Joe, a bit incensed.
But, all the while, he was wondering how and when he would meet Mabel. Would it be proper for him to send her his card? Or would she know that the ball team had arrived, and send word to Joe that he could see her? How were such things managed anyhow?
Joe wished there was some one whom he could ask, but he shrank from taking into his confidence any of the members of the team.
“I’ll just wait and see what turns up,” he said.
Fate was kind to him, however.
Most of the ball players had gone in to dinner, discussing, meanwhile, the weather probabilities. There was a dreary drizzle outside, and the prospects for a fair day to follow were remote indeed. It meant almost certainly that there would be no game, and this was a disappointment to all. The Pittston team was on edge for the contest, for they wanted their chance to get to the top of the league.
“Well, maybe it’s just as well,” confided Gregory to Jimmie Mack. “It’ll give the boys a chance to rest up, and they’ve been going the pace pretty hard lately. I do hope we win, though.”
“Same here,” exclaimed Jimmie earnestly.
As Joe came down from his apartment, andcrossed the foyer into the dining room, he turned around a pillar and came face to face with Reggie Varley—and his sister.
They both started at the sight of the young pitcher, and Mabel blushed. Joe did the same, for that matter.
“Oh, why how do you do!” the girl exclaimed graciously, holding out her hand. “I’m awfully glad to see you again! So you are here with your team? Oh, I do hope you’ll win! Too bad it’s raining; isn’t it? Reggie, you must take me to the game! You remember Mr. Matson, of course!”
She spoke rapidly, as though to cover some embarrassment, and, for a few seconds, Joe had no chance to say anything, save incoherent murmurs, which, possibly, was proper under the circumstances.
“Oh, yes, I remember him,” said Reggie, but there was not much cordiality in his tone or manner. “Certainly I remember him. Glad to meet you again, old man. We haven’t forgotten what you did for sis. Awfully good of you.”
Joe rather resented this tone, but perhaps Reggie could not help it. And the young pitcher wondered whether there was any significance in the way Reggie “remembered.”
Young Varley glanced over toward where his odd valise had been placed, in a sort of checking room.
“Excuse me,” he said to his sister and Joe. “I must have my luggage sent up. I quite forgot about it.”
“Then there isn’t any jewelry in it this time,” spoke Joe significantly, and under the impulse of the moment. A second later he regretted it.
“No, of course not. Oh, I see!” exclaimed Reggie, and his face turned red. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he added as he hurried off.
Mabel glanced from her brother to Joe. She saw that there was something between them of which she knew nothing, but she had the tact to ignore it—at least for the present.
“Have you dined?” she asked Joe. “If you haven’t there’s a vacant seat at our table, and I’m sure Reggie and I would be glad to have you sit with us.”
“I don’t know whether he would or not,” said Joe, feeling that, as his part in the story of the valise and the missing jewelry would have to come out sometime, now was as good as any.
“Why—what do you mean?” asked Mabel in surprise.
“Hasn’t he told you?” demanded Joe.
“Told me? Told me what? I don’t understand.”
“I mean about his watch and some of your jewelry being taken.”
“Oh, yes, some time ago. You mean when hewas up North. Wasn’t it too bad! And my lovely beads were in his valise. But how did you know of it?”
“Because,” blurted out Joe, “your brother accused me of taking them!”
Mabel started back.
“No!” she cried. “Never! He couldn’t have done that!”
“But he did, and I’d give a lot to be able to prove that I had no hand in the looting!” Joe spoke, half jokingly.
“How silly!” exclaimed the girl. “The idea! How did it happen?”
Joe explained briefly, amid rather excited ejaculations from Mabel, and had just concluded when Reggie came back. He caught enough of the conversation to understand what it was about, and as his sister looked oddly at him, he exclaimed:
“Oh, I say now, Matson! I was hoping that wouldn’t get out. I suppose I made rather a fool of myself—talking to you the way I did, but——”
“Well, I resented it somewhat at the time,” replied Joe, slowly, “but I know how you must have felt.”
“Yes. Well, I never have had a trace of the stuff. I was hoping sis, here, wouldn’t know how I accused you—especially after the plucky way you saved her.”
“I thought it best to tell,” said the young pitcher, quietly.
“Oh, well, as you like,” and Reggie shrugged his shoulders. “It was certainly a queer go.”
“And I’m living in hope,” went on Joe, “that some day I’ll be able to prove that I had no hand in the matter.”
“Oh, of course you didn’t!” cried Mabel, impulsively. “It’s silly of you, Reggie, to think such a thing.”
“I don’t think it—now!”
But in spite of this denial Joe could not help feeling that perhaps, after all, Reggie Varley still had an undefined suspicion against him.
“I say!” exclaimed Joe’s one-time accuser, “won’t you dine with us? We have a nice waiter at our table——”
“I had already asked him,” broke in Mabel.
“Then that’s all right. I say, Matson, can’t you take my sister in? I’ve just had a ’phone message about some of dad’s business that brought me up here. I’ve got to go see a man, and if you’ll take Mabel in——”
“I shall be delighted.”
“How long will you be, Reggie?”
“Oh, not long, Sis. But if I see Jenkinson to-night it will save us time to-morrow.”
“Oh, all right. But if I let you off now you’ll have to take me to the ball game to-morrow.”
“I will—if it doesn’t rain.”
“And you’ll be back in time for the theatre?”
“Surely. I’ll run along now. It’s awfully good of you, Matson, to take——”
“Not at all!” interrupted Joe. The pleasure was all his, he felt.
He and Mabel went into the hotel dining room, and Joe’s team-mates glanced curiously at him from where they sat. But none of them made any remarks.
“It was dreadful of Reggie, to accuse you that way,” the girl murmured, when they were seated.
“Oh, he was flustered, and perhaps it was natural,” said Joe. “I did sit near the valise, you know.”
“I know—but——”
They talked over the matter at some length, and then the conversation drifted to baseball. Joe had never eaten such a delightful meal, though if you had asked him afterward what the menu was made up of, he could not have told you. It was mostly Mabel, I think, from the soup to the dessert.
Grounds that were soggy and wet, and a dreary drizzle of rain, prevented a game next day, and there was much disappointment. Weather reports were eagerly scanned, and the skies looked at more than once.
“I think it’ll clear to-morrow,” remarked Joe to Charlie Hall.
“I sure hope so. I want to see what sort of meat these Newkirk fellows are made of since we played against ’em last.”
“Oh, they’re husky enough, as we found, Charlie,” for there had been several league games between this team and the Pittston nine, but in the latter town. Now the tables might be turned.
“They’ve got some new players,” went on Charlie, “and a pitcher who’s said to be a marvel.”
“Well, you’ve got me,” laughed Joe, in simulated pride.
“That’s right, old man, and I’m glad of it. Ithink you’re going to pull us to the top in this pennant race.”
“Oh, I haven’t such a swelled head as to think that,” spoke Joe, “but I’m going to work hard—I guess we all are. But what does it look like for Clevefield to-day? You know she’s got to lose and we’ve got to win to put us on top.”
“I know. There wasn’t any report of rain there, so the game must be going on. We ought to get results soon. Come on over to the ticker.”
It was after luncheon, and the game in Clevefield, with the Washburg nine, would soon start. Then telegraphic reports of the contest that, in a way, meant so much for Pittston would begin coming in.
After the delightful dinner Joe had had with Mabel his pleasure was further added to when he went with her to the theatre. Reggie telephoned that he could not get back in time, and asked Joe to take his sister, she having the tickets.
Of course the young pitcher was delighted, but he could not get over the uneasy feeling that young Varley was suspicious of him.
“Hang it all!” exclaimed Joe, mentally. “I’ve just got to get that out of his mind! But how? Only by finding his watch or Mabel’s jewelry, and I suppose I might as well look for a needle in a haystack.”
Joe sat in the hotel corridor, looking over anewspaper, and waiting for some news of the Clevefield game, as many of his team were doing. An item caught the eye of the young pitcher that caused him to start. It was to the effect that the unfortunate Pop Dutton had been arrested for creating a scene at a ball park.
“Poor old man!” mused Joe. “I wish I could do something for him. I feel sort of responsible for him, since I saved his life. I wonder if he couldn’t be straightened up? I must have another talk with Gregory about him.”
A yell from some of the players gathered about the news ticker in the smoking room brought Joe to his feet.
“What is it?” he called to Charlie Hall.
“Washburg got three runs the first inning and Clevefield none!” was the answer. “It looks as if Washburg would have a walk-over. And you know what that means for us.”
“Yes, if we win to-morrow.”
“Win! Of course we’ll win, you old bone-head!” cried Charlie, clapping Joe affectionately on the back.
Further news from the game was eagerly awaited and when the last inning had been ticked off, and Washburg had won by a margin of three runs, the Pittston team was delighted.
Not at the downfall of fellow players, understand,but because it gave Pittston the coveted chance to be at the top of the first division.
“Boys, we’ve just got to win that game to-morrow!” cried Gregory.
“If they don’t I’ll make them live on bread and water for a week!” cried Trainer McGuire, with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
The second day following proved all that could be desired from a weather standpoint for a ball game, the grounds having dried up meanwhile. It was bright and sunny, but not too warm, and soon after breakfast the team was ordered out on the field for light practice.
This was necessary as their day of comparative idleness, added to the damp character of the weather, had made them all a little stiff.
“Get limbered up, boys,” advised Jimmie Mack. “You’ll need all the speed and power you can bring along to-day. Joe, how’s your arm?”
“All right, I guess,” answered the young pitcher.
“Well, do some light practice. Come on. I’ll catch for you a while.”
There had been some slight changes made in the Newkirk grounds since last season, and Gregory wanted his players to familiarize themselves with the new layout. Joe was delighted with the diamond. Though Newkirk was a smaller citythan Pittston the ball field was kept in better shape.
“Of course it isn’t the Polo Grounds,” Joe confided to Charlie Hall, “but they’re pretty good.”
“I wonder if I’ll ever get a chance to play on the Polo Grounds?” murmured Charlie, half enviously. “It must be great!”
“It is!” cried Joe, with memories of the Yale-Princeton contest he had taken part in there. “And I’m going to do it again, some time!”
“You are?”
“I sure am. I’m going to break into a big league if it’s possible.”
“Good for you, Joe!”
“Still, the grounds aren’t everything, Charlie,” went on Joe. “We’ve got to play the best ball to win the game.”
“And we’ll do it, too! Don’t worry.”
The practice was worked up to a fast and snappy point, and then Gregory sent his men for a brisk walk, to be followed by a shower bath in preparation for the afternoon contest.
Certainly when the Pittston team started for the grounds again they were a bright, clean-looking lot of players. Joe was wondering whether he would have a chance to pitch, but, following his usual policy, the crafty manager did not announce his battery until the last moment.
There was a big crowd out to see the game, for the rivalry in the Central League was now intense, and interest was well keyed up. Joe had seen Mabel and her brother start for the grounds, and he wished, more than ever before, perhaps, that he would be sent to the mound to do battle for his team.
The Newkirk men were out on the diamond when the Pittston players arrived, and, after an interval the latter team was given a chance to warm up. Joe and the other pitchers began their usual practice, and Joe felt that he could do himself justice if he could but get a chance.
There was silence as the batteries were announced, and Joe could not help feeling a keen disappointment as Tooley, the south-paw, was named to open the contest.
“There’s a lot of queer batters on the Newkirks,” Joe heard Bob Newton, the right fielder, say to Terry Hanson, who played left. “I guess that’s the reason the old man wants Tooley to feel them out.”
“I reckon.”
“Play ball!” droned the umpire as the gong clanged, and George Lee, the second baseman, who was first at bat, strolled out to pick up his club.
The first part of the game was rather a surprise to the Pittston players. Lee was struck outwith amazing ease, and even Jimmie Mack, who had the best batting average of any on the team, “fell” for a delusive “fade-away” ball.
“But I’ve got his number!” he exclaimed, as he nodded at the opposing pitcher. “He won’t get me again.”
Pittston did not get a run, though she had three men on bases when the last one went down, and it looked as though her chances were good.
Then came more disappointment when Tooley failed to get his batters, and Newkirk had two runs chalked up to her credit. The second inning was almost like the first and then at the proper time, Gregory, with a decisive gesture, signalled to Joe.
“You’ll have to pitch us out of this hole!” he said, grimly. Collin, who had said openly that he expected to be called on, looked blackly at our hero.
As Joe started to take his place a messenger boy handed him a telegram. He was a little startled at first, and then laughed at his fears.
“Probably good wishes from home,” he murmured, as he tore open the envelope. And then the bright day seemed to go black as he read:
“Your father hurt in explosion. No danger of death, but may lose eyesight. If you can come home do so.Mother.”
“Your father hurt in explosion. No danger of death, but may lose eyesight. If you can come home do so.Mother.”
Joe’s distress at receiving the bad news was so evident, at least to Gregory, that the manager hurried over to the young pitcher and asked:
“What’s the matter, old man? Something upset you?”
For answer Joe simply held out the message.
“I say! That’s too bad!” exclaimed Gregory sympathetically. “Let’s see now. You can get a train in about an hour, I think. Skip right off. I’ll make it all right.” It was his business to know much about trains, and he was almost a “walking timetable.”
“Awfully sorry, old man!” he went on. “Come back to us when you can. You’ll find us waiting.”
Joe made up his mind quickly. It was characteristic of him to do this, and it was one of the traits that made him, in after years, such a phenomenal pitcher.
“I—I’m not going home,” said Joe, quietly.
“Not going home! Why?” cried Gregory.
“At least not until after the game,” went on Joe. “The telegram says my father isn’t in any immediate danger, and I could not gain much by starting now. I’m going to stay and pitch. That is, if you’ll let me.”
“Let you! Of course I’ll let you. But can you stand the gaff, old man? I don’t want to seem heartless, but the winning of this game means a lot to me, and if you don’t feel just up to the mark——”
“Oh, I can pitch—at least, I think I can,” said Joe, not wishing to appear too egotistical. “I mean this won’t make me flunk.”
“That’s mighty plucky of you, Joe, and I appreciate it. Now don’t make a mistake. It won’t hurt your standing with the club a bit if you go now. I’ll put Collin in, and——”
“I’ll pitch!” said Joe, determinedly. “After that it will be time enough to start for home.”
“All right,” assented Gregory. “But if you want to quit at any time, give me the signal. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Have you a ’phone at home?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll have someone get your house on the long distance wire, and find out just how your father is. I’ll also send word that you’ll start to-night.”
“That will be fine!” cried Joe, and already he felt better. The bad news had shocked him for the time, though.
“Play ball!” called the umpire, for there had been a little delay over the talk between Joe and the manager.
“Just keep quiet about it, though,” advised the manager to the young pitcher. “It may only upset things if it gets out. Are you sure you can stand it?”
“I—I’m going to stand it!” responded Joe, gamely.
He faced his first batter with a little sense of uncertainty. But Nelson, who was catching, nodded cheerfully at him, and gave a signal for a certain ball that Joe, himself, had decided would best deceive that man with the stick. He sent it in rushingly, and was delighted to hear the umpire call:
“Strike one!”
“That’s the way!”
“Two more like that and he’s a goner!”
“Slam ’em in, Matson!”
Joe flushed with pleasure at the encouraging cries. He wondered if Mabel was joining in the applause that frequently swept over the grandstand at a brilliant play.
Again Joe threw, and all the batter could do was to hit a foul, which was not caught.
Then came a ball, followed by another, and Joe began to get a bit anxious.
“That’s the boy!” welled up encouragingly from the crowd.
Joe tried a moist ball—a delivery of which he was not very certain as yet, but the batter “fell for it” and whirled around as he missed it cleanly.
“Three strikes—batter’s out!” howled the umpire, and the man went back to the bench.
The next candidate managed to get a single, but was caught stealing second, and Joe had a chance to retire his third man.
It was a chance not to be missed, and he indulged in a few delaying tactics in order to place, in his mind, the hitter and his special peculiarities.
With a snap of his wrist Joe sent in an out curve, but the manner in which the batter leaped for it, missing it only by a narrow margin, told our hero that this ball was just “pie,” for his antagonist.
“Mustn’t do that again,” thought Joe. “He’ll slam it over the fence if I do.”
The next—an in-shoot—was hit, but only for a foul, and Joe, whose heart had gone into his throat as he heard the crack of the bat, breathed easier. Then, just to puzzle the batter, after delivering a “moistener” that fell off and was called a ball, Joe sent in a “teaser”—a slow one—that fooled the player, who flied out to shortstop.
Joe was beginning to feel more confidence in himself.
The others of the Pittston team grinned encouragingly at Joe, and Gregory clasped his arms about the young pitcher as he came in to the bench.
“Can you stick it out?” he asked.
“Sure! Have you any word yet on the ’phone?”
“No. Not yet. I’m expecting Hastings back any minute,” naming a substitute player who had not gone into the game, and whom the manager had sent to call up Joe’s house. “But are you sure you want to keep on playing?”
“Sure,” answered Joe. He had a glimpse of Collin, and fancied that the eager look on the other pitcher’s face turned to one of disappointment.
“You’re beating me out,” said Tooley, the south-paw, with an easy laugh.
“I’m sorry,” said Joe, for he knew how it felt to be supplanted.
“Oh, I’m not worrying. My turn will come again. One can’t be up to the mark all the while.”
Pittston managed to get a run over the plate that inning, and when it came time for Joe to go to the mound again he had better news to cheer him up.
Word had come over the telephone that Mr. Matson, while making some tests at the Harvester Works, had been injured by an explosion of acids.Some had gone into his face, burning him badly.
His life was in no danger, but his eyesight might be much impaired, if not lost altogether. Nothing could be told in this respect for a day or so.
Hastings had been talking to Joe’s sister Clara, to whom he explained that Joe would start for home as soon as the game was over. Mrs. Matson was bearing up well under the strain, the message said, and Joe was told not to worry.
“Now I’ll be able to do better,” said the young pitcher, with a little smile. “Thanks for the good news.”
“You’re doing all right, boy!” cried Gregory. “I think we’re going to win!”
But it was not to be as easy as saying it. The Newkirk men fought hard, and to the last inch. They had an excellent pitcher—a veteran—who was well backed up with a fielding force, and every run the Pittstons got they fully earned.
Joe warmed up to his work, and to the howling delight of the crowd struck out two men in succession, after one had gone out on a pop fly, while there were two on bases. That was a test of nerve, for something might have broken loose at any moment.
But Joe held himself well in hand, and watched his batters. He so varied his delivery that he puzzled them, and working in unison with Nelson very little got past them.
Then came a little spurt on the part of Newkirk, and they “sweetened” their score until there was a tie. It was in the ninth inning, necessitating another to decide the matter.
“If we can get one run we’ll have a chance to win,” declared Gregory. “That is, if you can hold them in the last half of the tenth, Joe.”
“I’ll do my best!”
“I know you will, my boy!”
For a time it looked as though it could not be done. Two of the Pittston players went down in rapid succession before the magnificent throwing of the Newkirk pitcher. Then he made a fatal mistake. He “fed” a slow ball to John Holme, the big third baseman, who met it squarely with his stick, and when the shouting was over John was safely on the third sack.
“Now bring him home, Joe!” cried the crowd, as the young pitcher stepped to the plate. It was not the easiest thing in the world to stand up there and face a rival pitcher, with the knowledge that your hit might win the game by bringing in the man on third. And especially after the advent of the telegram. ButJoe steadied himself, and smiled at his opponent.
He let the first ball go, and a strike was called on him. There was a groan from grandstand and bleachers.
“Take your time, Joe!” called Gregory, soothingly. “Get what you want.”
It came. The ball sailed for the plate at the right height, and Joe correctly gaged it. His bat met it squarely, with a resounding “plunk!”
“That’s the boy!”
“Oh, what a beaut!”
“Take third on that!”
“Come on home, you ice wagon!”
“Run! Run! Run!”
It was a wildly shrieking mob that leaped to its feet, cheering on Joe and Holme. On and on ran the young pitcher. He had a confused vision of the centre fielder running back to get the ball which had dropped well behind him. Joe also saw Holme racing in from third. He could hear the yells of the crowd and fancied—though of course it could not be so—that he could hear the voice of Mabel calling to him.
On and on ran Joe, and stopped, safe on second, Holme had gone in with the winning run.
But that was all. The next man struck out, and Joe was left on the “half-way station.”
“But we’re one ahead, and if we can hold the lead we’ve got ’em!” cried Gregory. “Joe, my boy, it’s up to you! Can you hold ’em down?”
He looked earnestly at the young pitcher.
“I—I’ll do it!” cried Joe.
There was an almost breathless silence as Joe walked to the mound to begin what he hoped would be the ending of the final inning of the game. If he could prevent, with the aid of his mates, the Newkirk team from gaining a run, the Pittstons would be at the top of the list. If not——
But Joe did not like to think about that. He was under a great nervous strain, not only because of the news concerning his father, but because of what his failure or success might mean to the club he had the honor to represent.
“I’ve just got to win!” said Joe to himself.
“Play ball!” called the umpire.
Joe had been holding himself a little in reserve up to now; that is, he had not used the last ounce of ability that he had, for he could see that the game was going to be a hard one, and that a little added “punch” at the last moment might make or break for victory.
The young pitcher had a good delivery of what is known as the “jump” ball. It is sent in withall the force possible, and fairly jumps as it approaches the plate. It is often used to drive the batsman away from the rubber. It is supposed to go straight for the plate, or the inside corner, and about shoulder high. A long preliminary swing is needed for this ball, and it is pitched with an overhand delivery.
Joe had practiced this until he was a fair master of it, but he realized that it was exhausting. Always after sending in a number of these his arm would be lame, and he was not good for much the next day. But now he thought the time had come to use it, varying it, of course, with other styles of delivery.
“I’ve got to hold ’em down!” thought Joe.
He realized that the attention of all was on him, and he wished he could catch the eyes of a certain girl he knew sat in the grandstand watching him. Joe also felt that Collin, his rival, was watching him narrowly, and he could imagine the veteran pitcher muttering:
“Why do they send in a young cub like that when so much depends on it? Why didn’t Gregory call me?”
But the manager evidently knew what he was doing.
“Play ball!” called the umpire again, at the conclusion of the sending in of a practice ball or two.
Joe caught his breath sharply.
“It’s now or never!” he thought as he grasped the ball in readiness for the jump. “It’s going to strain me, but if I go home for a day or so I can rest up.”
In went the horsehide sphere with great force. It accomplished just what Joe hoped it would. The batter instinctively stepped back, but there was no need. The ball neatly clipped the corner of the plate, and the umpire called:
“Strike one!”
Instantly there was a howl from the crowd.
“That’s the way!”
“Two more, Matson, old man!”
“Make him stand up!”
“Slam it out, Johnson!”
The batter had his friends as well as Joe.
But the battle was not half won yet. There were two men to be taken care of after this one was disposed of, and he still had his chances.
Joe signalled to his catcher that he would slip in a “teaser” now, and the man in the wire mask nodded his understanding. The batter smiled, in anticipation of having a “ball” called on him, but was amazed, not to say angry, when he heard from the umpire the drawling:
“Strike—two!”
Instantly there came a storm of protest, some from the crowd, a half-uttered sneer from the batterhimself, but more from his manager and team-mates on the players’ bench.
“Forget it!” sharply cried the umpire, supreme master that he was. “I said ‘strike,’ and a strike it goes. Play ball!”
Joe was delighted. It showed that they were now to have fair treatment from the deciding power, though during the first part of the game the umpire’s decisions had not been altogether fair to Pittston.
The crowd was breathlessly eager again, as Joe wound up once more. Then there was a mad yell as the batter hit the next ball.
“Go on! Go on! You——”
“Foul!” yelled the umpire, and there was a groan of disappointment.
Joe was a little nervous, so it is no wonder that he was called for a ball on his next delivery. But following that he sent in as neat an out curve as could be desired. The batter missed it by a foot, and throwing his stick down in disgust walked to the bench.
“Only two more, old man!” called Gregory encouragingly. “Only two more. We’ve got their number.”
Then came an attempt on the part of the crowd, which naturally was mostly in sympathy with their home team, to get Joe’s “goat.” He was hooted at and reviled. He was advised to go back to college,and to let a man take his place. Joe only grinned and made no answer. The nervous strain under which he was playing increased. He wanted, no one perhaps but Gregory knew how much, to get away and take a train for home, to be with his suffering father.
But there were two more men to put out. And Joe did it.
That is, he struck out the next man. The third one singled, and when the best batter of the opposing team came up, Joe faced him confidently.
After two balls had been called, and the crowd was at the fever point of expectancy, Joe got a clean strike. It was followed by a foul, and then came a little pop fly that was easily caught by the young pitcher, who hardly had to move from his mound.
“Pittston wins!”
“Pittston is up head!”
“Three cheers for Joe Matson!”
They were given with a will, too, for the crowd loved a plucky player, even if it was on the other side.
But Joe did not stay to hear this. He wanted to catch the first train for home, and hurried into the dressing room. He spoke to Gregory, saying that he was going, and would be back as soon as he could.
“Take your time, old man; take your time,”said the manager kindly. “You did a lot for us to-day, and now I guess we can hold our own until you come back.”
There were sympathetic inquiries from Joe’s fellow players when they heard what had happened. Joe wanted to say good-bye to Mabel, but did not quite see how he could do it. He could hardly find her in that crowd.
But chance favored him, and as he was entering the hotel to get his grip, he met her.
“Oh, it was splendid!” she cried with girlish enthusiasm, holding out her slim, pretty hand. “It was fine! However did you do it?”
“I guess because I knew you were watching me!” exclaimed Joe with a boldness that he himself wondered at later.
“Oh, that’s awfully nice of you to say,” she answered, with a blush. “I wish I could believe it!”
“You can!” said Joe, still more boldly.
“But you—you look as though something had happened,” she went on, for surely Joe’s face told that.
“There has,” he said, quietly, and he told of the accident to his father.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, clasping his hand again. “And you pitched after you heard the news! How brave of you! Is there anythingwe can do—my brother—or I?” she asked anxiously.
“Thank you, no,” responded Joe, in a low voice. “I am hoping it will not be serious.”
“You must let me know—let Reggie know,” she went on. “We shall be here for some days yet.”
Joe promised to write, and then hurried off to catch his train. It was a long ride to Riverside, and to Joe, who was all impatience to be there, the train seemed to be the very slowest kind of a freight, though it really was an express.
But all things must have an end, and that torturing journey did. Joe arrived in his home town late one afternoon, and took a carriage to the house. He saw Clara at the window, and could see that she had been crying. She slipped to the door quickly, and held up a warning finger.
“What—what’s the matter?” asked Joe in a hoarse whisper. “Is—is he worse?”
“No, he’s a little better, if anything. But he has just fallen asleep, and so has mother. She is quite worn out. Come in and I’ll tell you about it. Oh, Joe! I’m so glad you’re home!”
Clara related briefly the particulars of the accident, and then the doctor came in. By this time Mrs. Matson had awakened and welcomed her son.
“What chance is there, Doctor,” asked theyoung pitcher; “what chance to save his eyesight?”
“Well, there’s a chance; but, I’m sorry to say, it is only a slim one,” was the answer. “It’s too soon to say with certainty, however. Another day will have to pass. I hope all will be well, but now all I can say is that there is a chance.”
Joe felt his heart beating hard, and then, bracing himself to meet the emergency if it should come, he put his arm around his weeping mother, and said, as cheerfully as he could:
“Well, I believe chance is going to be on our side. I’m going to use a bit of baseball slang, and say I have a ‘hunch’ that we’ll win out!”
“That’s the way to talk!” cried Dr. Birch, heartily.