Dr. Birch remained for some little time at the Matson home, going over in detail with Joe just what the nature of his father’s injuries were. In brief, while experimenting on a certain new method of chilling steel, for use in a corn sheller, Mr. Matson mixed some acids together.
Unknown to him a workman had, accidentally, substituted one very strong acid for a weak one. When the mixture was put into an iron pot there was an explosion. Some of the acid, and splinters of iron, flew up into the face of the inventor.
“And until I can tell whether the acid, or a piece of steel, injured his eyes, Joe, I can’t say for sure what we shall have to do,” concluded the doctor.
“You mean about an operation?”
“Yes. If we have to perform one it will be a very delicate one, and it will cost a lot of money; there are only a few men in this country capable of doing it, and their fees, naturally, are high. But we won’t think of that now. I think I will goin and see how he is. If he is well enough I want you to see him. It will do him good.”
“And me, too,” added Joe, who was under a great strain, though he did not show it.
Mr. Matson was feeling better after his rest, and Joe was allowed to come into the darkened room. He braced himself for the ordeal.
“How are you, Son,” said the inventor weakly.
“Fine, Dad. But I’m sorry to see you laid up this way.”
“Well, Joe, it couldn’t be helped. I should have been more careful. But I guess I’ll pull through. How is baseball?”
“Couldn’t be better, Dad! We’re at the top of the heap! I just helped to win the deciding game before I came on.”
“Yes, I heard your mother talking about the telephone message. I’m glad you didn’t come away without playing. Have you the pennant yet?”
“Oh, no. That won’t be decided for a couple of months. But we’re going to win it!”
“That’s what I like to hear!”
Dr. Birch did not permit his patient to talk long, and soon Joe had to leave the room. The physician said later that he thought there was a slight improvement in Mr. Matson’s condition, though of course the matter of saving his eyesight could not yet be decided.
“But if we do have to have an operation,” said Mrs. Matson. “I don’t see where the money is coming from. Your father’s investments are turning out so badly——”
“Don’t worry about that, Mother,” broke in Joe.
“But I have to, Joe. If an operation is needed we’ll have to get the money. And from where is more than I know,” she added, hopelessly.
“I’ll get the money!” exclaimed the young pitcher in energetic tones.
“How?” asked his mother. “I’m sure you can’t make enough at ball playing.”
“No, perhaps not at ordinary ball playing, Mother, but at the end of the season, when the deciding games for the pennant are played off, they always draw big crowds, and the players on the winning team come in for a good share of the receipts. I’ll use mine for the operation.”
“But your team may not win the pennant, Joe,” said Clara.
“We’re going to win!” cried the young pitcher. “I feel it in my bones! Don’t worry, Mother.”
But, naturally, Mrs. Matson could not help it, in spite of Joe’s brave words. Clara, though, was cheered up.
“There’s more to baseball than I thought,” she said.
“There’s more in it than I’ll ever learn,” admittedJoe, frankly. “Of course our pennant-deciding games aren’t like the world series, but I understand they bring in a lot of money.”
Mr. Matson was quite improved the next day, but Dr. Birch, and another physician, who was called in consultation, could not settle the matter about the eyes.
“It will be fully a month before we can decide about the operation,” said the expert. “In the meanwhile he is in no danger, and the delay will give him a chance to get back his strength. We shall have to wait.”
As nothing could be gained by Joe’s staying home, and as his baseball money was very much needed at this trying time, it was decided that he had better rejoin his team.
He bade his parents and sister good-bye, and arranged to have word sent to him every day as to his father’s condition.
“And don’t you worry about that money, Mother,” he said as he kissed her. “I’ll be here with it when it’s needed.”
“Oh, Joe!” was all she said, but she looked happier.
Joe went back to join the team at Delamont, where they were scheduled to play four games, and then they would return to their home town of Pittston.
From the newspapers Joe learned that his teamhad taken three of the four contests in Newkirk, and might have had the fourth but for bad pitching on the part of Collin.
“Maybe he won’t be so bitter against me now,” thought Joe. “He isn’t such a wonder himself.”
Joe was glancing over the paper as the train sped on toward Delamont. He was looking over other baseball news, and at the scores of the big leagues.
“I wonder when I’ll break into them?” mused Joe, as he glanced rather enviously at several large pictures of celebrated players in action. “I’m going to do it as soon as I can.”
Then the thought came to him of how hard it was for a young and promising player to get away from the club that controlled him.
“The only way would be to slump in form,” said Joe to himself, “and then even if he did get his release no other team would want him. It’s a queer game, and not altogether fair, but I suppose it has to be played that way. Well, no use worrying about the big leagues until I get a call from one. There’ll be time enough then to wonder about my release.”
As Joe was about to lay aside the paper he was aware of a controversy going on a few seats ahead of him. The conductor had stopped beside an elderly man and was saying:
“You’ll have to get off, that’s all there is to it. You deliberately rode past your station, and you’re only trying to see how far you can go without being caught. You get off at the next station, or if you don’t I’ll stop the train when I get to you and put you off, even if it’s in the middle of a trestle. You’re trying to beat your way, and you know it! You had a ticket only to Clearville, and you didn’t get off.”
“Oh, can’t you pass me on to Delamont?” pleaded the man. “I admit I was trying to beat you. But I’ve got to get to Delamont. I’ve the promise of work there, and God knows I need it. I’ll pay the company back when I earn it.”
“Huh!” sneered the conductor, “that’s too thin. I’ve heard that yarn before. No, sir; you get off at the next station, or I’ll have the brakeman run you off. Understand that! No more monkey business. Either you give me money or a ticket, or off you go.”
“All right,” was the short answer. “I reckon I’ll have to do it.”
The man turned and at the sight of his face Joe started.
“Pop Dutton!” exclaimed the young pitcher, hardly aware that he had spoken aloud.
“That’s me,” was the answer. “Oh—why—it’s Joe!” he added, and his face lighted up. Then a look of despair came over it. Joe decided quickly.No matter what Gregory and the others said he had determined to help this broken-down old ball player.
“What’s the fare to Delamont?” Joe asked the conductor.
“One-fifty, from the last station.”
“I’ll pay it,” went on Joe, handing over a bill. The ticket-puncher looked at him curiously, and then, without a word, made the change, and gave Joe the little excess slip which was good for ten cents, to be collected at any ticket office.
“Say, Joe Matson, that’s mighty good of you!” exclaimed Old Pop Dutton, as Joe came to sit beside him. “Mighty good!”
“That’s all right,” spoke Joe easily. “What are you going to do in Delamont?”
“I’ve got a chance to be assistant ground-keeper at the ball park. I—I’m trying to—trying to get back to a decent life, Joe, but—but it’s hard work.”
“Then I’m going to help you!” exclaimed the young pitcher, impulsively. “I’m going to ask Gregory if he can’t give you something to do. Do you think you could play ball again?”
“I don’t know, Joe,” was the doubtful answer. “They say when they get—get like me—that they can’t come back. I couldn’t pitch, that’s sure. I’ve got something the matter with my arm. Doctor said a slight operation would cure me, andI might be better than ever, but I haven’t any money for operations. But I could be a fair fielder, I think, and maybe I could fatten up my batting average.”
“Would you like to try?” asked Joe.
“Would I?” The man’s tone was answer enough.
“Then I’m going to get you the chance,” declared Joe. “But you’ll have to take care of yourself, and—get in better shape.”
“I know it, Joe. I’m ashamed of myself—that’s what I am. I’ve gone pretty far down, but I believe I can come back. I’ve quit drinking, and I’ve cut my old acquaintances.”
Joe looked carefully at Pop Dutton. The marks of the life he had led of late were to be seen in his trembling hands, and in his blood-shot eyes. But there was a fine frame and a good physique to build on. Joe had great hopes.
“You come on to Delamont with me,” said the young pitcher, “and I’ll look after you until you get straightened out. Then we’ll see what the doctor says, and Gregory, too. I believe he’ll give you the chance.”
“Joe! I don’t know how to thank you!” said the man earnestly. “If I can ever do something for you—but I don’t believe I ever can.”
Pop Dutton little realized how soon the time was to come when he could do Joe a great favor.
Joe and Pop Dutton arrived at the hotel in Delamont ahead of the team, which was on the way from Newkirk after losing the last game of the four. But at that Pittston was still in the lead, and now all energies would be bent on increasing the percentage so that even the loss of a game now and then would not pull the club from its place.
“Now look here, Joe,” said Pop, when he and Joe had eaten, “this may be all right for me, but it isn’t going to do you any good.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean consorting with me in this way. I can’t stay at this hotel with you, the other players would guy you too much.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“Well, but I do. Now, look here. I appreciate a whole lot what you’re doing for me, but it would be better if I could go to some other hotel. Then, if you can, you get Gregory to give me a chance. I’ll work at anything—assistant trainer, or anything—to get in shape again. But it wouldbe better for me not to stay here where the team puts up.
“If things go right, and I can go back to Pittston with the boys, I’ll go to some quiet boarding house. Being at a hotel isn’t any too good for me. It brings back old times.”
Joe saw the logic of Pop’s talk, and consented. He gave the broken-down player enough money to enable him to live quietly for several days. When the team came Joe determined to put the question to the manager.
As Joe had registered he looked over the book to see if he knew any of the guests at the hotel. Though he did not admit so to himself he had half a forlorn hope that he might find the name of Mabel and her brother there. He even looked sharply at the various pieces of luggage as they were carried in by the bell boys, but he did not see the curious valise that had played such an unpleasant part in his life.
Joe was feeling very “fit.” The little rest, even though it was broken by anxiety concerning his father, had done him good, and the arm that had been strained in the game that meant so much to Pittston was in fine shape again. Joe felt able to pitch his very best.
“And I guess we’ll have to do our prettiest if we want to keep at the top of the heap,” he reasoned.
Then the team arrived, and noisily and enthusiastically welcomed Joe to their midst again.
Seeking the first opportunity, Joe had a talk with the manager concerning Pop Dutton. At first Gregory would not listen, and tried to dissuade Joe from having anything to do with the old player. But the young pitcher had determined to go on with his rescue work, and pleaded with such good effect that finally the manager said:
“Well, I’ll give him a chance, providing he shows that he can keep straight. I don’t believe he can, but, for your sake, I’m willing to make the experiment. I’ve done it before, and been taken in every time. I’m sure this will only be another, but you might as well learn your lesson now as later.”
“I don’t believe I’ll have much to learn,” answered Joe with a smile. “I think Pop can come back.”
“The players who can do that are as scarce as hens’ teeth,” was the rejoinder of the manager. “But I’ll take this last chance. Of course he can’t begin to play right off the bat. He’s got to get in training. By the way, I suppose he has his release?” The manager looked questioningly at Joe.
“Oh, yes. He’s free and clear to make any contract he likes. He told me that.”
“I imagined so. No one wants him. I’m afraid I’m foolish for taking him on, but I’ll doit to please you. I’ll take his option, and pay him a small sum.”
“Then I’ll do the rest,” returned Joe, eagerly. “I’m going to have his arm looked at, and then couldn’t you get him a place where he could do out-door work—say help keep our grounds in shape?”
“Well, I’ll think about it, Joe. But about yourself? Are you ready to sail in again?”
“I sure am. What are the prospects?”
“Well, they might be better. Collin isn’t doing any too well. I’m thinking of buying another pitcher to use when there’s not much at stake. Gus Harrison is laid up—sprained his knee a little making a mean slide. I’ve got to do some shifting, and I need every game I can get from now on. But I guess we’ll come out somehow.”
But the team did not come out “somehow.” It came out “nohow,” for it lost its first game with Delamont the next day, and this, coupled with the winning of a double-header by Clevefield, put that team in the lead and sent Pittston to second place.
Joe worked hard, so hard that he began to go to pieces in the seventh inning, and had to be replaced by Tooley, who came into the breach wonderfully well, and, while he did not save the day, he prevented a disgraceful beating. Joe was in the dumps after this despite the cheerful, optimistic attitude of the manager.
Joe’s one consolation, though, was that Pop Dutton was in the way of being provided for. The old pitcher was holding himself rigidly in line, and taking care of himself. He had a talk with Gregory—a shame-faced sort of talk on Pop’s part—and was promised a place at the Pittston ball park. It was agreed that he would go into training, and try to get back to his old form.
Gregory did not believe this could be done, but if a miracle should happen he realized that he would own a valuable player—one that would be an asset to his club.
And then something happened. How it came about no one could say for a certainty, but Joe went “stale.”
He fell off woefully in his pitching, and the loss of several games was attributable directly to his “slump.”
Joe could not account for it, nor could his friends; but the fact remained. Pittston dropped to third place, and the papers which gave much space to the doings of the Central League began to make sarcastic remarks.
On the diamond, too, Joe had to suffer the gibes of the crowd, which is always ready to laud a successful player, and only too ready, also, to laugh at one who has a temporary setback.
Joe was in despair, but in his letters home he kept cheerful. He did not want his folks to worry.Regularly he sent money to his mother, taking out of his salary check almost more than he could really afford. Also he felt the drain of looking after Pop, but now that the latter had regular work on the diamond, keeping it in order, the old pitcher was, in a measure, self-supporting.
Pop was rapidly becoming more like his former self, but it would take some time yet. He indulged in light practice, Joe often having him catch for him when no one else was available. As yet Pop attempted no pitching, the doctor to whom Joe took him warning him against it.
“There will have to be a slight operation on certain muscles,” said the medical man, “but I prefer to wait a bit before doing it. You will be in better shape then.”
“You’re taking too much trouble about me, Joe,” remarked the veteran player one day.
“Not a bit too much,” responded Joe, heartily.
From Joe’s father came slightly encouraging news. The need of an operation was not yet settled, and Mr. Matson’s general health had improved.
“And we can bless baseball a lot!” wrote Mrs. Matson to her son. “I’m sorry I ever said anything against it, Joe. If it were not for the money you make at the game I don’t know what we’d do now.”
Joe was glad his mother saw matters in a differentlight, but he was also a little disturbed. His pitching was not what it should be, and he felt, if his form fell off much more, that he would not last long, even in a small league.
Occasionally he did well—even brilliantly, and the team had hopes. Then would come a “slump,” and they would lose a much-needed game that would have lifted them well toward front place.
Joe’s despair grew, and he wondered what he could do to get back to his good form. Clevefield, the ancient rivals of Pittston, were now firmly entrenched in first place, and there remained only about a quarter of the league season yet to play.
“We’ve got to hustle if we want that pennant!” said Gregory, and his tone was not encouraging. Joe thought of what he had promised about having the money for his father’s operation, and wondered whether he could do as he said.
But I must not give the impression that all was unhappiness and gloom in the Pittston team. True, the members felt badly about losing, but their nerve did not desert them, and they even joked grimly when the play went against them.
Then came a little diversion. They played a contest against a well-known amateur nine for charity, and the game was made the occasion for considerable jollity.
Gregory sent in most of his second string playersagainst the amateurs, but kept Joe as a twirler, for he wanted him to see what he could do against some fairly good hitters.
And, to Joe’s delight, he seemed more like his old self. He had better control of the ball, his curves “broke” well and he was a source of dismay to the strong amateurs. Of course Pittston, even with her substitutes in the game, fairly walked away from the others, the right-handed batters occasionally doing left stick-work, on purpose to strike out.
But the little change seemed to do them all good, and when the next regular contest came off Pittston won handily, Joe almost equalling his best record.
It was at a hotel in Buffington, whither they had gone to play a series of games with that team, that, one afternoon, as Joe entered his room, after the game, he surprised a colored bell boy hurriedly leaving it.
“Did you want me?” asked the young pitcher.
“No, sah, boss! ’Deed an’ I didn’t want yo’all,” stammered the dusky youth.
“Then what were you doing in my room?” asked Joe, suspiciously.
“I—I were jest seein’, boss, if yo’all had plenty ob ice water. Dat’s whut I was doin’, boss! ’Deed I was.”
Joe noticed that the boy backed out of the room,and held one hand behind him. With a quick motion the young pitcher whirled the intruder about and disclosed the fact that the colored lad had taken one of Joe’s neckties. But, no sooner had our hero caught sight of it than he burst into a peal of laughter which seemed to startle the boy more than a storm of accusation.
“What—what all am de mattah, Massa Matson?” asked the colored lad, his eyes bulging, and showing so much white that the rest of his face seemed a shade or two darker. “What all am de mattah? Ain’t yo’all put out ’bout me takin’ dish yeah tie? I didn’t go fo’ to steal it, suh! ’Deed an’ I didn’t. I were jest sort ob borrowin’ it fo’ to wear at a party I’se gwine t’ attend dis ebenin’.”
“Put out about you!” laughed Joe. “Indeed I’m not. But don’t say you’re going to borrow that tie,” and he pointed to the one the lad had tried unsuccessfully to conceal. It was of very gaudy hue—broad stripes and prominent dots. “Don’t say you were going to borrow it.”
“’Deed an’ dat’s all I were gwine t’ do, Massa Matson. I didn’t go fo’ t’ take it fo’ keeps. I was a gwine t’ ask yo’all fo’ de lend ob it, but I thought mebby yo’all wasn’t comin’ in time, so I jest made up mah mind t’ ’propriate it on mah own lookout, an’ I was fixin’ t’ put it back ’fo’ yo’all come in. I won’t hurt it, ’deed an’ I won’t, an’ I’ll bring yo’allice water any time yo’all wants it. I—I’d laik mighty much, Massa Matson, t’ buy dish yeah tie offen yo’all.”
“Buy it!” cried Joe, still laughing, though it was evident that the colored lad could not understand why.
“Well, suh, that is, not exactlybuyit, ’case I ain’t got no money, but yo’all needn’t gib me no tips, suh, fo’ a—fo’ a long time, an’ I could buy it dat way. Yes, suh, you needn’t gib me no tips fo’ two weeks. An’ yo’all is so generous, Massa Matson, dat in two weeks’ time I’d hab dis tie paid fo’. It’s a mighty pert tie, it suah am!”
He gazed admiringly at it.
“Take it, for the love of mush!” cried Joe. “I’m glad you have it!”
“Yo’all am glad, Massa Matson?” repeated the lad, as though he had not heard aright.
“Sure! That tie’s been a nightmare to me ever since I bought it. I don’t know what possessed me to buy a cross section of the rainbow in the shape of a scarf; but I did it in a moment of aberration, I reckon. Take it away, Sam, and never let me see it again.”
“Does yo’all really mean dat?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, suh, I thanks yo’all fo’ de compliment—I suah does. An’ yo’all ain’t vexted wif me?”
“Not at all!”
“An’—an’ yo’all won’t stop giving me tips?”
“No, Sam.”
“Golly! Dat’s fine! I suah does thank you, mightily, suh! Won’t all dem odder coons open dere eyes when dey sees me sportin’ dis yeah tie! Yum-yum! I gass so!” and Sam bounced out of the room before Joe might possibly change his mind. The colored lad nearly ran into Charlie Hall, who was coming to have his usual chat with Joe, and the shortstop, seeing the tie dangling from the bell boy’s hand, guessed what had happened.
“Was he making free with your things, Joe?” asked Charlie, when Sam had disappeared around a corner of the hall.
“Oh, I caught him taking my tie, that’s all.”
“Yes, I did the same thing to one of the boys on my floor the other day. I gave him a flea in his ear, too.”
“And I gave Sam the tie,” laughed Joe.
“Yougaveit to him?”
“Yes, that thing has been haunting me. I never wore it but once and I got disgusted with it.” Joe failed to state that Mabel had showed a dislike for the scarf, and that it was her implied opinion that had turned him against it.
“You see,” the young pitcher went on, “I didn’t know just which of the fellows to give it to, and two or three times I’ve left it in my hotel roomwhen we traveled on. And every blamed time some chambermaid would find it, give it to the clerk, and he’d forward it to me. That monstrosity of a scarf has been following me all over the circuit.
“I was getting ready to heave it down some sewer hole, when I came in to find Sam ‘borrowing’ it. I had to laugh, and I guess he thought I was crazy. Anyhow he’s got the tie, and I’ve gotten rid of it. So we’re both satisfied.”
“Well, that’s a good way to look at it. How are things, anyhow?”
“They might, by a strain, be worse,” answered Joe, a bit gloomily. The game that day had been a hard one, and Gregory had used a string of three pitchers, and had only been able to stop the winning streak of Buffington. Joe had been taken out after twirling for a few innings.
“Yes, we didn’t do ourselves very proud,” agreed Charlie. “And to-morrow we’re likely to be dumped. Our record won’t stand much of that sort of thing.”
“Indeed it won’t. Charlie, I’ve got to do something!” burst out Joe.
“What is it? I can’t see but what you’re doing your best.”
“My hardest, maybe, but not my best. You see this league pitching is different from a college game. I didn’t stop to figure out that I’d have topitch a deal oftener than when I was at Yale. This is business—the other was fun.”
“You’re tired, I guess.”
“That’s it—I’m played out.”
“Why don’t you take a vacation; or ask Gregory not to work you so often?”
“Can’t take any time off, Charlie. I need the money. As for playing the baby-act—I couldn’t do that, either.”
“No, I reckon not. But what are you going to do?”
“Hanged if I know. But I’ve got to do something to get back into form. We’re going down.”
“I know it. Has Gregory said anything?”
“No, he’s been awfully decent about it, but I know he must think a lot. Yes, something’s got to be done.”
Joe was rather gloomy, nor was Charlie in any too good spirits. In fact the whole team was in the “dumps,” and when they lost the next game they were deeper in than ever.
Some of the papers began running headlines “Pittston Loses Again!” It was galling.
Jimmie Mack worked hard—so did Gregory—and he, and Trainer McGuire, devised all sorts of plans to get the team back in form again. But nothing seemed to answer. The Pittstons dropped to the rear of the first division, and only clungthere by desperate work, and by poor playing on the part of other teams.
In all those bitter, dreary days there were some bright spots for Joe, and he treasured them greatly. One was that his father was no worse, though the matter of the operation was not definitely settled. Another was that he heard occasionally from Mabel—her letters were a source of joy to him.
Thirdly, Old Pop Dutton seemed to be “making good.” He kept steadily at work, and had begun to do some real baseball practice. Joe wrote to him, and his letters were answered promptly. Even cynical Gregory admitted that perhaps, after all, the former star pitcher might come into his own again.
“When will you give him a trial?” asked Joe, eagerly.
“Oh, some day. I’ll put him in the field when we’re sure of an easy game.”
The time came when the tail-enders of the league arrived for a series of contests with Pittston, and Pop Dutton, to his delight, was allowed to play. There was nothing remarkable about it, but he made no errors, and once, taking a rather desperate chance on a long fly, he beat it out and retired the batter.
He was roundly applauded for this, and it must have warmed his heart to feel that once more he was on the road he had left so long before. Butcoming back was not easy work. Joe realized this, and he knew the old pitcher must have had a hard struggle to keep on the narrow path he had marked out for himself. But Joe’s influence was a great help—Dutton said so often. The other players, now that they found their former mate was not bothering them, begging money, or asking for loans, took more kindly to him. But few believed he could “come back,” in the full meaning of the words.
“He may be a fairly good fielder, and his batting average may beat mine,” said Tooley, “but he’ll never be the ‘iron man’ he once was.” And nearly all agreed with him.
Joe was faithful to his protegé. Often the two would saunter out to some quiet place and there pitch and catch for each other. And Joe’s trained eye told him that the other’s hand had lost little of its former cunning.
Meanwhile the fortunes of Pittston did not improve much. Sometimes they would struggle to second place, only to slip back again, while victorious Clevefield held her place at the top.
There was only one consolation—Pittston did not drop out of the first division. She never got lower than fourth.
Joe was being used less and less on the pitching mound, and his heart was sore. He knew he could make good if only something would happen to givehim back his nerve, or a certain something he lacked. But he could not understand what.
Properly enough it was Pop Dutton who put him on the right track. The two were pitching and catching one day, when Joe delivered what he had always called a “fade-away” ball, made famous by Mathewson, of the New York Giants. As it sailed into Pop’s big mitt the veteran called:
“What was that, Joe?”
“Fade-away, of course.”
“Show me how you hold the ball when you throw it.”
Joe did so. The old pitcher studied a moment, and then said:
“Joe, you’ve got it wrong. Have you been pitching that way all the while?”
“Always.”
“No wonder they have been hitting you. Let me show you something. Stand behind me.”
The old pitcher threw at the fence. Joe was amazed at the way the ball behaved. It would have puzzled the best of batters.
“How did you do it?” asked Joe, wonderingly.
“By using a different control, and holding the ball differently. I’ll show you. You need a new hold.”
Then began a lesson, the learning of which proved of great value to Joe in his after life as a ball player. If Old Pop Dutton had not the nerve to “come back” as a pitcher in a big league, at least he could show a rising young one how to correct his faults. And a fault Joe certainly had.
For several years he had been throwing the fade-away ball in the wrong manner. Not entirely wrong, to be sure, or he never would have attained the results he had, but it was sufficiently wrong to prevent him from having perfect control of that style of ball, and perfect control is the first law of pitching.
For some time the two practiced, unobserved, and Joe was glad of this. He felt more hopeful than at any time since his team had commenced to “slump.”
“Am I getting there?” Joe anxiously asked of the veteran, one day.
“Indeed you are, boy! But that’s enough for to-day. You are using some new muscles in yourarm and hand, and I don’t want you to tire out. You’ll probably have to pitch to-morrow.”
“I only wish I could use this style ball.”
“It wouldn’t be safe yet.”
“No, I suppose not. But I’m going to keep at it.”
It was not easy. It is always more difficult to “unlearn” a wrong way of doing a thing, and start over again on the right, than it is to learn the proper way at first. The old method will crop up most unexpectedly; and this happened in Joe’s case more times than he liked.
But he persisted and gradually he felt that he was able to deliver the fade-away as it ought to come from a pitcher’s hand. Now he waited the opportunity.
Meanwhile baseball matters were going on in rather slow fashion. All the teams, after the fierce rush and enthusiasm of the opening season, had now begun to fall off. The dog-days were upon them, and the heat seemed to take all the energy out of the men.
Still the games went on, with Pittston rising and falling on the baseball thermometer from fourth to second place and occasionally remaining stationary in third. First place was within striking distance several times, but always something seemed to happen to keep Joe’s team back.
It was not always poor playing, though occasionallyit was due to this. Often it was just fate, luck, or whatever you want to call it. Fielders would be almost certain of a ball rolling toward them, then it would strike a stone or a clod of dirt and roll to one side.
Not much, perhaps, but enough so that the man would miss the ball, and the runner would be safe, by a fraction of time or space. It was heart-breaking.
Joe continued to work at the proper fade-away and he was getting more and more expert in its use. His control was almost perfect. Still he hesitated to use it in a game, for he wanted to be perfect.
A new pitcher—another south-paw, or left-hander—was purchased from another league club, at a high price, and for a time he made good. Joe was fearful lest he be given his release, for really he was not doing as well as he had at first. Truth to tell he was tired out, and Gregory should have realized this.
But he did not until one day a sporting writer, in a sensible article telling of the chances of the different teams in the Central League for winning the pennant, wrote of Joe:
“This young pitcher, of whom bright things were predicted at the opening of the season, has fallen off woefully. At times he shows brilliant flashes of form, but it seems to me that he is goingstale. Gregory should give him a few days off.”
Then the manager “woke up.”
“Joe, is this true?” he asked, showing the youth the article.
“Well, I am a bit tired, Gregory, but I’m not asking for a vacation,” answered Joe.
“I know you’re not, but you’re going to get it. You just take a run home and see your folks. When you come back I’m going to pitch you in a series of our hardest games. We go up against Clevefield again. You take a rest.”
Joe objected, but half-heartedly, and ended by taking the train for home.
His heart felt lighter the moment he had started, and when he got to Riverside, and found his father much improved, Joe was more like himself than at any time since the opening of the ball season. His folks were exceedingly glad to see him, and Joe went about town, renewing old acquaintances, and being treated as a sort of local lion.
Tom Davis, Joe’s chum, looked at the young pitcher closely.
“Joe,” he said, “you’re getting thin. Either you’re in love, or you aren’t making good.”
“Both, I guess,” answered Joe, with a short laugh. “But I’m going to make good very soon. You watch the papers.”
Joe rejoined his team with a sparkle in his eye and a spring in his step that told how much goodthe little vacation had done him. He was warmly welcomed back—only Collin showing no joy.
Truth to tell Collin had been doing some wonderful pitching those last few days, and he was winning games for the team. The advent of Joe gave him little pleasure, for none knew better than he on how slim a margin a pitcher works, nor how easily he may be displaced, not only in the affection of the public, always fickle, but in the estimation of the manager.
“Hang him! I wish he’d stayed away!” muttered Collin. “Now he’s fresh and he may get my place again. But I’ll find a way to stop him, if Gregory gives him the preference!”
Joe went back at practice with renewed hope. He took Gregory and the catchers into his confidence, and explained about the fade-away. They were enthusiastic over it.
“Save it for Clevefield,” advised the manager.
The day when Pittston was to play the top-notchers arrived. There were to be four games on Pittston’s grounds, and for the first time since his reformation began, Pop Dutton was allowed to play in an important contest.
“I’m depending on you,” Gregory warned him.
“And you won’t be disappointed,” was the reply. Certainly the old player had improved greatly. His eyes were bright and his skin ruddy and clear.
Joe was a bit nonplussed when Collin was sent in for the opening game. But he knew Gregory had his reasons. And perhaps it was wise, for Collin was always at his best when he could deliver the first ball, and open the game.
Clevefield was shut out in the first inning, and, to the howling delight of the crowd of Pittston sympathizers and “fans,” the home team got a run.
This gave the players much-needed confidence, and though the visitors managed to tie the score in their half of the second inning, Pittston went right after them, and got two more tallies.
“We’re going to win, Joe!” cried Charlie Hall. “We’re going to win. Our hoodoo is busted!”
“I hope so,” said the young pitcher, wishing he had a chance to play.
It came sooner than he expected. Collin unexpectedly “blew up,” and had to be taken out of the box. Joe was called on, at the proper time, and walked nervously to the mound. But he knew he must conquer this feeling and he looked at Nelson, who was catching. The back-stop smiled, and signalled for a fade-away, but Joe shook his head.
He was not quite ready for that ball yet.
By using straight, swift balls, interspersed with ins and drops, he fooled the batter into striking out. The next man went out on a pop fly, andJoe teased the third man into striking at an elusive out. Clevefield was retired runless and the ovation to Pittston grew.
But it was not all to be as easy as this. Joe found himself in a tight place, and then, with a catching of his breath, he signalled that he would use the fade-away.
In it shot—the batter smiled confidently—struck—and missed. He did it twice before he realized what was happening, and then when Joe felt sure that his next fade-away would be hit, he swiftly changed to an up-shoot that ended the matter.
Clevefield fought hard, and once when Joe was hit for a long fly, that seemed good for at least two bases, Pop Dutton was just where he was most needed, and made a sensational catch.
There was a howl of delight, and Gregory said to Joe afterward:
“Your man is making good.”
Joe was immensely pleased. And when, a little later, at a critical point in the game, he struck out the third man, again using his famous fade-away, his triumph was heralded in shouts and cries, for Pittston had won. It was a triumph for Joe in two ways—his own personal one, and in the fact that he had been instrumental in having Pop Dutton play—and Pop’s one play, at least that day, saved a run that would have tied the score.
“Boys, we’re on the right road again!” exclaimed the enthusiastic manager at the conclusion of the game, when the team was in the dressing room. “Another like this to-morrow, and one the next day, if it doesn’t rain, and we’ll be near the top.”
“Say, you don’t want much,” remarked Jimmie Mack, half sarcastically, but with a laugh. “What do you think we are anyhow; wonders?”
“We’ll have to be if we’re going to bring home the pennant,” retorted Gregory.
“And we’re going to do it!” declared Joe, grimly.
Collin went to pieces in more ways than one that day. Probably his failure in the game, added to Joe’s triumph, made him reckless, for he went back to his old habit of gambling, staying up nearly all night, and was in no condition to report for the second game of the series.
“He makes me tired!” declared Gregory. “I’dwrite his release in a minute,” he went on, speaking to Jimmie Mack, “only I’m up to my neck in expenses now, and I can’t afford to buy another pitcher. I need all I’ve got, and Collin is good when he wants to be.”
“Yes, it’s only his pig-headedness about Joe that sets him off. But I think we’ve got a great find in Matson.”
“So do I. There was a time when I was rather blue about Joe, but he seems to have come back wonderfully.”
“Yes,” agreed Jimmie Mack, “that fade-away of his is a wonder, thanks to Pop Dutton.”
“Pop himself is the greatest wonder of all,” went on Gregory. “I never believed it possible. I’ve seen the contrary happen so many times that I guess I’ve grown skeptical.”
“He and Joe sure do make a queer team,” commented the assistant manager. “Joe watches over him like a hen with one chicken.”
“Well, I guess he has to. A man like Pop who has been off the right road always finds lots of temptation ready and waiting to call him back. But Joe can keep him straight.
“Now come over here. I want to talk to you, and plan out the rest of the season. We’re in a bad way, not only financially, but for the sake of our reputations.”
If Joe could have heard this he would haveworried, especially about the financial end. For he counted very much on his baseball money—in fact, his family needed it greatly.
Mr. Matson’s savings were tied up in investments that had turned out badly, or were likely to, and his expenses were heavy on account of the doctor’s and other bills. Joe’s salary was a big help. He also earned something extra by doing some newspaper work that was paid for generously.
But Joe counted most on the final games of the series, which would decide the pennant. These were always money-makers, and, in addition, the winning team always played one or more exhibition games with some big league nine, and these receipts were large.
“But will we win the pennant?” queried Joe of himself. “We’ve got to—if dad is going to have his operation. We’ve just got to!”
The news from home had been uncertain. At one time Dr. Birch had decided that an operation must be performed at once, and then had come a change when it had to be delayed. But it seemed certain that, sooner or later, it would have to be undertaken, if the inventor’s eyesight was to be saved.
“So you see we’ve just got to win,” said Joe to Charlie Hall.
“I see,” was the answer. “Well, I’ll do myshare toward it, old man,” and the two clasped hands warmly. Joe was liking Charlie more and more every day. He was more like a college chum than a mate on a professional team.
But Pittston was not to have a victory in the second game with Clevefield. The latter sent in a new pitcher who “played tag,” to use a slang expression, with Joe and his mates, and they lost the contest by a four to one score. This in spite of the fact that Joe did some good work at pitching, and “Old Pop,” as he was beginning to be called, knocked a three-bagger. Dutton was one of those rare birds, a good pitcher and a good man with the stick. That is, he had been, and now he was beginning to come back to himself.
There was a shadow of gloom over Pittston when they lost the second game, after having won the first against such odds, and there was much speculation as to how the other two contests would go.
Gregory revised his batting order for the third game, and sent in his latest purchase, one of the south-paws, to do the twirling. But he soon made a change in pitchers, and called on Tooley, who also was a left-hander.
“I may need you later, Joe,” he said as he arranged to send in a “pinch” hitter at a critical moment. “Don’t think that I’m slighting you, boy.”
“I don’t. I understand.”
“How’s your fade-away?”
“All right, I guess.”
“Good. You’ll probably have to use it.”
And Joe did. He was sent in at the seventh, when the Clevefield nine was three runs ahead, and Joe stopped the slump. Then, whether it was this encouragement, or whether the other team went to pieces, did not develop, but the game ended with Pittston a winner by two runs.
The crowd went wild, for there had been a most unexpected ending, and so sure had some of the “fans” been that the top-notchers would come out ahead, that they had started to leave.
But the unexpected happens in baseball as often as in football, and it did in this case.
Pittston thus had two out of the four games, and the even break had increased her percentage to a pleasing point. If they could have taken the fourth they would have fine hopes of the pennant, but it was not to be. An even break, though there was a close finish in the last game, was the best they could get.
However, this was better than for some time, and Gregory and his associates were well pleased.
Then came a series of games in the different league cities, and matters were practically unchanged. In turn Buffington, Loston and Manhattanwere visited, the Pittston nine doing well, but nothing remarkable.
Joe seemed firmly established in the place he most desired, and his fine delivery was increasing in effectiveness each day. His fade-away remained a puzzle to many, though some fathomed it and profited thereby. But Joe did not use it too often.
The secret of good pitching lies in the “cross-fire,” and in varying the delivery. No pitcher can continue to send in the same kind of balls in regular order to each batter. He must study his man and use his brains.
Joe knew this. He also knew that he was not alone a pitcher, but a ball player, and that he must attend to his portion of the diamond. Too many twirlers forget this, and Joe frequently got in on sensational plays that earned him almost as much applause as his box-work did.
Joe was always glad to get back to Pittston to play games. He was beginning to feel that it was a sort of “home town,” though he had few friends there. He made many acquaintances and he was beginning to build up a reputation for himself. He was frequently applauded when he came out to play, and this means much to a baseball man.
Then, too, Joe was always interested in Pop Dutton. He was so anxious that the former fine pitcher should have his chance to “come back.” Often when scouts from bigger leagues than theCentral stopped off to more or less secretly watch the Pittstons play, Joe would have a talk with them. Sometimes he spoke of Pop, but the scouts did not seem interested. They pretended that they had no special object in view, or, if they did, they hinted that it was some other player than Dutton.
To whisper a secret I might say that it was Joe himself who was under observation on many of these occasions, for his fame was spreading. But he was a modest youth.
Joe was not inquisitive, but he learned, in a casual way, that Pop Dutton was seemingly on the right road to success and prosperity. It was somewhat of a shock to the young pitcher, then, one evening, as he was strolling down town in Pittston, to see his protegé in company with a shabbily dressed man.
“I hope he hasn’t taken to going with those tramps again,” mused Joe. “That would be too bad.”
Resolving to make sure of his suspicions, and, if necessary, hold out a helping hand, the young pitcher quickened his pace until he was close behind the twain.
He could not help but hear part of the conversation.
“Oh, come on!” he caught, coming from Dutton’s companion. “What’s the harm?”
“No, I’ll not. You don’t know how hard it is to refuse, but I—I can’t—really I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t?”
“Put it that way if you like.”
“Well, then, I do like, an’ I don’t like it! I’ll say that much. I don’t like it. You’re throwin’ me down, an’ you’re throwin’ the rest of us down. I don’t like it for a cent!”
“I can’t help that,” replied Dutton, doggedly.
“Well, maybewecan help it, then. You’re leaving us in the lurch just when we need you most. Come on, now, be a sport, Pop!”
“No, I’ve been too much of a sport in the past—that’s the trouble.”
“So you won’t join us?”
“No.”
“Will you come out and tell the boys so? They maybe won’t believe me.”
“Oh, well, I can’t see any harm in that.”
“Come on, then, they’ll be glad to see you again.”
Joe wondered what was afoot. It was as though he saw a danger signal ahead of Pop Dutton.
Joe hardly knew what to do. He realized that all his efforts toward getting the old ball player back on the right road might go for naught if Pop went off with these loose companions.
And yet would he relish being interfered with by the young pitcher? Pop was much older than Joe, but so far he had shown a strong liking for the younger man, and had, half-humorously, done his bidding. Indeed Pop was under a deep debt not only of gratitude to Joe, but there had been a financial one as well, though most of that was now paid.
“But I don’t want to see him slip back,” mused Joe, as he walked along in the shadows, taking care to keep far enough back from the twain. But Pop never looked around. He seemed engrossed in his companion.
“What shall I do?” Joe asked himself.
He half hoped that some of the other members of the nine might come along, and accost Pop,perhaps taking him off with them, as they had done several times of late. For the old player was becoming more and more liked—he was, in a way, coming into his own again, and he had a fund of baseball stories to which the younger men never tired listening.
“If some of them would only come along!” whispered Joe, but none did.
He kept on following the two until he saw them go into one of the less disreputable lodging houses in a poor quarter of the city. It was a house where, though some respectable workingmen, temporarily embarrassed, made their homes for a time, there was more often a rowdy element, consisting of tramps, and, in some cases, criminals.
At election time it harbored “floaters” and “repeaters,” and had been the scene of many a police raid.
“I wonder what he can want by going in there?” thought Joe. “It’s a good thing Gregory can’t see him, or he’d sure say my experiment was a failure. It may be, after all; but I’m not going to give up yet. Now, shall I go in, and pretend I happened by casually, or shall I wait outside?”
Joe debated the two propositions within himself. The first he soon gave up. He was not in the habit of going into such places, and the presence of a well-dressed youth, more or less knownto the public as a member of the Pittston nine, would excite comment, if nothing else. Besides, it might arouse suspicion of one sort or another. Then, too, Pop might guess why Joe had followed him, and resent it.
“I’ll just have to wait outside,” decided Joe, “and see what I can do when Pop comes out.”
It was a dreary wait. From time to time Joe saw men slouch into the place, and occasionally others shuffled out; but Pop did not come, nor did his ragged companion appear.
Joe was getting tired, when his attention was attracted to a detective whom he knew, sauntering rather aimlessly past on the opposite side of the street.
“Hello!” thought the young ball player, “I wonder what’s up?” He eyed the officer closely, and was surprised, a moment later, to see him joined by a companion.
“Something sure is in the wind,” decided Joe. “I’m going to find out.”
He strolled across the highway and accosted the detective with whom he had a slight acquaintance.
“Oh, it’s Matson, the Pittston pitcher!” exclaimed the officer.
“What’s up, Regan?” asked Joe.
“Oh, nothing much. Do you know Farley, my side partner? Farley, this is Matson—BaseballJoe, they call him. Some nifty little pitcher, too, let me tell you.”
“Thanks,” laughed Joe, as he shook hands with the other detective.
“Why, we’re looking for a certain party,” went on Regan. “I don’t mind telling you that. We’ll probably pull that place soon,” and he nodded toward the lodging house. “Some of the regulars will be along in a little while,” he added.
“Pull,” I may explain, is police language for “raid,” or search a certain suspected place.
“Anything big?” asked Joe.
“Oh, nothing much. There’s been some pocket-picking going on, and a few railroad jobs pulled off. A lot of baggage belonging to wealthy folks has been rifled on different lines, all over the country, and we think we’re on the track of some of the gang. We’re going to pull the place and see how many fish we can get in the net.”
Joe did not know what to do. If the place was to be raided soon it might mean that his friend, the old pitcher, would be among those arrested. Joe was sure of his friend’s innocence, but it would look bad for him, especially after the life he had led. It might also be discouraging to Pop, and send him back to his old companions again.
“How long before you’ll make the raid?” asked Joe.
“In about half an hour, I guess,” replied Regan.“Why, are you going to stick around and see it?”
“I might. But there’s a friend of mine in there,” spoke Joe, “and I wouldn’t like him to get arrested.”
“A friend of yours?” repeated Regan, wonderingly.
“Yes. Oh, he’s not a hobo, though he once was, I’m afraid. But he’s reformed. Only to-night, however, he went out with one of his old companions. I don’t know what for. But I saw him go in there, and that’s why I’m here. I’m waiting for him to come out.”
“Then the sooner he does the better,” observed Farley, grimly. “It’s a bad place.”
“Look here,” said Joe, eagerly, “could you do me a favor, Mr. Regan?”
“Anything in reason, Joe.”
“Could you go in there and warn my friend to get out. I could easily describe him to you. In fact, I guess you must know him—Pop Dutton.”
“Is Old Pop in there?” demanded the officer, in surprise.
“Yes,” responded Joe, “but I’m sure he’s all right. I don’t believe you want him.”
“No, he’s not on our list,” agreed Regan. “Well, say, I guess I could do that for you, Joe. Only one thing, though. If Farley or I happen in there there may be a scare, and the birds we want will get away.”
“How can we do it, then?” asked Joe.
A figure came shuffling up the dark street, and, at the sight of the two detectives and the young pitcher, hesitated near a gas lamp.
“Hello! There’s Bulldog!” exclaimed Regan, but in a low voice. “He’ll do. We’ll send him in and have him tip Pop off to come out. Bulldog is on our staff,” he added. “He tips us off to certain things. Here, Bulldog!” he called, and a short, squat man shuffled up. His face had a canine expression, which, Joe surmised, had gained him his name.
“Slip into Genty’s place, Bulldog,” said Regan in a low voice, “and tell a certain party to get out before the bulls come. Do you know Pop Dutton?”
“Sure. He and I——”
“Never mind about that part of it,” interrupted the detective. “Just do as I tell you, and do it quietly. You can stay in. You might pick up something that would help us.”
“What, me stay in there when the place is going to be pulled, and get pinched? Not on your life!” and the man turned away.
“Hold on!” cried Regan. “We’ll get you out all right, same as we always do. You’re too valuable to us to go to jail for long.”
Then, as Bulldog started for the dark entrance to the lodging house, Joe realized that he had seenwhat is called a “stool-pigeon,” a character hated by all criminals, and not very much respected by the police whom they serve. A “stool-pigeon” consorts with criminals, that he may overhear their plans, and betray them to the police. Often he is himself a petty criminal. In a sense he does a duty to the public, making it more easy for the authorities to arrest wrong-doers—but no one loves a “stool-pigeon.” They are the decoy ducks of the criminal world.
I am making this explanation, and portraying this scene in Joe Matson’s career, not because it is pleasant to write about, for it is not. I would much rather take you out on the clean diamond, where you could hear the “swat” of the ball. But as Joe’s efforts to make a new man of the old pitcher took him into this place I can do no less than chronicle the events as they happened. And a little knowledge of the sadder, darker and unhappy side of life may be of value to boys, in deterring them from getting into a position where it would appeal to them—appeal wrongly, it is true, but none the less strongly.
The Bulldog had not been in the building more than a minute before the door opened again, and Pop Dutton, alone, and looking hastily around, came out. Joe got in a shadow where he could not be seen. He did not want his friend humiliated,now that he had seen him come out victorious.
For the young pitcher could see that Pop was the same straight and sober self he had been since getting back on the right road. His association with his former companions had evidently not tempted him.
“Oh, I’m glad!” exulted Joe.
Pop Dutton looked curiously at the two detectives.
“Thanks,” he said briefly, as he passed them, and they knew that he understood. Not for a long time afterward did the former pitcher know that to Joe he owed so much. For, though his intention in going to the rendezvous of the unfortunates of the under-world was good, still it might have been misconstrued. Now there was no danger.
Afterward Joe learned that Pop had been urged by the man he met on the street to take part in a robbery. The old pitcher refused, but his false companion tried to lure him back to his old life, on the plea that only from his own lips would his associates believe that Pop had reformed. And Pop made them plainly understand that he had.
Pop Dutton passed on down the street, and, waiting a little while, Joe followed. He did not care to see the raid. The young pitcher soonreached his hotel, and he felt that Pop was safe in his own boarding house.
The next morning Joe read of the wholesale arrests in the lodging house, though it was said that the quarry the detectives most hoped to get escaped in the confusion.
“Baggage robbers, eh?” mused Joe. “I wonder if they were the ones who went through Reggie Varley’s valise? If they could be caught it would clear me nicely, providing I could prove it was they.”