“Well now, I’m real sorry,” said Mrs. Holdney when, a little later, Joe dismounted at her door, and held out the letter for her husband. “Rufus isn’t home. You can leave the letter for him, though.”
“No, I have to have an answer,” replied Joe. “I think perhaps I’d better wait.”
“Well, maybe you had, though I don’t know when Rufus will be back. Is it anything of importance?”
“I guess it must be,” spoke the lad, for, though he did not know the contents of his father’s letter, he reasoned that it would be on no unimportant errand that he would be sent to Moorville.
“Hum,” mused Mrs. Holdney. “Well, if you want to wait all right, though as I said I don’t know when my husband will be back.”
“Do you know where he’s gone? Could I go after him?” asked Joe eagerly. He was anxiousto deliver the letter, get an answer, and return home before dark.
“Well, now, I never thought of that!” exclaimed Mrs. Holdney. “Of course you might do that. Rufus has gone down town, and most likely you’ll find him in the hardware store of Mr. Jackson. He said he had some business to transact with him, and he’ll likely be there for some time.”
“Then I’ll ride down there on my wheel. I guess I can find the place. Is it on the main street?”
“Yes, turn off this road when you get to the big granite horse-drinking trough and swing in to your right. Then turn to your left when you get to the post-office and that’s Main Street. Mr. Jackson’s store is about a block in.”
The lad repeated the woman’s directions over in his mind as he rode along, and he had no difficulty in picking out the hardware store. He was wondering how he would know Mr. Holdney, but concluded that one of the clerks could point him out.
“Yes, Mr. Holdney is here,” said a man behind the counter to whom Joe applied. “He’s in the office with Mr. Jackson.”
“I wonder if I could send a letter in to him,”ventured the lad, for he did not want to wait any longer than he had to.
“I’m afraid not,” answered the clerk. “Mr. Jackson is very strict about being disturbed when he’s talking business.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to wait,” said Joe with a sigh. “I wonder if he’ll be in there long?”
“I wouldn’t want to say for sure,” spoke the clerk, leaning over the counter in a confidential manner and speaking in a whisper. “I wouldn’t even dare to guess,” he went on with a look toward the private office whence came the murmur of voices, “but I’ll venture to state that it will be some time. Mr. Jackson never does anything in a hurry.”
“Does Mr. Holdney?”
“Yes, he’s just the opposite. He’s as quick as a steel trap. Too quick, that’s the trouble. He and Mr. Jackson are good friends, but when Mr. Holdney springs something sudden on my boss, why Mr. Jackson is slower than ever, thinking it over. I guess you’ll have to wait some time. Is there anything you’d like to buy?”
“No, I think not,” said Joe with a smile, and then he sat down on one of the stools near the counter while the clerk went off to wait on a customer. The lad was getting impatient after nearlyan hour had passed and there was no sign of Mr. Holdney coming out. The murmur of voices continued to come from the private office—one voice quick and snappy, and the other slow and drawling—an indication of the character of the two men.
“I wish they’d hurry!” thought Joe. He began to pace back and forth the length of the store, and he was just thinking he would have to ride home in the darkness, and was wondering whether there was oil in his bicycle lamp, when the door of the private office opened and two men came out.
“Thank goodness!” exclaimed Joe to himself. The men were still talking, but Joe concluded that their business was about over so he chanced going up to them.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I have a letter for Mr. Holdney. It’s from my father, Mr. Matson.”
“Eh, what’s—that—son?” asked the older of the two men, in drawling tones.
“It’s for me. I’m Mr. Holdney!” exclaimed the other quickly. “From Mr. Matson, eh? Well tell him I can’t help him any more. I haven’t any spare—but wait a minute, I’ll write my answer.”
“Hadn’t—you—better—read—the—letter—first,” mildly and slowly suggested Mr. Jackson.
“Humph! I know what it is all right!” exclaimed the other quickly. “But I’ll read it. Let’s have it!” He almost snapped it from the lad’s hand and Joe wondered what could be the business relations between his father and this man.
With a flourish and a quick motion Mr. Holdney tore open the envelope and read the letter almost at a glance.
“Hum!” he exclaimed. “Just as I expected. No, I’m done with that business. I can’t do any more. You may tell your father—hold on, though, I’ll write it,” and, whipping out a lead pencil Mr. Holdney scribbled something on the back of Mr. Matson’s note.
“So you’re John Matson’s son; eh?” he asked of Joe.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hum! Go to school?”
“Yes, the Riverside High.”
“Hum! Ever invent anything?”
“No, not yet,” answered Joe with a smile.
“That’s right—never do it. It’s a poor business. Play ball?”
“I did in Bentville where we lived, but I haven’t had a chance here yet.”
“Hum! Yes, Bentville. That’s where I met your father. Here’s the answer. There you are.Now don’t lose it,” and quickly handing the communication to Joe, Mr. Holdney turned and resumed his talk with the hardware merchant.
Joe was a little dazed by the quickness of it all, and there were many questions running through his mind. Somehow the manner of Mr. Holdney—the message he had started to ask Joe to deliver by word of mouth, his apparent refusal of something Mr. Matson had evidently asked him to do—all made Joe vaguely uneasy. He connected it with his father’s nervousness the night before and with his mother’s anxiety.
“But there’s no use worrying until I have to,” concluded Joe with a boy’s philosophy as he left the hardware store, and truth to tell, he was thinking more of his chances of going to boarding school in the fall perhaps, and whether or not he would get an opportunity to play ball, than he was of any possible trouble.
On leaving the hardware store Joe was surprised to find it growing dusk. Gathering clouds added to the gloom and he made up his mind that the last part of his homeward journey would be made in darkness.
“Guess I’ll see if I have any oil in the lamp,” he remarked as he was about to mount his wheel. “If I haven’t I can get some here.” But hefound, on shaking the lantern, that it was filled enough to carry him to Riverside, and he was soon pedaling along that country road.
The clouds continued to gather, and as the journey back was partly up hill, and as the bent pedal did not permit of fast riding, Joe soon found it necessary to alight and set the lamp aglow.
He was riding on, looking carefully ahead of him, to avoid stones and ruts that the gleam of light revealed, when, as he came to rather a lonely spot on the road, he heard, just ahead of him, a commotion.
There was a sound of carriage wheels scraping on the iron body guards, the tramping of a horse’s feet, and then a voice called out:
“Whoa now! Stand still, can’t you, until I see what’s the matter? Whoa! Something’s broken, that’s evident, worse luck! And I’m two miles from nowhere. Whoa, now!”
“Where have I heard that voice before?” mused Joe as he rode more slowly so as not to have another collision in the darkness.
He could hear some one jump to the ground and then the restless horse quieted down under the soothing words of the driver.
“Yes, it’s broken all right,” the voice went on.“And how in the mischief am I going to mend it? Whoa, now!”
Then Joe rode up, and in the glow of his light he saw Darrell Blackney, the manager of the Silver Stars, who was standing beside a carriage one side of the shafts of which hung down from the axle. The bolt had evidently broken.
“What’s the matter?” asked Joe, dismounting.
“Who’s that?” quickly asked Darrell.
“I’m Joe Matson,” was the answer. “I know you. I’m in the junior high class.”
“Oh, yes. Matson, I think I heard Tom Davis speak of you. Well, I’ve had an accident. I was out driving when all at once one side of the shafts fell down. It’s a bad break I’m afraid; bolt sheared off.”
“It’s a wonder your horse didn’t run away.”
“Oh, Prince is pretty steady; aren’t you Prince old fellow?” and Darrell patted the animal’s nose. “But what the mischief am I to do? It’s too far to go to the next town and leave Prince here, and I can’t ride him, for he isn’t used to it and might throw me off.”
“Can I help you?” asked Joe. “I might ride to the nearest place and get a bolt, if you told me what kind.”
“All the places would be closed by this time Iguess,” was the rueful answer. “Much obliged to you just the same. I certainly am in a pickle! Next time I go out driving I’ll bring part of a hardware store along.”
“What sort of a bolt is it?” asked Joe.
“Oh, just an ordinary carriage one, flat headed. Bring your light here, if you don’t mind, and I’ll take a look at it. I could only tell it was broken by feeling in the dark.”
In the glow of the bicycle lamp it could be seen that the bolt had broken squarely in two in the middle, and could not be used again. But at the sight of it, as Darrell held the two parts in his hand, Joe uttered an exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” asked the manager of the Silver Stars.
“I think I have the very thing!” said Joe quickly. “I’ve got some spare bolts in my tool bag. They may not be the same size, but they’ll hold the shaft in until you get home I think. I’ll take a look.”
“Good for you!” cried Darrell. “Most anything will do in a pinch. Even a piece of wire, but I can’t find any along the road in the dark. I hope you have something,” and while Joe opened his tool bag Darrell patted the somewhat restive horse.
“Yes, here’s the very thing, I guess!” said Joe, after rummaging about in his leather tool case. He produced a short but heavy bolt with a nut.
“It isn’t exactly the same thing,” remarked Darrell, after looking at it carefully, “but it will do, if it’s long enough. Would you mind holding Prince’s head while I try it? He might start up, just as I got the shaft in place, and hurt my fingers, if he didn’t make me drop the bolt. Then we’d have a sweet time hunting for it in the dark.”
Joe went to the animal’s head and patted the cold, velvety nose while the other lad lifted up the dropped shaft and fitted it in place. He was fumbling about in the flickering light of the bicycle lantern which he had temporarily fastened to the dashboard.
“Will it do?” asked Joe.
“Yes, it’s just the cheese. Lucky I met you, or, rather that you met me, or I don’t know what Iwould have done. The bolt is just long enough. Now if I can get the nut on——”
“There’s a wrench in my tool bag,” interrupted Joe. “Shall I get it for you?”
“No, thanks, you stay by Prince. I can find it. You haven’t been in town long, have you?” asked Darrell, as he was working away over the nut, which was a little tight.
“No, about a week. I was at the Resolute ball game though.”
“You were? It was a shame it broke up the way it did, but I don’t think it was our fault, though Sam Morton is pretty quick tempered.”
Joe had good reason to know that.
“No,” he answered from the darkness near the horse’s head, “it was the fault of the Resolutes all right. They ought to have been satisfied after pulling the game out of the fire the way they did.”
“I should say so! They never ought to have won it, and they wouldn’t have, only Sam sort of—well they got his ‘goat’ I guess.”
“Yes,” assented Joe, while Darrell went on fumbling with the wrench and nut.
“Do you play at all?” came the manager’s voice from the vicinity of the flickering light.
“Oh, yes,” and Joe’s tone was eager while his heart was strangely beating. It was a chance hehad never dared hope for, to have the manager of the Silver Stars ask him that.
“Where?” came the next inquiry.
“In Bentville, where I used to live.”
“Oh. Have a good team?”
“Pretty fair.”
“Where’d you play?”
“I used to pitch.” There was a pause and then, emboldened by what had happened, Joe went on. “I don’t suppose there’s a vacancy in your nine, is there?” and he laughed half whimsically.
“No, hardly, that is, not in the box,” said Darrell slowly. “Sam has his faults, but he’s the best pitcher we’ve had in a long time and I guess we’ll keep him. There, that’s fixed,” he went on, tapping the bolt to see that it was firmly in place. “Now I can go on, I guess. I’m a thousand times obliged to you. I don’t know what I’d have done only for you. After this I’m going to carry a light, and some spare bolts.”
He handed Joe back the wrench and took the lamp off the dashboard.
“I’ll give you a bolt in place of this the next time I see you,” the manager went on, as he held the lamp out to our hero.
“Oh, it isn’t necessary. I don’t need it for mywheel. It was just one of some odds and ends that I carry with me.”
Darrell stood looking at Joe, whose face was illuminated brightly by the full focus of the lamp. The manager seemed struck by something.
“I say!” he exclaimed, “you look as if you were built to play ball. Were you at it long?”
“Oh, a couple of years.”
“Pitch all that time?”
“Oh, no, only just the last few months of the season. Our regular pitcher left and I filled in.”
“I see. Hum, well, as I said we haven’t any vacancy in the box, but by Jove! come to think of it I might give you a chance!”
Joe’s heart leaped wildly and he could hardly answer.
“Can you, really?” he asked.
“Yes, but not as a regular, of course—at least that is not right off the bat. But if you’d like to try for place at centre field I believe I can manage it.”
Joe’s heart was a little despondent. Centre field was not a very brilliant place in which to shine with the Stars, but it was a start and he realized that.
“I’d be glad of the chance,” he managed to say.
“All right, I’ll keep you in mind. You see ourregular centre fielder, Jed McGraw, is going to leave. His folks are moving out west and we’ll have to have some one in his place. I don’t know when he’s going, but it’s this week or next. I’d like to do something for you, to sort of pay you for what you did for me to-night, and——”
“Oh, I don’t want anything for this!” exclaimed Joe.
“I know you don’t, but it just happened so. I might not have known you except for this accident, and as I said we will need some one to fill in at centre field. Len Oswald is the regular substitute, but he doesn’t practice much, and he’s got a job over at Fordham so he can’t always be sure of getting off Saturday afternoons, which is when we mostly play. So I’ll put you down as sub now and perhaps as regular—it depends on Len.”
“Thanks!” Joe managed to say and he found himself hoping that Len would have to work every Saturday during the season.
“We need some one with experience,” went on Darrell, “and I’m glad I could give you the chance. Tom Davis was saying you got mixed up in the row the other day.”
“Yes. I seem to be getting the habit,” replied Joe with a laugh. “I had one with Sam Morton on this road a little while ago.”
“You don’t say so! How did it happen?”
Joe gave all the details.
“Hum! Well, Sam sure has a quick temper,” went on the young manager. “But he’s all right soon after it,” he added in extenuation. “He’ll be friendly with you in a few days and forget all about it. I wouldn’t hold a grudge against him, if I were you.”
“Oh, I shan’t. It was both our faults.”
“Well, I’ll be getting on,” remarked Darrell, after a pause. “Come and see me sometime. I’ll see you at school to-morrow, and if there’s anything doing I’ll let you know.”
The two boys’ hands met in a friendly clasp and then the manager, getting into his carriage, drove off. A little later, his heart filled with hope, Joe, having put back his lantern and tool bag pedaled toward home.
“This was a lucky day for me, even if it did look bad after that crash with Sam Morton,” he said to himself. “I’m going to play ball, after all!”
There was rather a grave look on Mr. Matson’s face when Joe handed him the reply from Mr. Holdney, and told of his interview.
“So he can’t help me—Oh, well, never mind,” and Mr. Matson turned aside and went into theroom where he kept a desk. Mrs. Matson followed, closing the door after her, and for some time the voices of the two could be heard in low but earnest conversation.
“What’s the matter; nothing wrong I hope?” asked Clara.
“Oh, I guess not,” answered Joe, though he was vaguely uneasy himself. Then came the thought of his talk with the baseball manager and his heart was light again.
Supper was rather a quiet affair that night, and Mr. Matson spoke but little, quite in contrast to his usual cheerful flow of conversation. Mrs. Matson, too, seemed preoccupied.
“I think I’m going to get on the Stars!” exclaimed Joe, when he got a chance to tell of his experiences that day.
“That’s good,” said Mr. Matson heartily. “There’s no game like baseball.”
“But it doesn’t fit a boy for anything,” complained Mrs. Matson. “It doesn’t help in any of the professions.”
“It’s a profession in itself!” declared Joe stoutly.
“I hope you don’t intend to adopt it,” spoke his sister.
“Oh, I don’t know. I might do worse. Lookat some of those big New York players getting thousands of dollars a year.”
“But look how long it takes them to get to that place,” objected Clara, who liked to argue.
“Oh, well, I’m young yet,” laughed Joe.
In his room that night, while preparing for bed Joe got to thinking of the possibility mentioned by Darrell Blackney.
“I’m going to play my head off in centre field,” said Joe, “and I’m going to practice batting, too. Stick work counts. I’m going to practice pitching, also. Who knows, maybe I’ll get a chance in the box if Sam ever slumps.
“Wow! If I ever do!” and standing before an imaginary batter Joe flung out his arm as if delivering a swift curve. With a crash his fist hit a picture on the wall and brought it clattering down to the floor.
“What’s that?” called Clara sharply from the next room.
“Oh, I was just practicing pitching,” answered Joe sheepishly, as he picked up the picture, the glass of which had fortunately not broken.
“Well, you’d better practice going to sleep,” responded his sister with a laugh.
Joe smiled. He had great hopes for the future.
“What’s that in your pocket, Joe?”
“Which pocket?”
“Your coat. I declare, you’ve got something in both pockets,” and Clara approached her brother as if with the intention of making a personal inspection of two big bulges on either side of his coat. “What are they?” she persisted, as Joe backed away. Brother and sister had just gotten up from the breakfast table, and were about to start to school.
“Oh, never mind!” exclaimed Joe hastily, as he looked for his cap. “Got your lessons, Clara?”
“Of course I have. But I’m curious to know what makes your pockets bulge out so. Don’t you know it will spoil your coat?”
“I don’t care,” and Joe made another hasty move to get out of reach of Clara’s outstretched hand. But he was not successful, and, with a laugh, his sister caught hold of the bulging pocket on his left side.
“A ball!” she declared. “A baseball upon my word! Two of them! Oh, Joe, are you really going to play on the nine Saturday?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll get a chance if Jed McGraw leaves in time. But I’m taking a couple of old balls to practice throwing this afternoon when I come from school.”
“You’re starting in early,” commented Clara. “I hope you don’t sleep with a baseball under your pillow the way we girls do with pieces of wedding cake,” and she laughed merrily.
“I’d be willing to sleep with a ball and a bat under my pillow if I thought I’d get in the game by it,” admitted Joe frankly. “But I’m not hoping too much. Well, I’m going. Good-bye momsey,” and he stopped to kiss his mother before he hastened away to school. He looked at her closely to discover whether there was any trace of worry, but she smiled at him.
“I may not be home early,” he told her. “I’m going down to the fairgrounds.”
“What for?” she asked quickly. “There isn’t a show there, is there?”
“No, but I want to do a little baseball practicing, and that place is well out of the way.”
“Baseball practice on the fairgrounds. How——”
But she did not wait to finish her question for she exclaimed:
“My cake is burning in the oven. Good-bye, Joe!” and she ran to the kitchen.
“I wonder what Sam Morton will say?” Joe reflected as he walked along. “I certainly hope his arm isn’t lame, even if it was as much his fault as mine. I don’t want him to tell the fellows I’m to blame for him losing a game—if he should.”
Fearing that the same thing might happen to him as when Clara laughed at him for having the two baseballs in his pockets, Joe slipped to his desk as soon as he reached the school, and hid the balls away back among his books. The balls were two old ones he had used when on the Bentville nine, and they were still in fair condition.
“I’m not going to let the fellows get on to the fact that I’m practicing, until there’s more of a chance for me than there is now,” thought our hero, as he went out on the school grounds to watch the lads at play.
An impromptu game was going on, but Joe did not join. Darrell Blackney passed him, and in answer to Joe’s nod of greeting asked:
“Did you get home all right?”
“Oh, yes. How about you?”
“Fine. The bolt was all right. I haven’t forgotten.I’ll see McGraw to-day and find out when he’s going to leave. Then if Oswald can’t say for sure whether he’ll be with us, you’ll go in at centre field.”
“Good!” exclaimed Joe, his eyes bright with anticipation.
As Darrell passed on, Joe saw Sam Morton approaching. At first he had a notion of turning away and avoiding what he felt would be an unpleasant scene. But Joe was nothing of a coward and he realized that, sooner or later, he would have to meet the pitcher with whom he had had the collision. So he stood his ground.
“How’s your arm?” he asked pleasantly, as Sam approached.
“Hu! None the better for what you did to it.”
“WhatIdid?” and Joe’s voice took on a surprised tone. “Do you still insist it was my fault?”
“Pretty near,” went on Sam, but Joe noticed that he was not quite so vindictive as before. “It isn’t as stiff as I thought it would be, though.”
“I hope you can pitch all right Saturday,” went on Joe. He wanted very much to hint at the fact that he, too, might be in the game, but Sam was not a lad to invite confidences, especially after what had taken place. Joe liked comradeship. He liked the company of boys of his own age and hewas just “hungry” to talk baseball. But, aside from Tom Davis, as yet he had no chums with whom he could gossip about the great pastime.
In Bentville he was looked up to as one of the nine, and, though the team was not as good a one as was the Silver Stars, still it was a team, and Joe was one of the principal players. Coming to a strange town, and being distinctly out of the game, made him feel like a “cat in a strange garret,” as he said afterward.
But with a grim tightening of his lips he made up his mind not to give way to gloomy thoughts, and he determined that he would be on the town team and one of the best players.
As the warning bell rang, Tom Davis came hurrying across the school campus.
“I called for you!” he shouted to Joe who, with a crowd of other lads, was going in the building, “but you’d gone.”
“Thanks,” replied Joe, grateful for the friendly spirit shown. “I’ll wait next time.” He liked Tom, and was glad to have him for a chum.
Joe thought lessons would never be finished that day, but the classes were finally dismissed and then, without waiting for Tom, though he thought this might be construed as rather unfriendly, our hero hastened off in the direction of the fairgrounds.There was a high wooden fence around this plot, and it gave Joe just the chance he wanted, for he was going to practice pitching, and he didn’t want any witnesses.
“I wish I had half a dozen balls,” he murmured as he went in through one of the gates which was unlocked. “I wouldn’t have to chase back and forth so often. But two will do for a while.”
He laid his books down on the grass, took out the horsehide spheres and, measuring a distance from the fence about equal to the space from the pitcher’s box to home plate, he began to pitch the balls.
With dull thuds the balls struck the fence, one after the other, and fell to the ground. Joe picked them up, took his place again in the imaginary box, and repeated the performance.
His arm, that was a bit stiff at first, from lack of practice since coming to Riverside, gradually became limber. He knew that his speed, too, was increasing. He could not judge of his curves, and, truth to tell he did not have very good ones as yet, for he had only recently learned the knack. But he had the right ideas and a veteran professional pitcher, who was a friend of one of the Bentville nine’s members, had showed Joe the proper manner to hold and deliver the ball.
“I wish I had some one back there to give me a line on myself,” thought Joe, as he pitched away, a solitary figure on the grounds. “I don’t know whether I’m getting them over the plate, or a mile beyond,” for he had laid down a flat stone to serve as “home.”
“Anyhow this will improve my speed,” he reasoned, “and speed is needed now-a-days as much as curves.”
Time and again he pitched his two horsehides, ran to pick them up as they dropped at the foot of the fence, and then he raced back to his “box” to repeat the performance. He was rather tiring of it, and his arm was beginning to feel numb in spite of his enthusiasm, when he heard some one laughing. The sound came from behind him, and, turning quickly, Joe saw Sam Morton standing leaning up against his wheel, and contemplating him with mirth showing on his face.
“Well, well!” exclaimed Sam. “This is pretty good. What are you trying to do, Matson, knock the fence down? If you are, why don’t you take a hammer or some stones instead of baseballs? This is rich! Ha! Ha!”
For a moment Joe was tempted to make an angry answer, for the hot blood of shame mounted to his cheeks. Then he said quietly, and with asmuch good-nature as he could summon on the spur of the moment:
“I’m practicing, that’s all. I came here as I didn’t want to lose the balls, and the fence makes a good backstop.”
“Practicing, eh? What for?” and once more Sam laughed in an insulting manner.
“To improve my pitching. There may be a chance to get on the team, I understand.”
“What team; the Silver Stars?”
Sam’s voice had a harsh note in it.
“Yes.” And Joe nodded.
“So you’re practicing pitching, eh? And you hope to get on our nine. Well let me tell you one thing, Matson; you won’t pitch on the Silver Stars as long as I’m on deck, and I intend to remain for quite a while yet. Pitching practice, eh? Ho! That’s pretty good! What you’d better practice is running bases. We may let you run for some of the fellows, if you’re real good. Or how would you like to carry the bats or be the water boy? I understand there’s a vacancy there. Pitcher! Ha! Ha!” and Sam doubled up in mirth. Joe’s face flushed, but he said nothing.
Finally Sam ceased his laughter, straightened up and prepared to ride out of the fairgrounds on his wheel.
“I was just going past,” he said, in needless explanation, “when I heard something banging against the fence. First I thought it might be one of the cattle left over from the last show, but when I saw it was you, Matson—Oh, my! It’s too rich! I’ll have to tell the boys.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Joe, who disliked as much as any one being laughed at, “what have you got against me, anyhow? Are you afraid I’ll displace you as pitcher?”
“What’s that? Not much. You couldn’t do that you know,” and Sam laughed again.
“Then what do you want to be so mean for?” asked Joe.
“None of your business, if you want to know,” snapped Sam. “But if you think you’re going to get on our team you’ve got another think coming.Look out, now, don’t break the fence with those balls, or the fair committee might make you pay for it,” and with this parting insult Sam rode out of the grounds.
Joe’s heart was beating fast, and he clenched his hands. He would liked to have gone after Sam and given him a well deserved thrashing, but he knew that would never do.
“I’ve just got to grin and bear it!” murmured Joe through his clenched teeth. “If the fellows laugh at me I’ll have to let ’em laugh. After all I can stand it, and Idowant to get on the team.
“Queer why Sam Morton should be so down on me. I don’t see his reason unless it’s jealousy, or because he’s mad at me for running into him. Maybe it’s both.
“Well, there’s no use practicing any longer. My arm is tired, and besides he might be hiding behind the fence to laugh some more. I’ll have to find a different place if I want to practice getting up my speed and curves.”
Picking up the balls and his books Joe slowly made his way out of the grounds. Sam Morton was nowhere in sight, for which the young ball player was glad.
“Maybe this will end it,” thought Joe. “He just wanted to amuse himself at my expense.” Butour hero was soon to find that the vindictive spirit of the pitcher was not quelled.
“Coming out to see us practice this afternoon?” asked Tom Davis of Joe several days later. “We’re getting ready to play the Red Stockings of Rutherford, Saturday.”
“Sure I’ll come,” answered Joe. “Will it be a good game?”
“It ought to. The Red Stockings used to have a good nine but they struck a slump and lately we’ve been beating them. But I hear they have a new pitcher and they may make it hard for us. Say, what’s this yarn Sam is telling about you practicing down on the fairgrounds.”
“Oh, it’s true enough,” answered Joe with a flush. “I thought I’d get up some speed. I’ve got a chance to get on the nine.”
“Is that so; I hadn’t heard it. Gee! I hope you do. How you going to manage it?”
“Well, I don’t know as Darrell wants it known,” was the answer, “but I’ll tell you,” and Joe proceeded to relate his talk with the manager, about the prospective leaving of McGraw.
“That’s so, Jed is going away,” admitted Tom. “I had forgotten about that. Say, I hope he leaves before Saturday and then you can get a chance to play.”
“What about Len Oswald, the substitute centre fielder?”
“Oh, Len is practically out of it. He can’t get off Saturday afternoons any more. Too much business in that Fordham grocery where he works. That’s a good thing for you. I’m real glad of it, Joe. But say, if you want to practice pitching, why didn’t you ask me to catch for you?”
“I didn’t want to bother you?”
“Aw, get out. I’d be glad to do it. Next time you want to try it tip me off and we’ll go some place where Sam can’t bother us. He’s a mean chap sometimes. I don’t like him, but some of the fellows think he’s all there. He sure can pitch, and I guess that’s why we keep him. But come on, let’s go to practice. There may be a scrub game and you can get in on it.”
Joe and Tom found quite a crowd assembled on the Riverside diamond when they arrived. The nine and the substitutes were in uniforms, and Darrell Blackney and George Rankin were talking to the team, giving them some points about the coming game with the Red Stockings.
“I guess we’ve got enough for a scrub game,” announced the captain, as Joe and Tom strolled up. “Tom, you play first on the scrub. And let’ssee—what’s your name?” and he turned to Joe, who introduced himself.
“He’s a friend of mine,” added Tom, “so treat him right.”
“Good!” exclaimed the captain. “Well, he can play on the scrub if he wants to. Out in the field,” he added.
“Oh, yes, that’s Matson, whom I was telling you about,” put in the manager, and then he added something in a low voice which Joe could not catch.
“Play ball!” called the umpire, and the impromptu contest was underway. Joe narrowly watched Sam’s pitching and even though he regarded the lad as unfriendly to him, our hero could not but admit that his rival in the box was doing good work.
“But I think I can equal him if I have a chance,” thought Joe, and he was not given to idle boasting, either. “Oh, if I only get the chance!” he exclaimed in a whisper.
Then a high fly came his way and he had to get down to business and stop his day-dreaming. He ran back to get under the ball, and made a pretty one-handed catch. There was some applause from the little group of spectators.
“Good eye!” yelled Tom Davis.
“That’s the stuff!” cried some one else, and Joe felt a warm thrill of pleasure as he threw the ball in.
Of course the first team won, for the scrub was composed of odds and ends, with some substitutes from the Silver Stars, but Joe had done his best to hold down the score.
“Good work, Matson,” complimented Darrell, when the contest was over. “By the way, I’ve about decided in your case. You can get ready to play centre field Saturday. McGraw can’t be with us, and we can’t count on Oswald. Have you a uniform?”
“Yes,” said Joe eagerly.
“A uniform; what for?” asked Sam Morton quickly. He had come up behind Joe and Darrell, and had heard the last part of the conversation.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you fellows that Matson is our new member of the team,” went on the manager. “Shake hands with him, boys. I’ve been watching him play to-day and I think with a little practice he’ll make good.”
“Where’s he going to play?” demanded Sam roughly, while the lads crowded around Joe, congratulating him, asking him questions as to where he had played ball before, and shaking hands withhim. “Where’s he going to play?” and Sam pointed what seemed like an accusing finger at Joe.
“Centre field—McGraw’s place,” answered the manager briefly.
“Regular or substitute?” demanded Sam.
“Practically a regular,” replied Darrell. “We can’t count on Oswald any more, now that his busy season has begun.”
Every member of the Silver Stars save Sam had shaken hands with Joe. The pitcher now stood facing our hero.
“I want to protest!” suddenly exclaimed Sam, looking Joe full in the face.
“Why?” asked Darrell.
“What business is it of yours, anyhow, Sam?” asked the captain. “Darrell and I have settled this. Matson plays.”
“Then I want my protest noted!” went on Sam angrily. “We’re supposed to be a local team—every one on it belongs in town.”
“So does Joe Matson!” broke in Tom Davis.
“Well, he’s only just moved in, and how do we know but what he’ll move out again?” demanded Sam. “I protest against him being a regular, or even a substitute, member of the Silver Stars!”
There was a period of silence following Sam’s unfair protest. Then could be heard a low murmur from some of his mates.
“Oh, what’s eating him, anyhow?”
“What’s he got against Matson?”
“Something has Sam by the ear all right.”
“Yes, guess he didn’t like the way the scrub batted him around.”
These were some of the comments made, not loud enough for Sam to hear, for he was a power in the nine, and none of the lads wanted to get on bad terms with him.
For a moment all eyes were turned on Sam and then toward Joe who, it can easily be imagined, was much embarrassed.
“I don’t think your protest is a fair one,” said Darrell at length.
“I don’t think so either,” added Captain George Rankin. “Just because Matson is a newcomerin town is no reason why he can’t play with us.”
“Sure, that’s right!” put in Seth Potter. “You weren’t born here yourself, Sam, and neither were lots of us. We moved here.”
“I’ve lived in Riverside nearly all my life,” snapped the pitcher, “and I like to see a representative team. If we need a new member why not pick one who has been living here longer than a couple of weeks?”
“Look here!” exclaimed Darrell. “I don’t think this is fair to me.”
“How do you mean?” asked Sam, for the manager had spoken with some warmth.
“Just this much. You elected me manager and the captain and I were to select the players. Now, when we make our choice, there comes a kick. It isn’t right. Rankin and I decided to give Matson a chance, and he gets it. That goes, too!” and the manager looked straight at Sam.
“Oh, well, if you put it that way I suppose I might as well keep still about it,” and Sam, shrugging his shoulders, turned away. He had not yet shaken hands with Joe.
“As for there being other players just as good and who have lived here longer, that may be true,” went on Darrell. “I’m not saying Matson is theonly fellow I could pick for centre field, and I’m not saying anything against any of the fellows on the scrub when I don’t take them. We want the best team we can get to represent the Silver Stars and Matson is my choice for the place. If you want to go over my head——”
“No! No!” came a chorus of objections. “It’s all right!”
“Then Matson plays Saturday,” concluded the manager. “All of you be out for practice to-morrow afternoon again. Matson, report in uniform.”
“All right,” and Joe’s heart was fairly thumping under his coat. The chance he had longed for had come at last.
As Sam was walking away Joe resolved on a bold stroke, rather a grandstand play as he confessed to himself afterward, but he could not forego it. Striding up to the disgruntled pitcher Joe held out his hand and asked:
“Won’t you shake?”
Sam turned and faced him. For several seconds he stood staring Joe straight in the eyes while the crowd of boys looked on. Then with a sneer, and ignoring the proffered hand, Sam said:
“I prefer to pick my own friends. I don’t want them made for me.”
He turned on his heel and walked off.
There was another period of silence like that following his protest. Then some one said:
“Well, I’m glad I haven’t gothisdisposition.”
“What’s that?” cried Sam angrily, and turning back he seemed about to rush at the throng he faced.
“There now, that’ll do!” exclaimed Darrell, who was anxious to avoid a scene. “Forget it, fellows. Sam, you get your arm good and limber for Saturday. We want to beat the Red Stockings by a big score to make up for what the Resolutes did to us last Saturday. I’m going to arrange for another game with them soon, and maybe we can turn the tables.”
“Sure we can!” cried several.
“So limber up, Sam,” the manager went on, “and have your arm in good shape.”
“It will be in bad shape if I get run down by any more amateur cyclists,” sneered Sam as he looked meaningly at Joe, but no one made any further reference to the recent collision.
At practice the next day Joe took his place with the regular Silver Star team, and he showed up well in the impromptu contest against the scrubs. He made several good catches, and though his stick work might have been improved, still it waspretty good, for the scrub pitcher was not to be despised.
“I guess you’ll do,” complimented Darrell, at the close of the contest. “Keep it up, don’t get rattled, and you’ll be all right. I can see you’ve played before.”
“I guess I’ve got lots to learn yet,” admitted Joe cheerfully.
“Oh, we all have,” assented the manager with a laugh.
On the Saturday of the game with the Red Stockings, Joe was up early. He had overhauled his old uniform and gotten Clara to put a few needed stitches in it. He had it out on the clothes line in the back yard, beating some of the dust and dirt from it to freshen it up, when Tom hailed him from over the fence.
“I say, Joe, what sort of a shirt have you got?”
“Same one I used on the Bentville Boosters; that was the name of our nine.”
“I see. A good name all right, but it will look funny to see that in among the uniforms of the Silver Stars. Your stockings and pants will do, but the shirt——” and Tom paused suggestively.
“That’s so,” admitted Joe. “I didn’t think about that. It’s a different color from yours, and I haven’t time to get another.”
“Never mind!” called Tom. “I tell you what you can do. Use my shirt. It’s the regular Star one, with the name on.”
“Won’t you want it?”
“No, I don’t think I’m going to get a chance to play. Darrell will probably hold down first all through the game. If I have to go in I can borrow some other fellow’s. But I want you to look right from the start.”
“Thanks,” called Joe as Tom disappeared in the house to get his shirt. It fitted Joe well, and he arranged to get his own in time for the next game.
“Say, there’s a big crowd here all right!” exclaimed Joe, as he and Tom neared the enclosed diamond that afternoon, and saw the stands well filled.
“Yes, so much the better. The Red Stockings always draw well. I hope we beat. Do your prettiest.”
“Sure I will. There’s Sam warming up.”
“Yes, I hope he doesn’t go up in the air. Better hurry up and get in practice.”
Joe ran out on the diamond, which was thronged with the home team and visiting players. Balls were being caught and batted about, and the new player was soon doing his share.
“Now keep cool,” Darrell advised him, “and above all don’t have a row with Sam. I can’t understand why he has such a grudge against you, but he has and there’s no use letting it be known any more than it is.”
“I won’t do or say anything if he doesn’t,” promised Joe. “But I’m not going to let him knock me down and then wipe his feet on me.”
“Of course not. I’ll see that he’s decent, anyhow. Well, I guess it’s time we started. I see they have some new players. Maybe we won’t beat them as easily as I hoped.”
The practice balls were called in, players were selecting their sticks, the batting order had been decided on, and the final arrangements made.
“Play ball!” called the umpire, and the Silver Stars took the field. Joe walked out to centre. His heart was beating high. It was his first chance to show what he could do in a match game with his new team and he wanted to make good. But oh! how he longed to be in the pitching box occupied by Sam Morton!
“Play ball!” called the umpire again, and Sam, “winding up,” let fly a swift white ball toward the expectant batter.
“Strike one!” yelled the young umpire, as the ball landed with a resounding thud in Bart Ferguson’s big mitt.
“That’s the stuff!” called several in the crowd.
“Send back the Reds with a whitewash brush,” added another enthusiast.
“I guess Sam’s in form to-day,” remarked Tom Davis to Rodney Burke near whom he sat. Tom was not playing, for Darrell was holding down the initial bag.
“Wait a bit and see what happens along about the seventh inning,” said Rodney. “Sam generally falls down then if he’s going to.”
“Well, I hope he doesn’t, that’s all,” said Tom, and then he gave all his attention to watching the game.
“Ball one,” was the next decision of the umpire.
“Aw what’s the matter with you?” cried Sam, starting toward home where Bart stood holding the ball. “That clipped the plate as good as anyone would want. You’d better get a pair of glasses, Kern. You can’t see straight.”
“I can see as well as you!” retorted Frank Kern, the umpire.
“It wasn’t anywhere near over the plate,” retorted Jack King, the batter.
“Aw, you don’t know a good ball when you get one,” snapped Sam. “I guess——”
“That’ll do now!” called Darrell sharply from first. “This isn’t a kid game. Play ball. Don’t be always kicking, Sam.”
“Who is always kicking?” demanded the pitcher, and it was evident to all that he was in unusually bad temper.
“I hope it isn’t on my account,” thought Joe who, from his position in deep centre, was waiting for anything that might come his way. He had been told to play far out, for King was known as a heavy hitter.
Sam received the ball from Bart with a scowl and wound up for the next delivery. Sam was a natural pitcher. That is, he had good control, as a rule, and he made his shoulder and back do most of the work of the pitching arm, as all professionals do. Still his unpleasant temper often made his efforts go to waste.
“Strike two!” called the umpire this time, andthere was no doubt about it for King had swung viciously at the ball. But Sam had sent in a puzzling little drop, and the knowledge that he had fooled a good batter brought a smile to his otherwise scowling face.
“Here’s where I get you!” he predicted.
But alas for his hopes! The bat met the ball squarely and Sam had made the mistake of sending a fast ball to a heavy hitter enabling King to knock out a pretty three bagger. Far back as Joe had stationed himself he was not far enough and he had to turn and run after the horsehide. And how he did run! He was thinking desperately what would happen if he missed it! He made up his mind that he would not, yet it was not within the power of any one to get to the spot before the ball fell.
Joe felt it graze the tips of his fingers as it rushed downward but that was all. He heard himself groan involuntarily in anguish as the ball hit the ground with a thud. He lost no time in idle regrets however, but picked it up and made a throw to third in time to hold King there, for the doughty player had a notion of continuing on home.
“Good try old man!” yelled some spectators on the benches nearest Joe. He felt that his effortwas somewhat appreciated but he wondered what Darrell would think of it. Sam was scowling again, whether at Joe’s perfectly natural miss, or the fact that he was hit for three bases was impossible to guess.
“Try for the next one,” called Darrell cheerfully, and Sam did with such success that Bigney, who was second up for the Red Stockings, only pounded out a little drizzler that Sam quickly gathered in and threw to first. King was still held on third. Smart fanned out, and then came Steel, who, after knocking a couple of fouls, was fooled on a little in-shoot which made three out, King dying on third and the side being retired with no runs.
“Oh, not so bad,” said Sam as he walked in to the bench.
“I guess we’ve got their number all right,” assented Darrell. He saw Joe coming in from centre and the manager stopped to speak to him.
“Nobody could have gotten that ball,” he said, for he realized that the new player might blame himself unjustly. “I didn’t think King had it in him, or I’d have told you to play out to the limit. He won’t get you that way again.”
“I guess not!” exclaimed Joe heartily.
The make up and batting order of the SilverStars was the same as in the game with the Resolutes save that Joe was in Jed McGraw’s place, and this brought him second to the bat. Potter was up first and managed to get a single.
“Now, bring him in,” commanded Darrell with a smile at Joe, as the latter picked out a bat. He was very nervous, as any lad would have been, playing his first game with a new team. He did want to make good!
“I’ll try,” he said simply.
Painter, the Red Stocking pitcher, had no phenomenal speed and his curves could not be depended on to break at the right places. Still he was a good “bluffer” and he made many a batter think that he was getting a very swift ball. Often it would look as though it was going to hit the man at the plate and he would instinctively step back, disconcerting his own aim.
Joe let the first ball pass, and was somewhat surprised to have a strike called on him. But he did not kick, for, as a matter of fact, the horsehide had clipped the plate.
“I’ll get the next one,” thought Joe grimly. Then Painter worked his usual trick, of throwing a ball close in, and Joe bent his body like a bow.
“Strike two!” yelled the umpire and Joe felt a flash of anger. But he said nothing, and whenthe next ball came he swung viciously at it. He heard the heart-stirring ping! and, dropping his bat, he legged it for first as Potter darted to second.
But Joe had not hit the ball nearly as hard as he thought he had, and the result was that the shortstop gathered it in, and, by a quick throw to first, caught our hero there.
“Quick, to second!” yelled the coacher, but Potter dropped and slid, being counted safe.
“One down, only two more!” yelled Murphy, captain and catcher of the “Reds,” as they were called for short.
Joe felt his face burning with shame as he walked back to the bench.
“Humph! I thought we were going to see some wonders!” murmured Sam Morton sarcastically.
“It’s all right, Matson—it was an even chance, and you found the ball,” said Darrell quickly. He knew the danger of a new player becoming discouraged.
“Thanks,” said Joe quietly.
Lantry got a single which sent Potter to third, but the next two men struck out and with two men left on bases the Silver Stars had to take the field again with only a goose egg to their credit.
The game ran along to the ending of the third inning with neither side getting a run. Each team made some scattering hits but the fielding was evenly good, and no one crossed the home plate. Joe made one fine catch in the beginning of the third and received a round of applause that did his heart good.
Sam was pitching pretty good ball, occasionally being found for a two bagger, but any short-comings in this line were more than made up in the support he received from his mates.
“It’s going to be a tighter game than I thought it was,” murmured Darrell, at the close of the fourth inning, when his side had managed to get in one run to tie the tally which the Reds had secured. “They’ve got a better team than I gave them credit for.”
“You don’t think they’re going to beat us, do you?” asked Sam anxiously.
“I—well—I hope not,” was the hesitating answer.
“Does that mean you don’t think I’m doing all I ought to?” demanded the pitcher defiantly.
“Of course not. I know you wouldn’t throw the game. Only I wish we could strike more of them out,” and the manager looked anxiously over the field as his players were stationing themselves.
“Wait and see what I do this inning,” invited Sam. “Perhaps you want that new fellow to go in the box in my place.” His voice was sneering now.
“Who, Joe Matson?” asked Darrell quickly.
“That’s who I mean,” replied Sam surlily.
“Don’t be foolish,” was the manager’s quiet answer. “You know he hasn’t had any experience in the box—or at least enough to play on our team, though I think he’ll make a good fielder. Now do your prettiest Sam. You can, you know.”
“All right,” assented the pitcher, and once more the game was underway.
The fifth inning was productive of one run for the Silver Stars and this after they had retired their rivals hitless, for Sam did some excellent pitching. There was a howl of delight as the first tally came in, making the score two to one in favor of our friends. And there was none out.
“Now we ought to walk away from them,” called Darrell to his players. Joe came up to bat and to his delight he got a single. He was advanced to second when the next player connected with the ball, and then followed some see-sawing on the part of the pitcher and the second baseman, in an endeavor to catch Joe napping.
Once our hero thought he saw a good chanceto steal third and he was about to take it when something warned him to come back. He did, and only just in time, for the pitcher threw to second. It was a close shave.
Joe slid head foremost and as his fingers touched the bag the second baseman leaped up in the air to catch the ball which the pitcher had wildly thrown high.
When the baseman came down, making a wild effort to touch Joe, the iron cleat of one shoe caught the little finger of Joe’s left hand and cut it cruelly.
The plucky centre fielder tried to stifle the groan of anguish that rose to his lips, but it was impossible. The baseman was aware of the accident.
Dropping the ball he knelt over Joe.
“I’m mighty sorry, old man!” he exclaimed. “Are you hurt much?”
“No—no. I—I guess not,” murmured Joe, and then all got black before his eyes, and there was a curious roaring in his ears.