“Water here! Bring some water!” yelled Smart, who was holding down second base for the Reds. “He’s fainted I guess.”
There was a rush of players toward Joe, and Darrell was the first to reach him.
“What’s the matter, old man?” he asked sympathetically.
“I’m afraid I spiked him,” answered Smart, ruefully. “I jumped for the ball, and came down on his hand I guess.”
“Too bad,” murmured Darrell.
They turned Joe over, for he was lying on his face, and saw his left hand covered with blood.
“Where’s that first-aid kit?” called Tom Davis, who had rushed on the field on seeing his friend hurt.
“Here it is,” answered Rodney Burke, who acted as the amateur surgeon on the few times his services had been required. “I’ll bandage it up. Had we better get a doctor?”
Meanwhile some water had been sprinkled in Joe’s face and some forced between his lips. He opened his eyes as the others were washing the blood from his hand.
“I—I’m all right,” he murmured, as he strove to rise.
“Now that’s all right—you just lie still,” commanded Darrell. “Look at it Rod, and see how bad it is.”
Fortunately the wound was not as serious as had at first seemed and when cleansed of dirt and blood it was seen to be a long cut, lengthwise of the finger.
“I’ll have that done up in a jiffy,” remarked Rodney, who was not a little proud of his skill. His father was a physician, and had shown the son how to make simple bandages. The wound was cleansed with an antiseptic solution and wrapped in the long narrow strips of bandage cloth. Joe got to his feet while this was being done, and, after a little water containing aromatic spirits of ammonia had been given to him, he declared that he was all right.
“Are you sure?” asked Darrell anxiously.
“Sure, I’ll bring in a run yet if some one knocks the ball far enough,” said Joe with a smile, though it was rather a feeble one.
“Nonsense, you can’t run after that,” exclaimed Murphy, the Red captain. “Give him a man,” he added generously to his rival. “We don’t care.”
“I think I had better send Newton down to run for you,” said Captain Rankin.
“But I’m going to play,” insisted Joe.
“Yes, next inning,” he was assured, and the game went on.
However, even the substitution of a runner in Joe’s place availed nothing, as the side was soon afterward retired with the men expiring on bases, and the one run was all the Silver Stars could gather in. Still that made the score two to one in their favor.
There was a big surprise in the next inning. The Reds came to bat full of confidence, and the first man up rapped out as pretty a three bagger as had been pulled off that day. It went to deep right field, for which Joe was thankful, as even with his finger protected by a bandage and a heavy glove on his hand, he felt that he would wince at catching a swift ball, and might possibly muff it. That was what the right fielder did, though he managed to pick it up quickly enough to prevent the player from going on in to home.
Whether the fact of being hit for a long pokemade Sam lose his temper, or the knowledge that part of his support consisted of a wounded player made him nervous, was not manifest, but the fact remains that the pitcher “went up in the air” after that. He gave one man his base on balls, and when the next player came up, and rapped out a two bagger the man at third went on in, and there was a man holding down third while one on second nearly made the bases full.
“Easy now,” cautioned Darrell to Sam. “Hold ’em down.”
“Um!” grunted Sam, and what he meant by it might be imagined, but hedidstrike out the next two men. Then came a single which resulted in a tally being made, being the second run of the inning. Sam shut his teeth grimly. There were now two out and two men on bases and Sam felt his nerve leaving him. But by a strong effort he braced himself, and did the trick to the next man, stopping the winning streak of the Reds just in time.
“Three to two against us,” murmured Darrell as he looked at the score board when he and his mates came in for their turn at the bat. “That isn’t going as I’d like to see it. Say, fellows, we’ve got to knuckle down if we want to pull this game out of the fire.”
“That’s what,” murmured George Rankin, and, perhaps involuntarily, he glanced at Sam.
“Oh, I know what you fellows mean without you saying so!” snapped the pitcher. “I wish you’d keep your remarks to yourselves. I can pitch all right.”
“No one said you couldn’t,” declared Darrell gently.
But it was very little that the Silver Stars could accomplish. Two men went down to inglorious defeat. The third knocked a nice single but died on first when the Red pitcher with seeming ease struck out the fourth batter. And it was not due so much that the visiting boxman had speed or curves, as to the fact that he could fool the batters with easy balls.
“We seem to have struck a hoodoo,” said Darrell in despairing tones as they took the field again. “Sam, our only hope is in you. Not a run for us this inning and they got two.”
“They won’t get any more!” declared Sam savagely.
He made good his boast, for not a man got beyond second, and of those who performed this feat there was but one. A big circle went up in the Red’s frame for the ending of the first half of the seventh inning.
But the Silver Stars fared no better, and for the next inning the result was the same, neither side being able to score. The tally was three runs to two in favor of the visitors when the ninth inning opened.
The Silver Stars didn’t like to think of that inning afterward. There were numerous errors, wild throws and muffs. Joe let a ball slip through his fingers when by holding it he might have prevented a run, but it happened to hit on the cut place, and the agony was such that he let out an exclamation of pain.
But he was not the only one who sinned. Sam was “rotten,” to quote Tom Davis, and “issued a number of passes.” One man got to first by virtue of being hit and when the inning was over there were three runs in the Red’s box.
“Six to two against us,” murmured Darrell. “It looks bad, fellows—it looks bad.”
Joe was first up to the bat.
“Do you think you can hit?” asked the captain anxiously.
“Oh, yes. I can hold my little finger away from the bat and I’ll be all right.”
“Then hit for all you’re worth,” begged Darrell. “We need all we can get.”
Joe clenched his teeth grimly and made up hismind he would not be fooled as he had been several times before.
The Red pitcher was smiling in a tantalizing way and Joe felt himself almost hating him for it.
“I’m going to hit you! I’m going to hit you!” he found himself murmuring over and over again in his mind.
And hit Joe did. The first delivery was a ball, but the second Joe knew was just where he wanted it. With all his force he swung at it and as he sped away toward first, with all the power of his legs he saw the horsehide sailing on a clean hit in a long, low drive over the centre fielder’s head.
Joe heard the ball strike the farther fence and a wild hope came into his heart that he might make a home run.
“I’m going to do it! I’m going to do!” he whispered to himself as he turned first and sped like the wind for second base. Could he beat the ball in? That was what he was asking himself. That was what hundreds of frantic fans were asking themselves.
“Leg it, Joe! Leg it!”
“Keep on! Keep on!”
“He can’t get you in time!”
“A home run! A homer, old man!”
“Keep a-going! Keep a-going!”
These and other frantic appeals and bits of advice were hurled at Joe as he dashed madly on. He had a glimpse of the centre fielder racing madly after the ball, and then he felt for the first time that he really had a chance to make a home run. Still he knew that the ball travels fast when once thrown, and it might be relayed in, for he saw the second baseman running back to assist the centre fielder.
“But I’m going to beat it!” panted Joe to himself.
The grandstand and bleachers were now a mass of yelling excited spectators. There was a good attendance at the game, many women and girlsbeing present, and Joe could hear their shrill voices mingling with the hoarser shouts of the men and boys.
“Keep on! Keep on!” he heard yelled encouragingly at him.
“That’s the stuff, old man!” shouted Darrell, who was coaching at the third base line.
“Shall I go in?” cried Joe as he turned the last bag.
Darrell took a swift glance toward the field. He saw what Joe could not. The centre fielder instead of relaying in the ball by the second baseman (for the throw was too far for him), had attempted to get it to third alone. Darrell knew it would fall short.
“Yes! Yes!” he howled. “Go on in, Joe! Go on in!”
And Joe went.
Just as the manager had anticipated, the ball fell short, and the pitcher who had run down to cover second had to run out of the diamond to get it. It was an error in judgment, and helped Joe to make his sensational run.
He was well on his way home now, but the pitcher had the ball and was throwing it to the catcher.
“Slide, Joe! Slide!” yelled Darrell above thewild tumult of the other players and the spectators.
Joe kept on until he knew a slide would be effective and then, dropping like a shot, he fairly tore through the dust, feet first, toward home plate. His shoes covered it as the ball came with a thud into the outstretched hands of the catcher.
“Safe!” yelled the umpire, and there was no questioning his decision.
“Good play!” yelled the crowd.
“That’s the stuff, old man!” exclaimed Darrell, rushing up and clapping Joe on the back.
“A few more like that and the game will either go ten innings or we’ll have it in the ice-box for ourselves,” commented Captain Rankin gleefully.
But the hopes of the Silver Stars were doomed to disappointment. Try as the succeeding men did to connect with the ball, the best that could be knocked out was a single, and that was not effective, for the man who did it was caught attempting to steal second and two others were struck out.
That ended the game, Joe’s solitary run being the only one tallied up, and the final score was three to six in favor of the Red Stockings.
“Three cheers for the Silver Stars!” calledthe captain of the successful nine and they were given with right good feeling.
“Three cheers for the Red Stockings,” responded Darrell. “They were too much for us,” and the cheers of the losers were none less hearty than those of their rivals.
“And three cheers for the fellow who made the home run!” added a Red Stocking player, and our hero could not help blushing as he was thus honored.
“It was all to the pepper-castor, old man,” complimented Darrell. “We didn’t put up a very good game, but you sort of stand out among the other Stars.”
“And I suppose the rest of us did rotten!” snarled Sam Morton as he walked past.
“Well, to be frank, I think wealldid,” spoke Darrell. “I’m not saying that Joe didn’t make any errors, for he did. But he made the only home run of the game, and that’s a lot.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” sneered the disgruntled pitcher. “You’ll be blaming me next for the loss of the game.”
“Nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Darrell quickly. “I think we’ve all got to bear our share of the defeat. We ought to have played better,and we’ve got to, if we don’t want to be at the tail end of the county league.”
“And that means that I’ve got to do better pitching, I suppose?” sneered Sam.
“It means we’veallgot to do better work,” put in Captain Rankin. “You along with the rest of us, Sam. You know you were pretty well batted to-day.”
“Any fellow is likely to be swatted once in a while. Look at some of the professionals.”
“I’m not saying they’re not,” admitted the captain. “What I do say is that we’ve all got to perk up. We’ve got to take a brace, and I’m not sparing myself. We’re not doing well.”
“No, that’s right,” admitted several other players. In fact there was a general feeling of discontent manifested, and it was very noticeable. Darrell Blackney was aware of it, and he hoped it would not spread, for nothing is so sure to make a team slump as discontent or dissatisfaction.
“Oh, Joe!” exclaimed a girl’s voice, and he turned to see his sister walking toward him over the field. “That was a fine run you made.” She had two other girls with her and Joe, who was a bit bashful, turned to execute a retreat.
“I believe you never met my brother,” went on Clara, and there was a trace of pride in her tone.“Miss Mabel Davis,” said Clara, presenting her to Joe, “and Miss Helen Rutherford.”
“I’ve heard my sister speak of you,” murmured the young centre fielder.
“And I’ve heard my brother speak ofyou,” said Mabel, and Joe was conscious that he was blushing.
“I’ve got to wash up now,” he said, not knowing what to talk about when two pretty girls, to say nothing of his own sister, were staring at him.
“Does your hand hurt you much?” asked Mabel.
“No—it’s only a scratch,” said Joe, not with a strict regard for the truth.
“Oh, I thought I’d faint when I saw you lying there so still,” spoke Clara with a little shudder.
“So did I,” added Helen, and then Joe made his escape before they could “fuss” over him any more.
There was considerable talk going on in the dressing room when Joe entered. He could hear the voice of Sam Morton raised in high and seemingly angry tones.
“Well, I’m not going to stand for it!” the pitcher said.
“Stand for what?” asked Darrell in surprise.
“Being accused of the cause for the loss of this game!”
“No one accuses you,” put in the captain.
“You might as well say it as look it,” retorted Sam. “I tell you I won’t stand for it. Just because that new fellow made a home run you’re all up in the air about him, and for all the hard work I do, what do I get for it? Eh? Nothing, that’s what!”
“Now, look here,” said Darrell soothingly, “you know you’re talking foolishly, Sam.”
“I am not!” cried the pitcher petulantly. “Either Joe Matson leaves the team or I do, and you can have my resignation any time you want it!”
There was a period of silence following Sam’s offer of his resignation, and no one seemed to know just what to say. Several of the lads glanced at Joe, as if expecting him to say something in his own defense. In fact the young centre fielder was about to speak but he did not get the chance, for Sam exclaimed again:
“Well, do you want my resignation, Darrell?”
“You know I don’t!” declared the manager.
“Then things have got to be changed!”
“Look here!” burst out Darrell. “I’ve stood about all I’m going to from you, Sam Morton. There has got to be a change in this team.”
“That’s just what I’m giving you a chance to make,” the pitcher fairly sneered. “You can fill my place any time you like.”
“But I’m not going to,” and though Darrell spoke pleasantly there was a sternness in his words. “Fellows, it’s like this,” he went on. “The Silver Stars are a good team and you know it. So does every one in this town, but the lasttwo games we’ve played in hard luck, and——”
“Do you mean to say it was my pitching?” demanded Sam.
“No more than it was the way we all played. As I said, we’ve got to take a brace. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Sam, to say you’ll resign if Joe Matson plays. What have you against him?”
“Well, I hate to see a newcomer made so much of. Here we fellows have worked hard all season, and——”
“And you’re going to work hard therestof the season!” exclaimed Darrell. “Let me tell you that! I’m not going to hear any more talk of resignations, and this bickering has got to stop. Otherwise we’ll be the laughing stock of the county. You all played pretty well to-day, but you all need to do better.”
“All but Matson; I suppose he’s the star,” sneered Sam.
“Look here,” burst out Joe, unable to stand the taunts of the pitcher any longer, “if you think——”
“Now, go easy,” advised Darrell with a smile. “I’m giving this little lecture. I give Matson due credit for one of the three runs we got,” he went on, “but that’s not saying that he didn’t make errors. We all did.
“Oh, fellows!” he pleaded and they could see that he was very much in earnest, “let’s get together and wallop every nine we play against from now on! Take a brace. Forget all this feeling and get together. Matson and Morton, I want you to shake hands, will you?”
“I’m willing,” assented Joe eagerly, advancing toward Sam.
The latter hesitated a moment and then, feeling the eyes of all in the dressing room on him, he mumbled:
“Well, as long as you don’t think he’s the star of the Stars, I’ll shake. Maybe I was a bit hasty,” he went on, and this was a great deal for Sam Morton to admit. He and Joe shook hands, though it cannot be said that there was any warmth on the part of the pitcher. Still it was better than open enmity, though Joe wondered if Sam would be really friendly.
“That’s better,” commented the manager with something like a sigh of relief.
“And don’t let this go any further,” suggested the captain. “We don’t want it known that there came near being a break in the Stars. Now get together, fellows. Show up at practice strong next time, and we’ll win our next game!”
“That’s the way to talk!” cried Tom Davis, and the crisis was passed—for a time.
And, to the delight of Joe, he found that he had made many new friends, chiefly because of his sensational run. The members of the team, of course, crowded around him congratulating him, and asking him how he did it. But, in addition, there now flocked into the dressing room a crowd of lads who had witnessed the game. Some of them were high school pupils who knew Joe, at least by sight, but they now came up and spoke to him. Other town lads did the same thing.
“Gee! It’s great to be popular!” exclaimed Tom, with a mock sigh. “Why wasn’t I born a home-run hitter instead of good looking, I wonder?”
“Get out!” laughed Joe. “Don’t make me get a swelled head.”
“No danger, I guess,” retorted Tom.
Darrell and the captain strolled up to Joe, who had finished dressing.
“Well, that’s over, for a while,” said Darrell in a low voice, evidently referring to the unpleasant little incident. “I want to ask you to do some practicing, Matson. You need to try throwing a bit, for it’s a long heave in from centre field and, to be frank, you aren’t any too good at it.”
“I’ll practice every day,” exclaimed our hero eagerly.
“And I’ll coach him,” added Tom.
“Get out, you lobster, you need coaching yourself,” said the captain with a laugh. “You’ll get rusty if Darrell doesn’t get off first and give you a chance.”
“I’ll do it more often now,” said the manager. “I want to be more on the coaching line. Two wallops in two weeks is more than the Stars can stand.”
“Who do we play next week?” asked Tom.
“The Denville Whizzers, but I don’t imagine we’ll have much trouble with them,” said the manager. “However, it won’t do to take any chances. Practice hard, fellows,” and with that he left the dressing room.
Sam Morton had gone out some time before and Joe and Tom soon followed. As they strolled down the street toward their homes Tom said:
“Say Joe, I was in earnest in saying I’d coach you. I believe you do need practice in throwing, and if you haven’t given up the idea of pitching some day——”
“I’ll never give up the idea until I’m knocked out of the box,” declared Joe.
“Good! Then I’ll help coach you. I was goingto say it wasn’t much fun practicing alone, and as a matter of fact it doesn’t do much good.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve been reading up about baseball lately. I got a book on pitching, and——”
“Say, will you lend it to me?” asked Joe eagerly. “Or tell me where I can buy one?”
“Sure I will. I was going to say that it has articles in it by star professional pitchers and a lot of them agree that it isn’t much use just to go out and throw a ball at a spot on the backstop or the fence.”
“What’s the best way then?” asked Joe, who had supposed from his limited knowledge that to practice at hitting a certain spot with the ball was about the best he could do.
“Why, they say the best is to get something like a home plate—a flat stone say—and pitch over it with some one to catch for you.”
“I suppose that would be a good way,” began Joe doubtfully, “but who’s going to catch for me?”
“I am!” exclaimed Tom quickly. “I said just now that I’d coach you. I’ll do more than that, I’ll catch for you. And the book I spoke of has other tricks of practice, so a fellow can get good control of a ball. That’s the thing pitchers needit says—control. Say, we’ll have some fun, you and I, down in a vacant lot practicing. When can you come?”
“How about Monday afternoon?”
“Suits me first rate.”
“All right, we’ll make it then, and we’ll get in some scientific practice for you. Maybe after all, you’ll pitch in Sam’s place before the season is over.”
“I wouldn’t want to do it, if it’s going to make a row in the team.”
“Oh, don’t let that worry you. Lots of the fellows don’t like Sam any too well. They’d as soon have some one else in the box if he could deliver the goods. Well, so long; see you Monday, if not before.”
“I guess I’m glad dad moved to Riverside after all,” mused Joe as he walked toward home. “I was afraid I wouldn’t like it at first, but now I’m on the team it’s all right. I hope dad doesn’t have any business troubles though. I wonder what is wrong for I’m sure something is. I hope it doesn’t prevent me from going to boarding school next year,” and with this reflection Joe went in the house.
“Well, Joe, are you all ready?” It was Tom Davis, and he had called at Joe’s house on his way from school, as Tom had to remain in physics class to finish an experiment, and Joe had gone on ahead.
“I sure am, Tom. Where are we going to practice? Over on the fairgrounds?”
“No, that’s too far. We’ll go down in the vacant lots back of Mrs. Peterkin’s house. There’s a high fence back of her house and that will be a good backstop, in case I can’t hold your hot ones.”
“Oh, I guess you can all right,” replied Joe with a laugh, “though I wish I did have lots of speed.”
“Say now, don’t make that mistake,” said Tom earnestly, as Joe came out to join him, having picked up some old balls and a pitcher’s glove.
“What mistake?”
“Trying for speed before you have control. I saw an article about that in the pitching book last night. I brought it along. Here it is,” and bothboys looked eagerly over the book as they walked along.
As Tom had said, some of the best authorities on pitching did advocate the trying for control before a prospective boxman endeavored to get either speed or curves.
“The thing seems to be,” remarked Joe, “to get a ball just where you want it, ten times out of ten if you can, and then when you can do that, try for the in and out shoots and the drop.”
“That’s it,” agreed Tom. “Are you any good at throwing stones?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Well, one fellow says that the lad who can throw a stone straight can generally throw a ball straight. We’ll have a contest when we get down to the lots. Nobody will see us there.”
“I hope not,” remarked Joe. “I don’t want to be laughed at the way I was when Sam caught me down at the fairgrounds. I guess he thought I was trying for his place then, and that’s what made him mad.”
The two friends were soon down behind the high board fence that marked the boundaries of the Peterkin property. It was rather a large place—the Peterkin one—and was occupied by an aged couple. Mrs. Alvirah Peterkin was quite ahousewife, always engaged in some kitchen or other household duties, while Ebenezer, her husband “puttered” around the garden, as the folks of Riverside expressed it.
“Well, I guess we’re all ready,” remarked Tom, when he had picked out a large flat stone to represent home plate. He took his position behind it, with his back to the fence, so that if any balls got by him they would hit the barrier and bound back.
Joe began to pitch, endeavoring to bear in mind what the book had said about getting the balls where he wanted them.
“That was pretty far out from the plate,” called Tom dubiously, after one effort on the part of his chum.
“I know it was. Here’s a better one.”
“Good! That’s the stuff. It was a strike all right—right over the middle. Keep it up.”
For a time Joe kept this up, pitching at moderate speed, and then the temptation to “cut loose” could not be resisted. He “wound up” as he had seen professional pitchers do and let the ball go. With considerable force it went right through Tom’s hands and crashed up against the fence with a resounding bang. It was the first ball Tom had let get past him.
“That was a hot one all right!” the catcher called, “but it was away out.”
“All right, I’ll slow down again,” said Joe. He was a little disappointed that he could not combine speed and accuracy.
The boys were about to resume their practice when a face, fringed with a shock of white hair on top, and a little ring of whiskers encircling it below, was raised over the edge of the fence, and a mild voice demanded:
“What you boys up to now—tryin’ to knock down my fence?”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Peterkin,” called Tom. “We’re just playing baseball—that’s all.”
“Where’s the rest of ye?” the old man wanted to know.
“This is all there are of us,” replied Tom, waving his hand toward Joe.
“Humph! Fust time I ever heard of two boys playin’ a ball game all by themselves,” commented the aged man with a chuckle. “But I s’pose it’s one of them new-fangled kind. Land sakes, what th’ world a-comin’ t’ anyhow, I’d like t’ know? Wa’al, keep on, only don’t knock any boards offen my fence,” he stipulated as he resumed the making of his garden.
The boys laughingly promised and resumedtheir practice. Tom was a good catcher and he had an accurate eye. He did not hesitate to tell Joe when the balls were bad and he was a severe critic, for he had taken an honest liking to the newcomer, and wanted to see him succeed.
“Just try for control,” was the gist of his advice. “The rest if it will take care of itself.”
“Don’t you want to pitch and let me catch for you?” asked Joe after a bit, fearing that he was somewhat selfish.
“No, I don’t specially need any practice at throwing,” said Tom. “First is my position. I like it better than any other, and catching is the best practice I can have for that. Keep it up.”
So Joe kept on, using moderate speed after the warning of Mr. Peterkin, so that no more balls struck the fence. But then again came the almost irresistible desire to put on “steam,” and indulging in this Joe sent in another “hot one.”
Almost the instant it left his hand Joe realized that he had lost control of the ball and that it was going wild. He instinctively reached out to pull it back, but it was too late.
“Grab it!” he yelled to Tom.
The plucky little first baseman made a magnificent jump up in the air, but the ball merely grazed the tip of his up-stretched glove. Then it went onover the fence at undiminished speed. An instant later there was the cry of alarm.
“Who did that?” demanded the voice—a voice full of anger. “Who threw that ball? Oh! Oh! Of all things! I demand to know who did it?”
Joe and Tom were silent—looking blankly one at the other. Up over the fence rose the mild and bewhiskered face of Mr. Peterkin.
“Boys,” asked the aged man gently. “Did anything happen? It sounds like it to me.”
“I—I threw the ball over the fence,” admitted Joe.
“Hum! Then I’m afraid somethingdidhappen,” went on Mr. Peterkin still more gently. “Yes, I’msureof it,” he added as the sound of some one coming down the garden path could be heard. “Here comes Alvirah. Something has happened. Do—do you want to run?” he asked, for rumor had it that Mrs. Peterkin was possessed of no gentle temper and Mr. Peterkin—well, he was a very mild-mannered man, every one knew that. “Do you want to run?” he asked again.
“No,” said Tom.
“Of course not,” added Joe. “If we broke a window we’ll pay for it—I’ll pay for it,” he corrected himself, for he had thrown the ball.
Mrs. Peterkin advanced to where her husband was working in the garden. The boys could not see the lady but they could hear her.
“You didn’t throw that ball, did you, Ebenezer?” she asked. “If you did—at your age—cutting up such foolish tricks as playing baseball—I—I’ll——”
“No, Alvirah, I didn’t do it, of course not,” Mr. Peterkin hastened to say. “It was a couple of boys. Tom Davis and a friend of his. They were playing ball back of the fence and——”
“And they’ve run off now, I’ll venture!” exclaimed the rasping voice of Mrs. Peterkin.
“No—no, I don’t think so, Alvirah,” said Mr. Peterkin mildly. “I—I rather think they’re there yet. I asked ’em if they didn’t want to run and——”
“You—asked them—if—they—didn’t—want—to—run?” gasped Mrs. Peterkin, as if unable to believe his words. “Why, the very—idea!”
“Oh, I knew they’d pay for any damage they did,” said her husband quickly, “and I—er—I sort of thought—well, anyhow they’re over there,” and he pointed to the fence.
“Let me see them! Let me talk to them!” demanded Mrs. Peterkin.
“Stand on that soap box an’ ye kin see overthe fence,” said Mr. Peterkin. “But look out. The bottom is sort of soft an’ ye may——”
He did not finish his sentence. The very accident he feared had happened. Mrs. Peterkin, being a large and heavy woman, had stepped in the middle of the box. The bottom boards, being old, had given way and there she was—stuck with both feet in the soap box.
“Ebenezer!” she cried. “Help me! Don’t you know any better than to stand there staring at me? Haven’t you got any senses?”
“Of course I’ll help you, Alvirah,” he said. “I rather thought you’d go through that box.”
“Then you’d no business to let me use it!” she snapped.
“It allers heldmeup when I wanted to look over the fence,” he said mildly. “But then of course I never stepped in the middle of it,” he added as he helped his wife pull aside the broken boards so she could step out. “I kept on the edges.”
“Have those boys gone?” she demanded when free.
“I don’t think so. I’ll look,” he volunteered as he turned the soap box up on edge and peered over the fence. “No, they’re here yet,” he answered as he saw Joe and Tom standing there,trying their best not to laugh. “Was you wantin’ to speak with ’em, Alvirah?”
“Speak with them! Of course I do!” she cried. “Tell them to come around to the side gate. I’llspeakto them,” and she drew herself up like an angry hen.
“Did—did they smash a window?” asked Mr. Peterkin.
“Smash a window? I only wish it was no worse than that!” cried his wife. “They threw their nasty baseball into a kettle of apple sauce that was stewing on the stove, and the sauce splashed all over my clean kitchen. Tell them to come around. I’llspeakto them!”
“I—I guess you’d better come in, boys,” said Mr. Peterkin softly, as he delivered the message over the fence. Then he added—but to himself—“Maybe you might better have run while you had the chance.”
“We’re in for it I guess,” murmured Tom, as he and Joe went around to the side gate.
“Are you the boys who threw the baseball through my kitchen window into my kettle of apple sauce?” demanded Mrs. Peterkin, as she confronted the two culprits.
“I threw it,” admitted Joe.
“But we didn’t know it went into the apple sauce,” added Tom.
“Nor through the window,” spoke Joe for want of something better to say. “It was a wild throw.”
“Humph!” exclaimed the irate lady. “I don’t know what kind of a throw it was but I knowIwas wild when I saw my kitchen. I never saw such a sight in all my born days—never! You come and look at it.”
“If—if you please I’d rather not,” said Joe quickly. “I’ll pay you whatever damages you say, but I—I——”
“I just want you to see that kitchen!” insisted Mrs. Peterkin. “It’s surprising how mischievous boys can be when they try.”
“But we didn’t try,” put in Tom. “This was an accident.”
“Come and see my kitchen!” repeated Mrs. Peterkin firmly and she seemed capable of taking them each by an ear and leading them in.
“You—you’d better go,” advised Mr. Peterkin gently.
So they went, and truly the sight that met their eyes showed them that Mrs. Peterkin had some excuse for being angry. On the stove there had been cooking a large kettle of sauce made from early apples. The window near the stove had been left open and through the casement the ball, thrown with all Joe’s strength, had flown, landing fairly into the middle of the soft sauce.
The result may easily be imagined. It splattered all over the floor, half way up on the side walls, and there were even spots of the sauce on the ceiling. The top of the stove was covered with it, and as the lids were hot they had burned the sugar to charcoal, while the kitchen was filled with smoke and fumes.
“There!” cried Mrs. Peterkin, as she waved her hand at the scene of ruin. “Did you ever see such a kitchen as that? And it was clean scrubbed only this morning! Did you ever see anything like that? Tell me!”
Joe and Tom were both forced to murmur that they had never beheld such a sight before. And they added with equal but unexpressed truth that they hoped they never would again.
“I’m willing to pay for the damage,” said Joe once more, and his hand went toward his pocket. “It was an accident.”
“Maybe it was,” sniffed Mrs. Peterkin. “I won’t say that it wasn’t, but that won’t clean my kitchen.”
Joe caught at these words.
“I’m willing to help you clean up!” he exclaimed eagerly. “I often help at home when my mother is sick. Let me do it, and I’ll pay for the apple sauce I spoiled.”
“I’ll help,” put in Tom eagerly.
“Who is your mother?” asked Mrs. Peterkin, looking at Joe.
“Mrs. Matson,” he replied.
“Oh, you’re the new family that moved into town?” and there was something of a change in the irate lady’s manner.
“Yes, we live in the big yellow house near——”
“It’s right back of our place, Mrs. Peterkin,” put in Tom eagerly.
“Hum! I’ve been intending to call on your mother,” went on Mrs. Peterkin, ignoring Tom.“I always call on all the new arrivals in town, but I’ve been so busy with my housework and Spring cleaning——”
She paused and gazed about the kitchen.That, at least, would need cleaning over again.
“Yes,” she resumed, “I always call and invite them to join our Sewing and Dorcas Societies.”
“My mother belonged to both!” exclaimed Joe eagerly. “That is in Bentville where we lived. I heard her saying she wondered if there was a society here.”
“There is,” answered Mrs. Peterkin majestically, “and I think I shall call soon, and ask her to join. You may tell her I said so,” she added as if it was a great honor.
“I will,” answered Joe. “And now if you’ll tell me where I can get some old cloths I’ll help clean up this muss.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Peterkin slowly. Clearly her manner had undergone a great change. “I suppose boys must have their fun,” she said with something like a sigh. “I know you didn’t mean to do it, but my apple sauce is spoiled.”
“I’ll pay for it,” offered Joe eagerly. He was beginning to see a rift in the trouble clouds.
“No,” said Mrs. Peterkin, “it’s all right. I have plenty more apples.”
“Then let us help clean the place?” asked Tom.
“No, indeed!” she exclaimed, with as near a laugh as she ever indulged. “I don’t want any men folks traipsing around my kitchen. I’ll clean it myself.”
“Well, let us black the stove for you,” offered Tom.
“That’s it, Alvirah,” put in Mr. Peterkin quickly. He rather sided with the boys, and he was glad that the mention of Joe’s mother, and the possibility of Mrs. Peterkin getting a new member for the societies, of both of which she was president, had taken her mind off her desire for revenge. “Let the boys black the stove. You know you always hate that work.”
“Well, I suppose they could dothat,” she admitted somewhat reluctantly. “But don’t splatter it all over, though the land knows this kitchen can’t be worse.”
Behold then, a little later, two of the members of the Silver Star nine industriously cleaning hardened apple sauce off the Peterkin kitchen stove, and blackening it until it shone brightly.
“I’m glad Sam Morton can’t see us,” spoke Tom in a whisper.
“Yes; we’d never hear the last of it,” agreed Joe.
They finished the work and even Mrs. Peterkin, careful housekeeper that she was, admitted that the stove “looked fairly good.”
“And be sure and tell your mother that I’m coming to call on her,” she added, as Joe and Tom were about to leave.
“Yes, ma’am,” answered the centre fielder, and then he paused on the threshold of the kitchen.
“Have you forgotten something?” asked Mrs. Peterkin, who was preparing to give the place a thorough scrubbing.
“We—er—that is——” stammered Joe.
“It’s their baseball, I guess,” put in Mr. Peterkin. “It is in the kettle of apple sass, Alvirah.”
“Oh, yes; so it is,” she agreed, and this time she really laughed. “Well, you may have it,” she added. “I don’t want it.” With a dipper she fished it up from the bottom of the kettle, put it under the water faucet to clean it, and held it out to Joe.
“Thanks,” he said as he took it and hurried off with Tom, before anything more could be said.
“Whew!” exclaimed Tom, when they were out in the lots again. “That was a hot time while it lasted. And we got out of it mighty lucky, thanksto your mother. Mrs. Peterkin is great on the society business, and I guess she thought if she gave it to us too hot your mother wouldn’t call on her. Yes, we were lucky all right. Want to practice some more?”
“Not to-day,” replied Joe with a smile. “I’ve had enough. Besides, this ball is all wet and slippery. Anyhow there’s lots more time, and I guess the next day we do it we’ll go down to the fairgrounds.”
“Yes, there’s more room there, and no kettles of apple sauce,” agreed Tom, with a laugh.
As Tom had an errand to do down town for his father he did not accompany Joe back to their respective homes.
“I’ll see you to-night,” he called to his chum, as they parted, “and we’ll arrange for some more practice. I think it’s doing you good.”
“I know my arm is a bit sore,” complained Joe.
“Then you want to take good care of it,” said Tom quickly. “All the authorities in the book say that a pitching arm is too valuable to let anything get the matter with it. Bathe it with witch hazel to-night.”
“I will. So long.”
As Joe had not many lessons to prepare that night, and as it was still rather early and he didnot want to go home, he decided to take a little walk out in the country for a short distance. As he trudged along he was thinking of many things, but chief of all was his chances for becoming at least a substitute pitcher on the Silver Stars.
“If I could get in the box, and was sure of going to boarding school, I wouldn’t ask anything else in this world,” said Joe to himself. Like all boys he had his ambitions, and he little realized how such ambitions would change as he became older. But they were sufficient for him now.
Before he knew it he had covered several miles, for the day was a fine Spring one, just right for walking, and his thoughts, being subject to quick changes, his feet kept pace with them.
As he made a turn in the road he saw, just ahead of him, an old building that had once, so some of the boys had told him, been used as a spring-house for cooling the butter and milk of the farm to which it belonged. But it had now fallen into disuse, though the spring was there yet.
The main part of it was covered by the shed, but the water ran out into a hollowed-out tree trunk where a cocoanut shell hung as a dipper.
“Guess I’ll have a drink,” mused Joe. “I’m as dry as a fish and that’s fine water.” He had oncetaken some when he and Tom Davis took a country stroll.
As he was sipping the cool beverage he heard inside the old shed the murmur of voices.
“Hum! Tramps I guess,” reasoned Joe to himself. But a moment later he knew it could not be tramps for the words he heard were these:
“And do you think you can get control of the patents?”
“I’m sure of it,” was the answer. “He doesn’t know about the reverting clause in his contract, and he’s working on a big improvement in a corn——”
Then the voice died away, though Joe strained his ears in vain to catch the other words. Somehow he felt vaguely uneasy.
“Where have I heard that first voice before?” he murmured, racking his brains. Then like a flash it came to him. The quick, incisive tones were those of Mr. Rufus Holdney, of Moorville, to whom he had once gone with a letter from Mr. Matson.
“And if you can get the patents,” went on Mr. Holdney, “then it means a large sum of money.”
“For both of us,” came the eager answer, and Joe wondered whom the other man could be.
“You are sure there won’t be any slip-up?” asked Mr. Holdney.
“Positively. But come on. We’ve been here long enough and people might talk if they saw us here together. Yet I wanted to have a talk with you in a quiet place, and this was the best one I could think of. I own this old farm.”
“Very well, then I’ll be getting back to Moorville. Be sure to keep me informed how the thing goes.”
“I will.”
There was a movement inside the shed as if the men were coming out.
“I’d better make myself scarce,” thought Joe.
He had just time to drop down behind a screen of bushes when the two men did emerge. Joe had no need to look to tell who one was, but he was curious in regard to the other. Cautiously he peered up, and his heart almost stopped beating as he recognized Mr. Isaac Benjamin, the manager of the Royal Harvester Works where the boy’s father was employed.
“There’s some crooked work on hand, I’ll bet a cookie!” murmured Joe, as he crouched down again while the two men walked off up the country road.
Joe Matson did not know what to do. He wanted to rush away from where he was concealed, get home as quickly as possible, and tell his father what he had overheard. While Mr. Matson’s name had not been mentioned, knowing, as Joe did, that his parent was engaged on some patents, seeing Mr. Benjamin, manager of the Harvester works, and having heard the conversation between him and Mr. Holdney, the lad was almost certain that some danger threatened his father.
“And yet I can’t get away from here until they’re well out of sight,” reasoned Joe. “If I go now they’ll see or hear me, and they’ll be bound to suspect something. Yet I’d like to warn dad as soon as I can. There’s no telling when they may put up some job against him.”
But Joe could only crouch down there and wait.
At length he could stand it no longer. He reasoned that the men must be far enough away by this time to make it safe for him to emerge.
“They’re on the road to Riverside,” thought Joe, “and I may run into them, but if I see them I can slip into the fields and go around. Mr. Benjamin doesn’t know me, for he’s hardly ever noticed me when I’ve been to the Harvester works to see dad. But Mr. Holdney might remember me. I can’t take any chances.”
Cautiously he emerged from the bushes, and looked as far down the road as he could. There was no one in sight, and he started off. A little distance farther on, the road made a sharp turn and, just at the angle stood an old barn which hid the rest of the highway from sight until one was right at the turn. It was a dangerous place for vehicles, but the owner of the barn had refused to set it back.
No sooner had Joe turned this corner than he came full upon Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Holdney standing just around the barn, apparently in deep conversation. At the sight of Joe they looked up quickly, and Mr. Benjamin exclaimed:
“Ha! Perhaps this lad can tell us. We want to hire a carriage. Do you know any one around here who would let us take one for a short time?”
Joe, who had started back at the unexpected sight of the two men, took courage on hearing this, and realizing that he had not yet been recognized.
“I don’t know any one around here,” he said. “I’m pretty much of a stranger myself, but have you tried at this farmhouse?” and he pointed toward the one where the owner of the barn lived.
“Oh, we don’t want a farm horse!” exclaimed Mr. Holdney. “We want something that has some speed.” Then, as he looked more fully at Joe he exclaimed: “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before, my lad? I’m sure I have!”
He took a step toward our hero, and Joe’s heart gave a flutter. He was almost certain that Mr. Holdney would recognize him and then the next step would be to ask where he had been. The men might at once suspect that he had at least come past the place where they had been talking in secret, and they might even suspect that he had listened to them. Joe was in a predicament.
“I’m sure I’ve met you somewhere before,” went on Mr. Holdney, in his quick, nervous tones. “Do you live around here?”
“Yes,” answered Joe vaguely. “But I don’t know where you could get a fast horse unless it’s in town—in Riverside.”
He was about to pass on, hoping the men would not further bother him, when Mr. Holdney, coming a step nearer, said with great firmness:
“I’m sure I’ve seen you before. What’s your name?”
Like a flash a way out of it came to Joe, and that without telling an untruth.
“I play on the Silver Stars,” he said quickly. “You may have seen me at some of the games,” which was perfectly possible.
“That’s it!” exclaimed Mr. Holdney. “I knew it was somewhere. Now——”
“I’m going into Riverside,” went on Joe quickly. “If you like I’ll stop at the livery stable and tell them to send out a rig for you if you want to wait here for it.”
“The very thing!” exclaimed Mr. Benjamin. “Let him do that, Rufus. Here’s a quarter to pay for your trouble, my lad.”
“No, thank you!” exclaimed Joe with a laugh. “I’m glad to do you a favor.”
“All right,” assented Mr. Benjamin. “If you’ll send out a two-seated carriage and a man to drive it we’ll be obliged to you. Then we can drive over and see Duncan,” he added to Mr. Holdney. “We’ll fix this thing all up now.”
“Yes, and if it’s my father you’re trying to ‘fix,’” mused Joe, “I’ll do my best to put a stop to it. Now, it’s up to me to hurry home,” and telling the men that he would do the errand forthem, the lad hastened off down the road, leaving the two conspirators in earnest conversation.
The livery stable keeper readily agreed to send out the carriage, and then Joe lost no time in hurrying to his house.
“Has father come home yet?” he asked of his mother, for sometimes Mr. Matson came from the harvester works earlier than the regular stopping time.
“No,” answered Mrs. Matson, “why, what is the matter, Joe? Has anything happened?” for she noticed by his face that something out of the usual had occurred.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered slowly. He was revolving in his mind whether or not he ought to tell his mother. Then, as he recollected that his father always consulted her on business matters, he decided that he would relate his experience.
“Mother,” he said, “isn’t father interested in some sort of a patent about corn?”
“About corn? Oh, I know what you mean. Yes, he is working on an improvement to a corn reaper and binder. It is a machine partly owned by the harvester people, but he expects to make considerable money by perfecting the machine. It is very crude now, and doesn’t do good work.”
“And if he does perfect it, and some one getsthe patents away from him, hewon’tmake the money!” exclaimed Joe.
“Joe, what do you mean?” cried his mother in alarm. “I am sure something has happened. What is it?”
“It hasn’t happened yet, but it may any time,” answered the lad, and then he told of what he had overheard, and his ideas of what was pending.
“That’s why I wanted to see father in a hurry, to warn him,” he concluded.
“Joe, I believe you’re right!” exclaimed Mrs. Matson. “Your father ought to be told at once. I don’t know what he can do—if anything—to prevent these men getting ahead of him. Oh, it’s too bad! I know he always suspected Mr. Benjamin of not being strictly honest, but Mr. Holdney used to be his friend and on several occasions has loaned your father money. Oh, this is too bad, but perhaps it isn’t too late. If I were you I’d go down toward the harvester works and you may meet father coming home. Then you can tell him all about it, and he may want to go back and get some of his papers, or parts of the machine, from his office so those men can’t take them.”
“That’s the very thing, mother!” cried Joe. “You ought to have been a man—or a boy and a baseball player! You can think so quickly. Thatreminds me; I had quite an experience to-day. Just say ‘apple sauce’ to me when I get back, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“It can’t be possible!” exclaimed Mr. Matson, when Joe, having met him just outside the harvester works, told him of what he had heard. “It hardly seems possible that they would do such a thing. But I’m glad you told me, Joe.”
“Do you think they meant you, dad? I didn’t hear them mention your name.”
“Of course they meant me!” declared Mr. Matson. “The warning came just in time, too, for only to-day I finished an important part of the machinery and the pattern of it is in my office now. I must go back and get it. Wait here for me.”
As Joe stood at the outer gate of the big harvester plant he heard the sound of a carriage approaching, and turning around he saw Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Holdney coming along in the rig Joe had had sent out to them only a little while before.
“I thought better to drive back here first, and go see Duncan later,” Mr. Benjamin was saying, and then both men caught sight of our hero.