“Well, when are you fellows going to start?” asked Tony Johnson, captain of the Academy nine, as he ceased his catching practice with Ed. Wilson, the pitcher. “The game ought to have been called ten minutes ago.”
“Our pitcher isn’t here,” said Darrell anxiously. “We’re expecting him every minute. If you could wait a little longer——”
“Haven’t you any one else you can put in?” asked Ferd Backus, the manager. “I saw some one practicing a while ago.”
“He isn’t our regular pitcher,” said George Rankin, “but if Sam doesn’t come we’ll have to lead off with him.”
Joe had been aware that Sam was not on hand. He looked up as car after car passed the grounds, thinking to see Sam enter, for the electric vehicles from Riverside ran close to the Academy diamond.
“I suppose they’ll put Parnell in at the start,”Joe mused, naming the second baseman who sometimes acted as pitcher for the Stars. Joe did not dare hope that he himself would be chosen.
“Well, how much longer?” demanded Johnson, when two more cars had passed and Sam was on neither of them. “We want to finish this game before dark.”
“All right,” assented Darrell briskly. “Get your men ready, Rankin.”
“But who will pitch?”
“Joe Matson, of course. It’s the only thing we can do. Take the field, fellows. Joe, take your place in the box!”
“Who—me?” gasped our hero, unable to believe the words.
“Yes, you,” and Darrell smiled. “Do your prettiest now. You’re going in at the beginning instead of at the end. It’s different from what I planned, but I guess I can depend on you. Hold ’em down!”
“I will!” cried Joe fiercely and he forgot his injured arm.
“Play ball!” ordered the umpire and Joe took his place as pitcher for the Silver Stars for the first time. No wonder his heart beat faster than usual. The Stars were to bat last, Rankin having won the toss. It must be remembered that theseboys were amateur players and did not always follow league rules of having the home team up last.
The usual number of practice balls were allowed between Joe and the catcher at the plate and Bart noted with satisfaction that Joe was cool and steady and that he did not try for speed.
Then the first man for the Academy—their best hitter—faced our hero. Bart gave the signal for a slow straight ball over the plate at an angle. It was the beginning of a cross-fire which he and Joe had quickly agreed upon, and, as is well known, the ability of a pitcher to deliver a good cross-fire wins many games. Cross-firing is merely sending the ball first over one side of the plate then the other and then right over centre. Joe had done it in practice. Could he do it in the game?
“Strike one!” called the umpire, when the first ball found lodgment in Bart’s big glove. There was a little gasp of protest from the Academy crowd, but they said nothing. Their man had not struck at the ball, but it had been in the right place and Joe knew he had a fair umpire with whom to deal.
His next delivery was a ball, but the third was a strike though the man had not moved his bat.
“Hit it—hit it!” pleaded his friends.
The batter swung fiercely at the next ball and knocked a little pop fly which Bart gathered in and one man was down.
“Do it again!” called Darrell to his pitcher, and Joe smiled. His arm pained him a little, but he gritted his teeth and delivered the next man a strike, for the batter missed it cleanly. He was not so lucky in his following trial, for the batter got to first mainly because of an error in the play of Fred Newton, at short, who fumbled the pick-up and delayed in getting the ball to Darrell.
Joe succeeded in striking out the third man up, though the one who had gone to first managed to steal second. There were now two out and a man on the middle bag when Joe faced his fourth opponent. He tried for a slow out but something went wrong and the man hit for two sacks, bringing in the run. But that was all, for the next batter fell for some slow, easy balls and fanned the air.
The Academys had one run and it looked a trifle disheartening to the Silver Stars until they came up and found that the pitcher opposed to them was very weak. They hammered him pretty badly in the last half of the first, and three runs were credited to them ere they had to take the field again.
“Not so bad; eh?” asked Rankin of Darrell.
“Fine, if Joe can only keep it up. How’s your arm?” he asked him.
“Fine!” exclaimed our hero, but in truth it pained him considerably in spite of the treatment Tom Davis gave it.
The Academy team didn’t get a run in the second inning though Joe was found for some short, scattering hits. A man got to second and one to third, mainly through errors in the outfield force, one bad one being furnished by Tom, who was at centre in Joe’s place.
“But we’ll forgive you for getting Joe’s arm in shape,” said the manager with a smile.
In their half of the second the Stars got two runs, and succeeded in forcing another goose egg on their opponents in the home team’s half of the third. Joe did not do so well this time, for he was beginning to tire and only a brace on the part of his supporting players saved him from having a number of runs come in on his errors.
One run for the Stars marked their efforts in the third and when the fourth inning began it looked as if it was a foregone conclusion that the visiting team would go home with the scalp of their enemy. But Joe could not keep up the pacehe had set for himself. No young and inexperienced pitcher could, much less one with a sore arm.
The muscles ached very much in spite of all Tom could do with rubbing in the liniment, but Joe gritted his teeth and keep his place in the pitcher’s box. He knew he dared not give in. Only two runs were earned, however, though he was pretty badly pounded, and this only made the score three to six in favor of the Stars, when their half of the fourth came. But they were unable to better it for the Academy lads took a brace after an earnest appeal by their captain and manager.
“Make ’em take a goose egg!” yelled the student lads to their friends, and the Stars were forced to be content with this.
In the fifth inning neither side scored, Joe holding his own well, and only allowing one hit, which amounted to nothing. And in the sixth when, with only three scattered hits, not a run was chalked up for the home team, Darrell ran over to Joe and cried:
“Fine, old man! Can you keep it up?”
“I—I’m going to!” burst out Joe, though he had to grit his teeth to keep back an expression of pain when he moved his pitching arm.
Whether the Stars were determined to show their opponents what they could do when they tried or whether it was because they wanted to show their confidence in Joe, or even whether it was due to a slump in the playing of the Academy team, was not made manifest, but at any rate in their half of the sixth inning our friends gathered in four runs, making the score ten to three in their favor.
“Oh, it’s a walk-over,” boasted Tom Davis as he did an impromptu war dance.
“Yes, we’ve got ’em beat a mile,” added Seth Potter.
“Don’t be too sure,” commented the Academy captain. “No game is won until it’s over and we’ve got three more innings yet. The seventh is always our lucky number.”
“You’re welcome to all you can get,” rejoined Captain Rankin with a laugh. “Seven is where we always eat pie, too.”
The Stars were about to take the field for thebeginning of the seventh when there was a commotion over at one entrance gate. A lad came running through the crowd.
“Hold on!” he cried. “Wait! I’m going to play. Let me pitch!”
“Sam Morton!” burst out Tom Davis. “Why couldn’t he stay away until we had the game won? I’ll bet we slump as soon as he goes in the box.”
Sam came on running. He was panting and out of breath.
“What’s the matter? Where were you?” demanded Darrell.
“I got on—the wrong car. I thought it—came here. They—took me off—in the woods—somewhere. I’ve had an awful time—getting here. Is the game—over?”
“No, we’re just starting the seventh.”
“Can’t I pitch?”
Darrell hesitated. It was a perfectly natural request for Sam and yet Joe had been doing so well that both the manager and the captain disliked to take him off the mound.
“Can’t I pitch?” again demanded Sam. “You don’t mean to tell me that Joe Matson has——”
“Joe hasn’t done anything but what we wanted him to,” put in Rankin quickly, “and he’s made a good record.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” sneered Sam. “Well, if you don’t want me to——”
“Of course you can pitch,” said Darrell quietly. It was unquestioningly Sam’s right and though he was in rather an exhausted condition still the manager and captain knew that he was at his best early in his game.
“What are you going to do; change pitchers?” demanded the manager of the Academy team, striding up to Darrell and Captain Rankin.
“Yes.”
“You can’t do it now.”
“Why not?”
“It’s against the rules. You’ve got to have some one bat for him first. You can’t change until next inning.”
There was quite a mix-up, and rules were quoted and mis-quoted back and forth, for, as I have said, the lads were far from being professional or even college players. The upshot of it was that Sam was allowed to go in, whether or not in accordance with the rules the boys did not decide, and the little feeling that had been raised soon subsided, for they were all true sportsmen.
As for Joe, at first he felt humiliated that he was displaced but he realized that he had had more honor that he had at first expected, and hisarm was beginning to pain him very much. So, on the whole, he was glad Sam had arrived when he did.
Not so the captain, manager and other Star players, however, for Sam allowed two runs while he occupied the box, and the Academy team and their friends were jubilant.
The Stars managed to get two runs in their half of the seventh. Joe did not play, his place at centre field continuing to be filled by Tom. Joe was glad of the rest and he watched the efforts of his rival closely.
In the eighth Sam did not seem able to pull himself together and three runs were due to his poor pitching.
“Say, if we play innings enough we’ll beat ’em even with their new pitcher!” called some one in the crowd, anxious to get Sam’s “goat,” or nerve.
And this seemed likely. In their half of the eighth the Stars only got one run, and when the ninth inning opened there were some anxious hearts among the members of the visiting team.
And then came a terrible slump. Sam grew wild, allowed bases on balls, struck one man and muffed an easy fly. When the route and riot were over there were five runs to the credit of the schoolboy players and they had tied the score,pulling up from a long way in the rear. The crowd went wild for them.
“Fellows, we’ve got to make our half of this inning count,” said Darrell earnestly. “They’re making fools of us and they’re not in our class at all. We’ve got to beat them! Sam, wake up!” he said sharply.
“I’m not asleep!” retorted the pitcher. “If you think I am why don’t you send that Matson in again?”
“Easy now, easy,” spoke Rankin. “You can pitch if you pull yourself together, and if we can’t make a run this inning and it goes to the tenth you’ll have to unwind some curves.”
“I will, but it won’t go to the tenth.”
It didn’t, for the Stars took a brace and pulled off one run, winning the game by a score of fourteen to thirteen. But it had been a close call.
“Well, you beat us,” acknowledged the Academy manager as the winning run came in. “But it took two pitchers to do it, and you’d have done better if you’d stuck to the first one.”
“Perhaps,” admitted Darrell. “You played better than I gave you credit for.”
“Why don’t you use that first pitcher regularly?” the home captain wanted to know.
“Oh, maybe——” began Darrell, and then hesaw Sam standing close beside him, and he did not finish.
“What were you going to say?” demanded Sam roughly.
“Nothing,” answered the manager in some confusion. He was saved a further reply by the approach of a boy who held a note in his hand.
“Is Joe Matson here?” the lad asked.
“Right over there,” said Darrell, pointing to where the young pitcher was talking to Tom Davis.
“I’ve got a letter for him,” the messenger went on.
Joe rapidly tore open the envelope and read the few words the note contained.
“I’ve got to leave here,” he said to Tom.
“Why? What’s the matter? Nothing wrong I hope.”
“I don’t know,” answered Joe. “The note says I’m to come home at once. They’ve sent a carriage for me. I hope nothing has happened to—to anybody,” and gulping down a suspicious lump in his throat Joe followed the lad off the diamond.
There was a carriage waiting just outside the ball grounds, a carriage drawn by one horse. A man whom Joe had never seen before, so far as he knew, held the reins.
“There’s the man who wants you,” explained the lad who had acted as messenger.
“Who is he?” asked the young pitcher quickly. “I don’t know him. Where did he come from? Where did you meet him?”
“I guess he’ll tell you all you want to know,” said the lad. “All I know is that I was standing outside the ball grounds after the game, and he give me that note to bring in to you. I didn’t come with him.”
“Oh, I see,” replied Joe, but he was wondering who the man was, and how the fellow came to know that he was in Fayetteville.
“Hope I didn’t take you away from the game,” began the man with what he evidently meant for a pleasant smile. Yet, somehow Joe did not likethat smile. The man seemed to have a shifty glance and Joe mistrusted him.
“Oh, the game is over,” answered the young pitcher. “I didn’t play in the last part. But what is the matter? Is my mother or father ill?”
“It’s nothing serious,” spoke the man. “No one is ill. I came to get you about your father’s patents.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Joe. He felt a sensation of relief until he realized the danger that threatened his father’s inventions. Then he asked: “What’s wrong? Is Mr.——” Then he stopped for he did not know whether or not to mention names to this stranger.
“I can’t give you any particulars,” said the man with another smile. “All I can say is that they engaged me to come and get you to save time.”
“Who engaged you?” asked Joe.
“Your father,” replied the man. “He sent me off in a hurry and said I’d find you at this game. I sent you in the note by the lad. Your father had no time to write one, but you are to go to him at once. He wants you to help him about the patent models I think. We’d better hurry.”
Joe’s suspicions vanished at once. He knew his father was preparing to send on some models to Washington and now probably some need of hastehad arisen necessitating his aid. He climbed up into the carriage, and though he noted at the time that the rig did not seem to be from the local livery stable, which had only a few, he thought nothing of it then.
The man flicked the horse with the whip and the animal started off on the jump. Just outside the ball grounds there was a private road leading into the main one. On reaching the chief thoroughfare the man turned north whereas, to reach Riverside, he should have gone south.
“Hold on!” cried Joe, “you’re going the wrong way.”
“Be easy. It’s all right,” answered the man with a smile. “Your father has taken all his things to a little shop in Denville. He had to have some changes made in the models I believe, and he wanted to be in a machine shop where he could work quietly. He told me to bring you there.”
Joe remembered that on one or two occasions Mr. Matson had had some work done in Denville, and once more the suspicions that had arisen were lulled. Joe sank back on the cushions and began thinking of the game just played. His arm was getting quite stiff.
“I’ll have to attend to it as soon as I get home,” he mused. “It won’t do to have it goback on me just when things are in such good shape. If they keep on I may become the regular pitcher. Sam certainly did poorly in his part of the game, and I’m not getting a swelled head, either, when I say that.” Joe knew he had done good work, considering his sore arm, and he made up his mind to do still better.
The man drove along rapidly, and in about an hour had reached the outskirts of Denville. He turned down a road that was evidently little used, to judge by the grass growing in it, and halted the horse in front of a small building. It did not look like a place where inventors’ models would be made. In fact the shack had a forlorn and forsaken air about it, and Joe looked curiously at it. His suspicions were coming back.
“Where is my father?” he demanded. “I don’t see him.”
“It’s all right now—it’s all right,” said the man quickly. “Hello in there!” he called.
The next instant Joe saw a face at the window. Then it disappeared, but that momentary glance had showed him it was the face of Mr. Isaac Benjamin. In a second it was all clear to him. He had been trapped. He attempted to spring from the carriage seat.
“I’m on to your game!” he exclaimed to the man.
“Oh, are you? Well, you’re not going to get away!” and with that the man grabbed Joe around the waist, pinning his arms to his sides. Then from the little building came running Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Holdney.
“Did you get him all right?” asked the manager of the harvester works eagerly.
“I certainly did,” panted the other man, for Joe was struggling to get loose. “Didn’t give me any trouble either, until just now.”
“Well, I’ll make lots of trouble for you, if you don’t let me go!” cried Joe.
“Now, young man, take it easy,” advised Mr. Benjamin. “We don’t intend to do you a bit of harm, and we only brought you to this place to have a quiet talk with you. It’s in your father’s interest and I hope you’ll overlook the unconventional way we took to get you here. Bring him in,” he added to the man in the carriage and, despite Joe’s struggles he was lifted out and carried into the little building. The door was shut and locked, and he was alone with his three captors.
“What do you want of me?” hotly demanded the lad.
“Now don’t get excited and we’ll tell you,” said Mr. Benjamin. “It’s about your father’s patents.”
“Yes,” broke in Mr. Holdney, “we want to know where they are. He had no right to take the papers and models away from the harvester works. Those inventions are the property of the company and aren’t your father’s at all. We want——”
“Better let me talk to him,” advised Mr. Benjamin. “Now Joe, you can’t understand all the ins and outs of this business, for it’s very complicated. You know that your father is working on certain patents about a corn reaper and binder; don’t you?”
“Yes,” admitted Joe cautiously, “but I’m not going to tell you anything about it.”
“Perhaps you will after you hear all I have to say,” went on Mr. Benjamin. “Now, it’s like this: Your father is unduly alarmed about the safety of his rights in the patents, and I will admit that he has some rights. For some reason he saw fit to take his models and papers away from the shop at the harvester works where he was engaged on them.”
Joe smiled—well he knew why his father had removed the valuable models and papers.
“What we want,” said Mr. Benjamin, “is to get access to those models. We want to see them for a short time, and also look over the papers. Now you can fix that for us if you will.”
“Why don’tyouask my father?” inquired Joe.
“We have, but——” began Mr. Holdney.
“He won’t listen to reason,” put in Mr. Benjamin. “He thinks we would deprive him of his rights.” Joe thought so too, but he said nothing. “Now if you can quietly get those models and papers and let us have a look at them they will be returned to you without fail,” said the manager. “Your father’s rights will be fully protected. It may seem strange to you for us to make this proposition in this way, and bring you here as we have done, but it was necessary.”
“Suppose I refuse?” asked Joe.
“Then we’ll——” began Mr. Holdney, in blustering tones.
“Now, now, easy,” cautioned Mr. Benjamin. “The consequences may be disastrous for your father,” he said quietly. “I am doing this for his own good. He will not hear of showing the models, but if you can get them for us it will save much trouble and annoyance for—well, for all of us. If you don’t, your father may lose all he possesses and be without a position. I know what inventorsare. They can only see one thing at a time. It is a simple thing that we ask of you. Will you do it? Now, you needn’t answer at once. Take a little time to think it over. Go in that room there and wait. We’ll give you half an hour. If by that time you don’t decide to help us we’ll——”
“We’llmakeyou!” exclaimed Mr. Holdney. “I’ve got too much money tied up in this to see it lost by the obstinacy of a boy.”
“Well, if you refuse, we will have to take other measures,” said Mr. Benjamin, with a shrug of his shoulders.
Joe’s heart was beating fast. He did not know what to do. Being practically kidnapped after he had worked so hard in the game, his fears for his father aroused, it is no wonder that he could not think clearly. He welcomed the chance to go off quietly by himself, but never for a moment did he think of betraying his father. Only for an instant did he place any confidence in what the wily manager had said. Then he knew there must be a trick in it all.
“But if I let them trap me it’s my own fault,” thought Joe. “I’ve got to think up some way of escape.”
“Well?” asked the manager as Joe hesitated.
“I—I’ll think it over,” answered the young pitcher.
“All right. You can go in that room,” and Mr. Benjamin opened the door of an apartment leading out of the main one.
Joe cast a quick glance about it as the door closed behind him. He noted that it was not locked, but that with three men in the outer room the boy knew he could not escape that way.
“And I’m going to escape if I can,” he told himself. “I don’t need any more time to think over what I’m going to do. They shan’t have a glance at dad’s models and papers.”
A rapid survey of the room showed him that it had but one window and that was heavily barred. He raised the sash softly and tried the bars. They were rusty but held firmly in the wood.
“No use trying that way,” murmured Joe. He heard the hum of voices in the outer room and listened at the keyhole.
“Don’t you think he can get away?” he heard the man who had brought him to the place ask the others.
“I don’t believe he’ll try,” was the answer from Mr. Benjamin. “After all, we couldn’t hope to keep him a prisoner long. There would be too much hue and cry over it. All I expect is thathe’ll be so worried and frightened that he’ll tell us what we want to know.”
“Oh, you’ve got another think coming,” whispered Joe.
He walked back to the window once more and, as he crossed the room he saw what looked like a trap door in the floor. Kneeling down he applied his nose to the crack. There came up the damp, musty smell of a cellar.
“That’s it!” cried Joe. “If I can get that door up I can drop into the cellar even if there aren’t any stairs, and I guess I can get out of the cellar. But can I get that door up?”
There was no ring to lift it by, and no handle, but Joe was a resourceful lad and in an instant his knife was out. With the big blade inserted in the crack he managed to raised the door a trifle. He endeavored to hold the advantage he had gained until he could take out the knife blade and insert it again farther down, but the door slipped through his fingers.
“I’ve got to get some way of holding it up after each time I pry,” he thought. A hurried search through his pockets brought to light part of a broken toe plate. He had had a new one put on for the Academy game, and had thrust the broken piece in the pocket of his trousers.
“This ought to do it,” he reasoned, and it did, for with the aid of that Joe was able to hold up and raise the trap door. The damp, musty smell was stronger now, and Joe was glad to see, in the dim darkness of the cellar, a flight of steps. “They’re pretty rotten, but I guess they’ll hold me,” he murmured.
The next instant he was going down them, and he let the trap door fall softly into place over his head. It was so dark in the cellar now that he could see nothing, but when his eyes became accustomed to the blackness he saw the dim light of an outer window.
It was the work of but a moment to scramble through it, and a few seconds later Joe was running away from the place of his brief captivity.
“I guess I won’t give you an answer to-day,” he murmured as he looked back.
He heard a shout and saw Mr. Benjamin rush out. Then our hero caught sight of the horse and carriage and like a flash he made for it. Jumping in he called to the animal and was soon galloping down the road while the shouts behind him became fainter and fainter.
“This is the time I fooled you!” cried Joe exultantly, as he urged on the horse.
“Those desperate men! You must have them arrested at once!” exclaimed Mrs. Matson when Joe, a little later, had reached home, having left the horse and carriage at the local livery stable to be claimed. “You ought to go to the police at once, John! Why think of what might have happened to Joe,” for the boy had told the whole story.
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” said Joe who, now that the excitement was over, and he had so completely turned the tables on the plotters, was rather inclined to laugh at the experience.
“There are worse things than that done to get possession of valuable patents,” said Mr. Matson. “Those men are evidently desperate, though why Mr. Holdney should turn against me I cannot understand. But I would rather wait, and take no action right away. My work is almost finished and if all goes well I shall soon be independent of the harvester people. If, however, there is a slip-upI will be dependent on my position for a living. I think I will wait and see what develops.”
But in the morning there was a new turn to affairs. It was announced at the harvester factory that Mr. Benjamin had gone away for an indefinite stay, and a new manager had his place. This made it unnecessary for Mr. Matson to say anything. He wrote a strong letter of protest to Mr. Holdney, and then worked harder than ever to get his patents in shape so he would be fully protected in them.
As for Joe he said nothing to any of his chums about his experience. The rig was claimed later by a man who would not give his name, and who drove off hurriedly, as if he feared arrest.
“And now I’m going to get back to baseball,” announced the young pitcher.
His arm got better rapidly after the Academy game, and he was soon pitching in practice with his former vim and vigor. He was now regarded as the regular substitute twirler for the Silver Stars.
Sam Morton, too, was regular in his practice, and there seemed to be something different about him. He was more careful in his conduct, and not as surly as he had been. He accepted criticism in a better spirit, and in one game against the scrubhe did such unusually excellent work that the manager complimented him.
“Just keep that up on Saturday,” said Darrell, “and we won’t let the Fairdale Blues have a run.”
“Oh, I’ll be there with the goods all right,” boasted Sam. He glanced at Joe as he said this as much as to intimate that his rival would not get a chance in the box.
The Fairdale Blues were a strong team, and, as they had beaten the Stars several times, and had also won from the Resolutes, who were considered the strongest team in the county, more than the usual interest attached to the coming contest.
It was to be played on the Stars’ grounds, and early on the day of the game the grandstand and bleachers began to fill. The Blues arrived in several big carryalls with a noisy crowd of “rooters” carrying horns, bells and clappers—anything with which to make a racket.
“They’ll get Sam’s goat if he isn’t careful,” observed Rodney Burke, when the Stars went out to practice.
“Don’t you fool yourself,” retorted Sam. “I’m going to pitch a no-hit no-run game to-day.”
“That’s like Sam—boasting as usual,” commented Rodney.
“Well, I think he’ll make good,” said an admirer of the pitcher.
“Wait until you see what kind of hitters the Blues have,” cautioned Rodney. “They may knock Sam out of the box. Then if Joe goes in——”
“Aw, Joe won’t get a chance to-day,” was the retort. “He hasn’t had enough practice.”
“Look what he did to the Academy team,” reminded Rodney.
And then further talk was stopped, for the gong rang to clear the diamond. The game was about to begin.
The Stars took the field, for they were to bat last, and Sam faced his first opponent with a smile of confidence on his face. It faded away a moment later, however, as the lad knocked as pretty a three bagger as had been seen on the grounds in many a day.
“That’s the stuff!”
“Line ’em out!”
“Oh, we’re on to his curves all right!” yelled the crowd. Joe, who was on the bench as a reserve pitcher, jumped to his feet and watched the ball roll past Tom who was playing centre. It looked almost as if the batter would come onhome, but he held third and the fears of the Stars subsided.
“Fool him now, Sam,” called Darrell to the pitcher.
“Make him give you a nice one,” was the advice the next batter got from his friends. And he did, though it was only good for one bag. However, the run came in, and there were gloomy hearts in the camp of the Silver Stars.
Sam managed to strike out the next man, and his confidence came back. But it was only for a short time. The crowd of Blue “rooters” was making a terrific racket and this may have gotten on Sam’s nerves, at any rate he gave the next man his base on balls and was later hit for two two baggers.
“Oh, we’ve got his goat! We’ve got ’em going! Everybody take a run!” yelled the visiting captain, jumping up and down at the third base coaching line.
Darrell ran over to Sam.
“You’ve got to pull yourself together,” he said quickly. “We can’t afford to lose this game.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” retorted Sam. “The ball slips.”
“Don’t let it slip—slips are dangerous,” saidthe manager sharply. “You’ve got to do better or——”
“Play ball!” yelled the umpire and Darrell ran back to his place at first base. Sam scowled at him, and then wound up for his next delivery.
Somehow they managed to get three out, but there were five runs in the Blue frame when that inning ended, and only two for the Stars.
“We can’t stand this,” said Rankin to the manager.
“No, if Sam doesn’t improve this inning I’m going to put in Joe.”
“Sam will raise a row.”
“I don’t care if he does. Why doesn’t he pitch decent ball if he wants to hold his place? They’re laughing at the Stars now, and they didn’t used to.”
“I know it. Well, maybe he’ll improve.”
But Sam didn’t. He could not seem to control the ball, his curves broke just about where the batters wanted them and they knocked out three runs that inning.
“Matson bats for Morton!” announced the umpire when it came the turn of the Stars and the change had been mentioned to the score keepers by Darrell.
“What does that mean?” cried Sam, striding to where the captain and manager sat.
“It means that Joe is going to pitch the rest of this game,” was the quiet answer.
“He is?” Sam’s voice rose high in anger.
“He certainly is. You can’t seem to do it, Sam. I’m sorry, but we can’t afford to lose. We’re near the tail end of the league now.”
Sam shot a look at the captain. Rankin nodded his head to confirm what the manager had said. Then the deposed pitcher strode over to where the score keepers sat. Taking up a piece of paper and a pencil he rapidly wrote something and handed it to Darrell.
“What’s this?” asked the manager.
“My resignation from the Silver Star Baseball Club,” snapped Sam. “I’m done pitching for you. It was all a put-up job to get me out, and that Matson lad in. I’m through,” and he turned aside.
“Very well,” assented Darrell quietly. “If you feel that way about it perhaps it is better that you quit. But I’m sorry.”
“Play ball!” yelled the umpire.
“Joe, bat for Sam and then take the box,” said the manager, and there was a little subdued applause from the other Star players on the bench. It was their way of congratulating Joe.
Joe was plainly nervous. Being called on so suddenly had its effect as did the unexpected action of Sam in resigning because Joe had supplanted him. But the young pitcher knew that he must pull himself together.
The game was slipping away from the Stars and the crowd of shouters that accompanied the Blues would redouble their efforts to get Joe’s “goat” as soon as he got in the box.
He had a foretaste of what they would do when he got up to bat in Sam’s place and struck out. It was no discredit to Joe, for the Blues had a fine pitcher, still it added to his nervousness.
“If that’s a sample of what your new pitcher can do we’ll take a few more runs!” yelled a Blue sympathizer.
“Oh, he only did that for fun!” yelled Rodney.
“Yes,” added Tom Davis. “He’s saving his arm to strike you fellows out. Go to it, Joe! Don’t let ’em rattle you.”
The Stars took a brace, whether it was the knowledge that Joe was to pitch or not, but they certainly braced, and in that inning got enough runs to make the score six to eight in favor of the visiting team.
“Now, Joe, hold ’em down!” pleaded Darrell, “and we can do the rest, I think.”
“I’ll try,” answered our hero.
It would be too much to expect Joe to do wonders, but he did very well. He only allowed two hits in the inning when he first pitched and only one run came in, chiefly through an error on the part of the third baseman.
“I guess we’ve got their number now,” exulted Darrell, when it came the turn of the Stars to bat. “Keep up the good work, boys. We’ve got ’em going.”
The Stars managed to knock out two runs in their half of the third inning and that made the score eight to nine—one extra tally only against them.
And then began what was really a remarkable game for one played between amateur nines. For the next four innings neither side got a run. Talk of a “pitchers’ battle” began to be whispered, and for the credit of the visitors be it said that they no longer tried to get Joe’s “goat.”
Both pitchers were on their mettle. Of course they were not perfect and probably some deliveries that the umpire called strikes were balls, just as some that he designated as balls were good strikes. But it was all in the game.Joe was doing good work.There were only a few scattered hits off him and these were easily taken care of by the in or out fielders. In this the Blues rather excelled, however, there being more errors charged up against the home team than to them.
But the Stars had this in their favor; that, while there were a number of good stick men among the visitors, they were not speedy base-runners and thus a number of men were nabbed on the sacks, through playing off too far, or not connecting in time, who otherwise might have brought in runs.
“Oh, fellows, we’ve got to do something!” cried the captain at the close of the usual lucky seventh, when no runs had been registered for either side. “Can’t some of you pull off a run?”
But it was the Blue team who scored first, getting one run on a ball hit by the first man up. It was manifestly a foul, but the umpire called it fair and the man held his base. Then Joe’s arm gave him a twinge and he was hit for a three bagger bythe next man up, scoring the player preceding him. But that was all.
With grimly tightened lips Joe faced his next opponent and after that not a man got to first, and the player on third dared not steal home, so keenly was he watched.
With the score eight to ten against them the Stars came in more confidently than might have been expected. And when they had hammered out two runs, tieing the score, there was wild enthusiasm.
“Here’s where we walk away from them!” yelled Rodney, as the second run came in, and with only one man out. But there came a slump and the opposing pitcher braced up, striking out two men in succession.
The ninth inning saw a single run tallied up for the visitors, and in this connection Joe did some great work, pulling down a fly that was well over his head and receiving a round of applause for his pluck, for it was a “hot” one.
The unexpected happened in the ending of the ninth, when the visitors were one ahead. Seth Potter, never reckoned as a heavy hitter brought in a home run, and the score was once more a tie for no one else crossed home plate.
“Ten innings!” was the cry and the spectatorsbegan “sitting up and taking notice” as Rodney Burke said.
“Now, Joe, it’s up to you to shut them out,” advised the captain. The young pitcher nodded and then he cut loose.
His arm was paining him very much for by a sudden twist he had wrenched the muscles injured in saving the lad from the trolley car. But Joe would not give up, and he struck out three men neatly, only one, the second up, getting any kind of a hit, and that only good for the initial bag.
“A goose egg!” yelled Rodney Burke. “Now one run will do the trick!”
“Snow ’em under!” cried Darrell.
And the Stars did, for they rapped out the necessary run amid a jubilant riot of cheers, making the final score twelve to eleven.
“Oh, I knew you could do it! I knew you could!” cried the captain, trying to embrace all his lads at once. They had won handily though at one time it looked like defeat.
“Good work, Joe,” complimented Darrell. “You’re the regular pitcher from now on.”
“But if Sam reconsiders his resignation?”
“He can’t,” rejoined the manager. “He’s out for good.”
Joe could hardly wait to get home and tell thegood news. He fairly raced into the house, but he stopped short at the sight of his father and mother in the dining room. They were seated at the table and a look of anxiety was on their faces.
“What’s the matter?” gasped Joe, all his joy in the victory and his new position leaving him as he looked at his parents. On the table between them lay a number of papers.
“I’ve been served with a summons from the court,” said Mr. Matson slowly. “It’s a move on the part of Benjamin and Holdney. The court has taken my patent models and documents away from me, and I may lose everything. It’s hard, just as I was about to succeed—very hard.”
“And you may lose everything, dad?” asked Joe huskily.
“Yes—everything son—I may have to start all over again. I’m out of the harvester works now.”
For a moment one disappointing thought came to Joe. He would not be able to go to a boarding school as he had hoped. Then the look of trouble on his father’s face drove all other thoughts from his mind.
“Don’t you care, dad!” he exclaimed stepping close to him. “You can beat those fellows yet. We whipped the Blues to-day, and I’m the regular pitcher for the Stars!”
There was a moment of silence following Joe’s remark about being made regular pitcher. Then Clara laughed and it was almost a laugh of relief, for she had been under quite a strain since she came in and heard the bad news.
“Oh, you silly boy!” cried Clara. “Just as if your being made pitcher was going to help. I suppose you’ll turn all your salary in to help out now; won’t you?” but there was no sting intended in her words and, fearing there might have been just the touch of it, she crossed the room and tried to slip her arm up around Joe’s neck.
“No, you don’t!” he cried as gaily as possible under the circumstances, “fen on kissing. But say, dad, is it as bad as all that? Have Benjamin and his crowd beaten you?”
“I’m afraid so, son. At least they’ve won the first skirmish in the battle. Now it’s up to the courts, and it may take a year or more to settle the question of whether or not I have any rights in the inventions I originated. But don’t let thatworry you,” he went on more cheerfully. “We’ll make out somehow. I’m glad you got the place you wanted. How was the game?”
“Pretty good. It was so tight we had to play ten innings. But can’t I do something to help you, dad?”
“We can’t do anything right away,” rejoined Mr. Matson. “We can only wait. I shall have to see a lawyer, and have him look after my interests. I never thought that Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Holdney would treat me this way.
“But don’t worry. Perhaps we shall come out all right, and in the end this may be a good thing. It will teach me a lesson never again to trust any one where patents are concerned. I should have had a written contract and not taken their mere word that they would treat me right.”
“And you are out of the harvester works?” asked Joe.
“Out completely,” and Mr. Matson smiled. “I have a holiday, Joe, and I’m coming to see you pitch some day.”
“But—but,” ventured Clara, “if you haven’t any work, dad, you won’t get any money and——”
“Oh, so that’s what is worrying you!” cried her father with a laugh as he placed his arm around her. “Well, have no fears. There arestill a few shots in the locker, and we’re not going to the poorhouse right away. Now, Joe, tell us all about the ball game.”
Which the young pitcher did with great enthusiasm.
“But won’t this Sam Morton be angry with you?” asked Mrs. Matson, who was a gentle woman, always in fear of violence.
“Oh, I don’t suppose he’ll be veryfriendlytoward me,” replied Joe.
“Then he may do you some injury.”
“Well, I guess I can take care of myself. I’m not afraid of him, mother, and if it comes to a fight——”
“Oh, you horrid boys—always thinking about fighting!” interrupted Clara. “Don’t you fight, Joe!”
“I won’t if I can help it, sis.”
Next morning, Joe was in two states of mind. He was delighted at being the regular pitcher for the Stars, but he was downcast when he thought that to go to the boarding school was now out of the question. And that it would be impossible for him to think of it under the present financial state of the family was made plain to him when he spoke of the matter to his mother.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” she said, “but you’ll have to give up the idea.”
“All right,” he answered, as cheerfully as he could, but he went out of the house quickly for there was a suspicious moisture in his eyes, and a lump in his throat that would not seem to go down, no matter how hard he swallowed.
“Oh, I’m a chump!” he finally exclaimed. “I shouldn’t want to go to an expensive boarding school when dad is in such trouble. And yet—and yet—Oh! Idowant to get on a big team and pitch!”
In the days that followed Joe saw little of his father, for Mr. Matson was out of town trying to get matters in shape for the court proceedings. But Joe was kept busy at practice with the Stars, and in playing games.
The season was in full swing and the Silver Stars seemed to have struck a streak of winning luck. Some said it was Joe’s pitching, for really he was doing very well. Others laid it just to luck and talked darkly of a “slump.”
“There won’t be any slump if you fellows keep your eyes open, and hit and run,” said the manager.
The county league season was drawing to a close, and as it stood now the championship practicallylay between the Stars and their old enemies the Resolutes. There was some talk of playing off a tie, if it should come to that, but when Darrell mentioned this to the Resolute manager he was told that the latter team had all dates filled to the end of the season.
“We can’t give you a game,” he announced.
“It’s too bad,” said Darrell, “for we ought to decide which is the best team.”
“Oh, ours is, of course. Didn’t we wallop you once?”
“Well, you can’t do it again,” was the quick retort.
It was several days after this when Joe was coming home from afternoon practice in preparation for a game Saturday with the Red Stockings. As he took a short cut over the fields to get home more quickly, he was aware of a figure coming toward him. When too late to turn back he saw it was Sam Morton. Sam saw Joe and came to a halt.
“Well,” asked Sam with a sneer, “how is the high-and-mighty pitcher? I suppose you’ve been doing nothing else but handing out no-hit and no-run games?”
“Not quite as good as that,” admitted Joe with what he meant for a friendly smile.
“Who you laughing at?” demanded Sam fiercely.
“I wasn’t laughing,” replied Joe.
“Yes, you were! You were laughing at me and I won’t stand it. You worked and schemed to get me out of the nine so you could go in, and now you’re making fun of me, I won’t stand it, I tell you. You think you’re a pitcher! Well you’re not, and you’ll never be. I won’t be made fun of!” All the pent-up anger—unreasoning as it was,—all the hate that had been accumulating for weeks in Sam, burst out at once.
He made a spring for Joe, but the pitcher stepped back. Not in time, however, for he received a blow on the chest.
Now I am not defending Joe for what he did. I am only telling of what happened. Joe was a manly lad yet he had all the instincts and passions that normal lads have. When he was hit his first instinct was to hit back, and he did it in this case.
His left fist shot forward and clipped Sam on the chin. The blow was a staggering one and for a moment the former pitcher reeled. Then with a roar of rage he came back at Joe, and the pair were at it hammer and tongs.
“I’ll show you that you can’t come sneakingaround here and steal my place!” blubbered Sam, as he aimed a blow at Joe’s face.
“I didn’t sneak!” retorted Joe, as he dodged the blow and got a right-hander near Sam’s solar plexus.
Both lads were evenly matched and the fight might have gone on for some time but for Sam’s rage which made him reckless. He left unguarded openings of which Joe took quick advantage, and finally, with a straight left, he sent Sam to the grass.
“I—I’ll fix you for that!” yelled the former pitcher as he rushed at Joe. It was easy to step aside and avoid the clumsy blow, and once more Sam went down. This time he did not get up so quickly, and there was a dazed look on his face.
“See here!” cried Joe, stepping over to him. “This has gone far enough. I didn’t want to fight, but you made me. I can beat you and you know it. If you don’t stop now I’ll knock you down every time you get up until you’ve had enough.”
It was brutal talk, perhaps, but it was well meant. For a moment Sam looked up at his antagonist. Then he murmured:
“I’ve had enough—for the present.”
The fight was over. Sam arose and started away. Joe called after him:
“Won’t you shake hands? I’m sorry this happened, but can’t we be friends after this?”
“No!” snarled Sam. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”
There was nothing more to be said, and Joe walked away. He was somewhat stiff and sore, for a number of Sam’s blows had landed with telling effect. One in particular, on the muscles of his right forearm, made that member a bit stiff and numb.
“I’ve got to take care of that,” thought Joe, “or I can’t pitch Saturday.” He had only a few marks of the fight on his face and he was glad of it, for he did not want his mother or sister to know.
Joe’s mother did not ask embarrassing questions. In fact she was thinking of other things,for she had received a letter from her husband that day, sent from a distant city. Matters it appeared were not going as well as they might, but Mr. Matson had hopes that all would come out right in the end.
Joe rubbed his sore arm well that night, and when Saturday came he pitched a great game against the Red Stockings, allowing only a few scattered hits. The Stars took the contest by a big margin.
“Now, if we could wind up with a game against the Resolutes and wallop them we’d finish out the season in great shape,” commented Captain Rankin, as he followed his lads off the diamond.
“I’m going to make another try to get them to play us,” said Darrell. “I’m going to send a challenge, and intimate that they’re afraid to tackle us since we’ve got our new pitcher.”
It was several days later when the nine was at practice and Darrell had not come out. Tom Davis was in his place at first and Rodney Burke was in centre field.
“I wonder what’s keeping Darrell?” said the captain. “He hardly ever misses practice.”
“Here he comes now,” announced Joe, “and he’s got a letter,” for Darrell was waving a paper as he ran across the field.
“Good news, boys!” he cried. “The Resolutes will play us. I just got word in a special delivery letter. That’s what kept me. Hurray! Now we’ll show ’em what’s what. It will be a grand wind-up for the season and will practically decide the county championship.”
“That’s the stuff!” cried the lads.
“When do we play?” asked Joe.
“This coming Saturday.”
“I thought they said all their dates were filled,” commented Tom Davis.
“They were, but some team they counted on busted up and that left an opening. Then, too, I fancy that little dig I gave them about being afraid had its effect. Joe, it’s up to you now.”
“All right!” and our hero accepted the responsibility with a smile.
There was considerable excitement among the Silver Stars over the prospective game. They were almost too excited to keep on with the practice against the scrub, but Darrell talked like a “Dutch uncle” to them, to quote Rodney Burke, and they went at their work with renewed vigor.
When Joe got home that evening after some hard practice there was another letter from his father. It was brief, merely saying:
“In a few days I will know all. My next will contain good news—or bad.”
“Oh, this suspense is terrible,” complained Mrs. Matson.
The day of the game between the Silver Stars and their old enemies drew nearer. Joe had practiced hard and he knew he was in good shape to pitch. In fact the Stars were much improved by their season’s work, and they were as good an amateur nine in their class as could be found in the country.
Word came to them, however, that the Resolutes were trained to the minute, and were going to put up a stiff fight for the county championship.
“Let ’em,” said Darrell briefly. “We don’t want a walk-over.”
“Well,” remarked Clara to her brother, on the Saturday of the game, “isn’t it almost time for you to start if you’re going to Rocky Ford?”
“Yes, I guess I had better be going,” answered Joe. “I want to put a few stitches in my glove. It’s ripped.”
“I’ll do it,” offered Clara and she had just finished when the door bell rang.
“I’ll go,” volunteered Joe, and when he saw a messenger boy standing there, with a yellow envelopein his hands somehow the heart of the young pitcher sank.
Quickly he took the telegram to his mother, to whom it was addressed.
“You open it, Joe,” she said. “I can’t. I’m afraid it’s bad news. My hand trembles so.”
Joe tore open the telegram. It was from his father.
“I’m afraid it’s all up,” the message read. “I have practically lost my case, and it looks as if I’d have to start all over again. But don’t worry. I’m coming home.”
A silence followed Joe’s reading of the few words aloud. Then indeed it was all over. He could not go to boarding school after all. He looked at his mother. There were tears in her eyes but she bore the shock bravely. Clara was very pale.
“Well, it might be worse!” said Joe philosophically. “There is just a bare chance—but it’s mighty slim.”
And then from outside came the hail of Tom Davis:
“Come on, Joe! Come on! It’s time you started for Rocky Ford. We’re going to wallop the Resolutes!” and with the freedom of an old friend, Joe’s chum burst into the room.