Baseball Joe In The Big League Part 18

But Rad was sound asleep when Joe had finished his correspondence, and slipped downstairs to leave it at the desk for the early mail. Joe looked around the now almost deserted lobby, half expecting to see the strange man, Wessel, standing about. But he was not in sight.

"I wonder what his game is, after all?" mused Joe. "I seem to have been running into two or three queer things lately. There's Shalleg, who bears me a grudge, though I don't see why he should, just because I couldn't lend him money, and then there's this fellow--I only hope the two of them don't go into partnership against me. I guess that's hardly likely to happen, though."

But Joe little realized what was in store for him, and what danger he was to run from these same two men.

Joe awakened suddenly, about midnight, by hearing someone moving around the room. He raised himself softly on his elbow, and peered about the apartment, for a dim light showed over the transom from the hall outside. To Joe's surprise the door, which he had locked from the inside before going to bed, now stood ajar.

"I wonder if Rad can be sick, and have gone out?" Joe thought. "Maybe he walks in his sleep."

He looked over toward his chum's bed, but could not make out whether or not Rad was under the covers. Then, as he heard someone moving about the apartment he called out:

"That you, Rad?"

Instantly the noise ceased, to be resumed a moment later, and Joe felt sure that someone, or something, went past the foot of his bed and out into the hall.

"That you, Rad?" he called again.

"What's that? Who? No, I'm here," answered the voice of his chum.

"What's the matter?"

Joe sprang out of bed, and in one bound reached the corridor. By means of the one dim electric lamp he saw, going down the stairs, carrying a grip with him, the mysterious man who had tried to quarrel with him. He was evidently taking "French leave," going out in the middle of the night to "jump" his hotel bill.

"What's up?" asked Rad, as he, too, left his bed. "What is it, Joe?"

The young pitcher came back into the room, and switched on a light. A quick glance about showed that neither his baggage, nor Rad's, had been taken.

"It must have been his own grip he had," said Joe.

"His? Who do you mean--what's up?" demanded Rad.

"It was Wessel. He's sneaking out," remarked Joe in a low voice. "Shall we give the alarm?"

"No, I guess not. We don't want to be mixed up in a row. And maybe he's going to take a midnight train. You can't tell."

"I think he was in this room," went on Joe.

"He was? Anything missing?"

"Doesn't seem to be."

"Well, then, don't make a row. Maybe he made a mistake."

"He'd hardly unlock our door by mistake," declared Joe.

"No, that's so. Did you see him in here?"

"No, but I heard someone."

"Well, it wouldn't be safe to make any cracks. Better not make a row, as long as nothing is gone."

Joe decided to accept this advice, and went back to bed, after taking the precaution to put a chair-back under the k.n.o.b, as well as locking it. It was some time before he got to sleep, however. But Rad was evidently not worried, for he was soon in peaceful slumber.

Rad's theory that Wessel had gone out in the middle of the night to get a train was not borne out by the facts, for it became known in the morning that he had, as Joe suspected, "jumped" his board bill.

"And he called himself a ball player!" exclaimed Mr. Watson in disgust.

"I'd like to meet with him again!"

"Maybe you will," ventured Joe, but he did not know how soon his prediction was to come to pa.s.s.

"Well, boys, we'll see how we shape up," said the manager, a little later that morning when the members of the team, with their uniforms on, had a.s.sembled at the ball park. "Get out there and warm up. Riordan, bat some fungoes for the boys. McCann, knock the grounders. Boswell, you catch for--let's see--I guess I'll wish you on to Matson. We'll see what sort of an arm he's got."

Joe smiled, and his heart beat a trifle faster. It was his first trial with the big league, an unofficial and not very important trial, to be sure, but none the less momentous to him.

Soon was heard the crack of b.a.l.l.s as they bounded off the bats, to be followed by the thuds as they landed in the gloves of the players. The training work was under way.

"What sort of ball do you pitch?" asked the old player pleasantly of Joe, as they moved off to a s.p.a.ce by themselves for practice.

"Well, I've got an in, an out, a fadeaway and a spitter."

"Quite a collection. How about a cross-fire?"

"I can work it a little."

"That's good. Now let's see what you can do. But take it easy at first.

You don't want to throw out any of your elbow tendons so early in the season."

"I guess not," laughed Joe.

Then he began to throw, bearing in mind the advice of the veteran a.s.sistant manager. The work was slow at first, and Joe found himself much stiffer than he expected. But the warm air, and the swinging of his arm, limbered him up a bit, and soon he was sending in some swift ones.

"Go slow, son," warned Boswell. "You're not trying to win a game, you know. You're getting a little wild."

Joe felt a bit chagrined, but he knew it was for his own good that the advice was given.

Besides the pitching and batting practice, there was some running around the bases. But Manager Watson knew better than to keep the boys at it too long, and soon called the work off for the day.

"We'll give it a little harder whack to-morrow," he said. And then Joe, as he went to the dressing rooms, overheard the manager ask Boswell:

"What do you think of Matson?"

"Oh, he's not such a wonder," was the not very encouraging reply. "But I've seen lots worse. He'll do to keep on your string, but he's got a lot to learn. It's a question of what he'll do when he faces the big teams, and hears the crowd yelling: 'He's rotten! Take him out!' That's what's going to tell."

"Yes, I suppose so. But I heard good reports of him--that gameness was one of his qualities."

"Well, he'll need it all right," declared the veteran player.

Then Joe pa.s.sed on, not wanting to listen to any more. Truth to tell, he rather wished he had not heard that much. His pride was a little hurt.

To give him credit, Joe had nothing like a "swelled head." He knew he had done good work in the Central League, and there, perhaps, he had been made more of than was actually good for him. Here he was to find that, relatively, he counted for little.