Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars Part 10

"Oh, yes. How about you?"

"Fine. The bolt was all right. I haven't forgotten. I'll see McGraw to-day and find out when he's going to leave. Then if Oswald can't say for sure whether he'll be with us, you'll go in at centre field."

"Good!" exclaimed Joe, his eyes bright with antic.i.p.ation.

As Darrell pa.s.sed on, Joe saw Sam Morton approaching. At first he had a notion of turning away and avoiding what he felt would be an unpleasant scene. But Joe was nothing of a coward and he realized that, sooner or later, he would have to meet the pitcher with whom he had had the collision. So he stood his ground.

"How's your arm?" he asked pleasantly, as Sam approached.

"Hu! None the better for what you did to it."

"What _I_ did?" and Joe's voice took on a surprised tone. "Do you still insist it was my fault?"

"Pretty near," went on Sam, but Joe noticed that he was not quite so vindictive as before. "It isn't as stiff as I thought it would be, though."

"I hope you can pitch all right Sat.u.r.day," went on Joe. He wanted very much to hint at the fact that he, too, might be in the game, but Sam was not a lad to invite confidences, especially after what had taken place.

Joe liked comradeship. He liked the company of boys of his own age and he was just "hungry" to talk baseball. But, aside from Tom Davis, as yet he had no chums with whom he could gossip about the great pastime.

In Bentville he was looked up to as one of the nine, and, though the team was not as good a one as was the Silver Stars, still it was a team, and Joe was one of the princ.i.p.al players. Coming to a strange town, and being distinctly out of the game, made him feel like a "cat in a strange garret," as he said afterward.

But with a grim tightening of his lips he made up his mind not to give way to gloomy thoughts, and he determined that he would be on the town team and one of the best players.

As the warning bell rang, Tom Davis came hurrying across the school campus.

"I called for you!" he shouted to Joe who, with a crowd of other lads, was going in the building, "but you'd gone."

"Thanks," replied Joe, grateful for the friendly spirit shown. "I'll wait next time." He liked Tom, and was glad to have him for a chum.

Joe thought lessons would never be finished that day, but the cla.s.ses were finally dismissed and then, without waiting for Tom, though he thought this might be construed as rather unfriendly, our hero hastened off in the direction of the fairgrounds. There was a high wooden fence around this plot, and it gave Joe just the chance he wanted, for he was going to practice pitching, and he didn't want any witnesses.

"I wish I had half a dozen b.a.l.l.s," he murmured as he went in through one of the gates which was unlocked. "I wouldn't have to chase back and forth so often. But two will do for a while."

He laid his books down on the gra.s.s, took out the horsehide spheres and, measuring a distance from the fence about equal to the s.p.a.ce from the pitcher's box to home plate, he began to pitch the b.a.l.l.s.

With dull thuds the b.a.l.l.s struck the fence, one after the other, and fell to the ground. Joe picked them up, took his place again in the imaginary box, and repeated the performance.

His arm, that was a bit stiff at first, from lack of practice since coming to Riverside, gradually became limber. He knew that his speed, too, was increasing. He could not judge of his curves, and, truth to tell he did not have very good ones as yet, for he had only recently learned the knack. But he had the right ideas and a veteran professional pitcher, who was a friend of one of the Bentville nine's members, had showed Joe the proper manner to hold and deliver the ball.

"I wish I had some one back there to give me a line on myself," thought Joe, as he pitched away, a solitary figure on the grounds. "I don't know whether I'm getting them over the plate, or a mile beyond," for he had laid down a flat stone to serve as "home."

"Anyhow this will improve my speed," he reasoned, "and speed is needed now-a-days as much as curves."

Time and again he pitched his two horsehides, ran to pick them up as they dropped at the foot of the fence, and then he raced back to his "box" to repeat the performance. He was rather tiring of it, and his arm was beginning to feel numb in spite of his enthusiasm, when he heard some one laughing. The sound came from behind him, and, turning quickly, Joe saw Sam Morton standing leaning up against his wheel, and contemplating him with mirth showing on his face.

"Well, well!" exclaimed Sam. "This is pretty good. What are you trying to do, Matson, knock the fence down? If you are, why don't you take a hammer or some stones instead of baseb.a.l.l.s? This is rich! Ha! Ha!"

For a moment Joe was tempted to make an angry answer, for the hot blood of shame mounted to his cheeks. Then he said quietly, and with as much good-nature as he could summon on the spur of the moment:

"I'm practicing, that's all. I came here as I didn't want to lose the b.a.l.l.s, and the fence makes a good backstop."

"Practicing, eh? What for?" and once more Sam laughed in an insulting manner.

"To improve my pitching. There may be a chance to get on the team, I understand."

"What team; the Silver Stars?"

Sam's voice had a harsh note in it.

"Yes." And Joe nodded.

"So you're practicing pitching, eh? And you hope to get on our nine.

Well let me tell you one thing, Matson; you won't pitch on the Silver Stars as long as I'm on deck, and I intend to remain for quite a while yet. Pitching practice, eh? Ho! That's pretty good! What you'd better practice is running bases. We may let you run for some of the fellows, if you're real good. Or how would you like to carry the bats or be the water boy? I understand there's a vacancy there. Pitcher! Ha! Ha!" and Sam doubled up in mirth. Joe's face flushed, but he said nothing.

CHAPTER VIII

A MEAN PROTEST

Finally Sam ceased his laughter, straightened up and prepared to ride out of the fairgrounds on his wheel.

"I was just going past," he said, in needless explanation, "when I heard something banging against the fence. First I thought it might be one of the cattle left over from the last show, but when I saw it was you, Matson--Oh, my! It's too rich! I'll have to tell the boys."

"Look here!" exclaimed Joe, who disliked as much as any one being laughed at, "what have you got against me, anyhow? Are you afraid I'll displace you as pitcher?"

"What's that? Not much. You couldn't do that you know," and Sam laughed again.

"Then what do you want to be so mean for?" asked Joe.

"None of your business, if you want to know," snapped Sam. "But if you think you're going to get on our team you've got another think coming.

Look out, now, don't break the fence with those b.a.l.l.s, or the fair committee might make you pay for it," and with this parting insult Sam rode out of the grounds.

Joe's heart was beating fast, and he clenched his hands. He would liked to have gone after Sam and given him a well deserved thrashing, but he knew that would never do.

"I've just got to grin and bear it!" murmured Joe through his clenched teeth. "If the fellows laugh at me I'll have to let 'em laugh. After all I can stand it, and I _do_ want to get on the team.

"Queer why Sam Morton should be so down on me. I don't see his reason unless it's jealousy, or because he's mad at me for running into him.

Maybe it's both.

"Well, there's no use practicing any longer. My arm is tired, and besides he might be hiding behind the fence to laugh some more. I'll have to find a different place if I want to practice getting up my speed and curves."

Picking up the b.a.l.l.s and his books Joe slowly made his way out of the grounds. Sam Morton was nowhere in sight, for which the young ball player was glad.

"Maybe this will end it," thought Joe. "He just wanted to amuse himself at my expense." But our hero was soon to find that the vindictive spirit of the pitcher was not quelled.

"Coming out to see us practice this afternoon?" asked Tom Davis of Joe several days later. "We're getting ready to play the Red Stockings of Rutherford, Sat.u.r.day."