Baseball Joe on the School Nine Part 14

"Oh, yes, all millionaire lads aren't cads though money sometimes makes a chap that way. Trinity must be quite a school."

"I guess it is, but Excelsior is good enough for me. We're in with a dandy crowd of fellows, though, and that makes it nice if you've got to play a lot of games with 'em. Nothing like cla.s.s when it comes to sport.

We ought to have some corking good games this Summer."

"I only wish you and I were more in it," went on Tom.

"Wait until we see about the scrub," suggested him chum. "I'm not worrying as much as I was at first."

But, though Joe thus lightly pa.s.sed over the matter, deep down in his heart there was a great longing. To him baseball meant more than to the average player. From the time when he had seen his first game, as a little chap, our hero had fairly lived, eaten and slept in an atmosphere of the diamond. He had organized a team of lads when he was scarcely nine years old, and played those little chaps in a sort of improvised circuit.

Then, as he grew, and developed, and found that he could pitch, the world seemed to hold something worth while for Joe Matson. "Baseball Joe," he had been dubbed, when as a small chap he shouldered his bat and started off across the lots to a game, and "Baseball Joe" he was yet.

How he longed to be on the regular nine, even in the outfield, none but himself knew. And when he dreamed of the possibility that he might some time occupy the pitching mound--well, he had to stop short, for he found himself indulging in a too high flight of fancy.

"Get back to earth, Joe," he told himself. "If you want to pitch for Excelsior you've got to do a heap of waiting, and you are pretty good at that game."

And so Joe had hopes and fears--hopes that his dream might come true, and fears lest the enmity of Hiram and Luke would keep him one of the "scrubbiest of the scrubs."

He was tired after the excitement of the parade, and so was Tom, but they were not too weary to accept an invitation to gather in the room of Teeter and Peaches that night for a surrept.i.tious lunch of ginger snaps, cheese and bottled soda water, which had been smuggled in. And, as before, the lads took the same precautions with the fake books and the tubes, hose and bottles. But they were not disturbed.

"Well, we'll have to get busy next week," remarked Teeter as he slowly sipped his gla.s.s.

"How so?" asked Joe.

"Hard practice against the scrub starts Monday."

"Who's captain of the scrub; did you hear?" asked Peaches eagerly.

"Yes, Ward Gerard--a nice fellow, too."

"That's the stuff!" cried Peaches. "Now there's a chance for you, Joe.

Ward's room is on this corridor. I'm going to see him."

"You'll be caught," warned Teeter.

"Caught nothing!" retorted his chum. "It's so late none of the profs. or monitors will think a fellow will dare go out. Ward isn't an early sleeper, and I'm going to see him and ask him to let Joe pitch on the scrub before some one else gets the place. I'll be back in a few minutes, fellows. Don't eat up all the grub," and with that Peaches slipped noiselessly from the room.

CHAPTER XII

ON THE SCRUB

"It doesn't take Peaches long to make up his mind," remarked Tom.

"No, he's always right on the job," agreed Teeter.

"It's mighty good of him--and all of you--to go to all this trouble and fuss on my account," added Joe. "I appreciate it, too."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Teeter, as he balanced himself on his toes to see if it was safe to indulge in any more cheese and ginger snaps. "We're glad to do it. I only hope you do make the team, and pitch, at that."

"If I can pitch on the scrub, I'll be satisfied for a while."

"We want to make Excelsior the best nine in the league this year," went on Teeter. "We've got to have the Blue Banner, and one way we can cinch it is to have a good pitcher."

"Thanks!" laughed Joe.

"Well, I mean it," resumed Teeter, helping himself to a handful of the crisp snaps. "That's where our weak point was last season. Many a game we gave away after we had it practically won, just because our pitchers went up in the air. And I'm afraid it'll be the same now. Frank Brown isn't much, unless he's improved a whole lot over season, and I don't believe he has. And as for Larry Akers--well, he's only a makeshift.

Now, I'd like to see----"

But Teeter's little talk was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. For a moment the lads gazed anxiously at each other, and Tom made a grab for one of the fake books, but a look of relief came over their faces when the door opened and Peaches entered, followed by some one.

"I brought Ward with me," explained the lad with the fair complexion.

"Thought it was the safest way. Come on in, Ward; I guess these Indians haven't scalped all the grub."

"Yes, fall to," invited Teeter. "There's plenty."

"Charmed, I'm sure," murmured Ward with an a.s.sumed society air.

"You know Joe Matson, of course," went on Peaches.

"Oh, sure. He beat me in physics cla.s.s the other week and I haven't forgotten it."

"He wants to pitch on the scrub," went on the originator of the scheme.

"He's all to the mustard, too, and----"

"Say, let me say a word for myself," put in Joe. "I'm not a political candidate in the hands of my friends. Is there a show for me on the scrub, Ward?"

"Well, I haven't made up the team yet, and you're the first applicant for pitcher, so you'll have first choice."

"Then it's as good as settled!" declared Peaches. "When do you make up the team, Ward?"

"To-morrow, I guess. I'll put you down as first pitcher, Joe, and I hope you can throw a scare into the school team--not because I'm not on it myself, but the better opposition they have, the better they'll play for the banner."

"What about Hiram?" asked Tom. "Won't he kick up a fuss if he knows you've got Joe? And what about Luke?"

"Say, I'm running the scrub!" exclaimed Ward. "They haven't anything to say after I take charge. What I say goes!"

"That's right," agreed Teeter. "I'll do Hiram that much justice. He never interferes with the scrub after the season starts. Neither does Luke. They have their hands full managing their own players."

"Then I guess I'll get a chance to pitch," murmured Joe, and he was happier than he had been in some time. It was only a small beginning, but it was a start, and that meant a good deal.

Ward Gerard, whom Joe and Tom did not know very well, turned out to be a good-natured and pleasant companion. He was one of the new arrivals at the school, but already stood well in his cla.s.ses and on the athletic field. Football was his specialty, but he was none the less a good baseball player and might have made the first team had he tried harder.

The boys talked of the diamond until the booming of the big school clock warned them that they had better get to bed; so with good-nights and a renewed promise on the part of Ward to place Joe in the box, the conference broke up.