GLORIOUS NEWS
When Joe said goodby to Hank Bailey it was nearly noon, and as his way
led past the Bilkins home he met Bilkins himself hurrying home from the
Harvester Works for lunch.
The latter grasped Joe’s hand and almost wrung it from its socket.
“The more I think of what you did yesterday, the more grateful I am,”
he declared. “We were all so worked up that I didn’t thank you half as
much as I ought to have done. But I’ve been thinking of it every moment
since, and so has my wife.”
“How is she, after the strain of yesterday?” asked Joe, hoping to change
the subject from his own exploits.
“She’s all right,” replied the young husband. “Of course, she’s a little
shaky and weepy yet, but that’s not to be wondered at when you think of
what she went through. But here we are right at the gate. Come in for a
minute.”
Joe would gladly have pleaded an excuse but hardly saw how he could,
and he followed Bilkins into the neat little living room of the cottage.
Mrs. Bilkins hurried forward to meet him.
“Oh, Joe!” she exclaimed, as she clasped his hand, “I’ve been hoping
to get this chance of thanking you for what you did for us yesterday.
I was so excited at getting my baby back that I couldn’t think of
anything else at the time. But I realize that if it hadn’t been for your
quickness and presence of mind I wouldn’t have any baby now.”
She was perilously close to tears, and Joe, who had the masculine dread
of a scene, sought to introduce a lighter note.
“The baby himself didn’t seem glad,” he laughed. “The little rascal
thought he was out for a grand spree, and he was as good as a kitten
while the lunatic had hold of him. But the minute I grabbed him he
started in to howl like all possessed. He didn’t like the idea of my
breaking up his fun.”
This broke the tension and they all laughed, while Mrs. Bilkins
snatched up a fluffy little bunch from the cradle and showed him to his
deliverer. The baby cooed and gurgled and stretched out his arms to Joe,
who chucked him under the chin.
“Don’t try to come it over me, you young rascal,” he said sternly, but
the baby only cooed the more and grabbed at his watch chain.
“It’s too bad he’s christened already,” smiled Mrs. Bilkins. “If he
hadn’t been, we’d name him Joe.”
“What would be the use of putting a hoodoo on the little chap,”
protested Joe.
There was a little further conversation and then, although they urged
Joe to stay to lunch, he excused himself on the plea that his mother
would be waiting for him and started for home.
But his progress homeward was doomed to be slow that day, for he had
scarcely gone a block when he was hailed by Dick Talbot, the moving
picture operator whom he had had in mind the day before while talking to
Professor Crabbe.
“Hello, Joe, old man!” cried Dick, clapping him on the shoulder. “I
haven’t seen you for a month of Sundays. How’s tricks?”
Joe returned his greeting with equal warmth, for he had a strong feeling
of friendship for that exuberant youth who seemed always to be in good
spirits.
“Things are moving all right,” he answered.
“Anything doing in this old burg?” asked Dick.
“Oh, not so much,” was the answer. “You know it’s rather a sleepy old
town.”
“Sure thing,” said Dick with a twinkle in his eye. “Nothing doing at
all, except chasing crazy men and saving kidnapped babies and little
things like that. Oh, yes, it was sleepy yesterday.”
Joe laughed good-naturedly.
“Trust you to get next to anything that happens,” he said. “You’ve got
the nose of a fox for news. Who’s been filling you up?”
“Who hasn’t?” replied Dick with a chuckle. “The whole town is talking of
nothing else. They say that a prophet is not without honor save in his
own country, but that doesn’t fit your case. You’re the whole thing in
Riverside.
“But say, Joe,” Dick went on jokingly, “why didn’t you wait to pull this
thing off till I reached town with my little camera. My, what a scene
for a moving picture! I’d have given my eyes to have a crack at it.
Wild-eyed madman, holding baby above his head; frightened mob in the
yard below; handsome young pitcher hurling the ball of ice. Say, I could
have made a fortune with that film. All of the managers would have been
crazy to get hold of it.”
“Oh, cut it out,” remonstrated Joe. “The whole bunch of you are making
far too much out of it. As for your moving picture stuff, I’ve got
something for you along that line that I’d like to try out if you don’t
mind.”
“Of course I will,” answered Dick. “Get it off your chest. What is it?”
“I want you to take a picture of my curve ball,” answered Joe.
“It’s a pretty swift thing to take,” commented Dick. “Still, if we can
show a bullet in motion, I guess we can take anything propelled by the
brawny arm of Mr. Matson.”
“There’s a professor in town,” explained Joe, “who says it isn’t
possible to pitch a curve.”
“Shades of Arthur Cummings and Bobby Mathews!” groaned Dick. “Are there
such fossils still left in the world? Hasn’t the old chap ever been to a
baseball game?”
“I suppose he has,” smiled Joe. “Anyway, he saw me curve some balls
yesterday. He admits that it _seems_ to curve, but tells me that it is
only an optical delusion.”
“Listen to that!” exclaimed Dick. “Optical delusion! If that’s so,
about ten million fans in this country have trouble with their eyesight
and ought to see an oculist. Your professor reminds me of the wise
Englishman who wrote a book to prove it impossible for a steamer to
cross the Atlantic, and the very first boat that crossed brought his
book to this country.”
“Of course,” smiled Joe, “you and I know that he’s wrong. But how are we
to prove it to him?”
Dick thought hard for a minute or two. He had had to do all sorts of
things in the exercise of his profession, and this had developed his
natural ingenuity to the point where he was ready to say with Napoleon
that there was no such word as “impossible.”
“I’ll tell you how I think we can fix it!” he exclaimed at length.
“We’ll put two bamboo poles about ten feet apart and in a direct line
between you and the plate. Then you take your stand in the box exactly
in a line with both of them. Between the two poles we’ll stretch a sheet
of white paper. You throw the ball so that it goes to the right of the
first pole then turns and breaks the paper and comes out to the left of
the second pole. That will be proof positive that the ball has described
a curve, and no matter how obstinate the professor is he’ll have to
admit it.”
“Bully!” cried Joe. “That will do the trick all right. When do you think
you can do it?”
“Oh, almost any time,” answered Dick. “My time is pretty well filled up
for today or tomorrow, but if you’ll have the thing rigged up by day
after tomorrow, I’ll come over to the gymnasium and take the picture.”
“Fine,” said Joe. “That’ll suit me to a dot. Suppose we say two o’clock
in the afternoon day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there with bells on,” declared Dick; and with a final handclasp
they separated, and Joe hurried home to his belated dinner.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Momsey,” he said to his mother as he
kissed her in the hall and hung his hat and coat on the rack, “but
it seems to me that I’ve met the whole population of Riverside this
morning. I didn’t know the old town had so many people in it.”
“I don’t wonder they wanted to talk to you, after yesterday,” said Mrs.
Matson, her bosom swelling with maternal pride. “I thought it would be
that way, so I got dinner ready a little later than usual. But come
right in now while things are hot.”
“That’s an invitation I never refuse,” said Joe gaily, as with his arm
around his mother’s waist he went into the dining room. “Hello, what’s
this?” as his eye fell on a yellow envelope on the mantelpiece.
“It’s a telegram that came for you about an hour ago.”
“From Reggie again, probably,” said Joe, as he tore it open. “Something
he forgot to put into the first one. If I keep on getting telegrams, it
may pay the company to put in a branch office at the house here.”
He ran over the message and his face flushed. Then he read it again as
though he could not believe his eyes. Then with a whoop he threw it from
him, and catching his mother about the waist whirled her around the room
in a wild war dance.
She extricated herself at last, breathless and scandalized.
“Joseph Matson!” she exclaimed, “what on earth is the matter with you?
Have you gone crazy?”
“Not a bit of it, Momsey,” exulted Joe, “though it wouldn’t be
surprising if I had. I’ve been traded to the New York Giants!”