AWAY DOWN SOUTH
There were perhaps thirty men or thereabouts in the car. Some were
playing cards, others telling stories, still others skylarking, while
a few were quietly reading or looking out of the windows at the crowd
gathered on the station platform. There was an utter absence of
formality and restraint, and the prevailing atmosphere was one of good
fellowship. Most of the men were well but quietly dressed, although a
few were conspicuous by reason of loud ties and silken hose and flashing
diamonds. And as Joe looked at the latter he grinned as he thought of
his old friend Campbell, the third baseman of the Cardinals, with his
love of gaudy raiment and neckwear that could be “heard a mile.”
The light of recognition flashed in many eyes as they lighted on the
newcomer, and the next instant Joe was shaking hands warmly with half a
dozen who crowded around him.
“Joe Matson, as I live!” cried Hughson, the most famous pitcher in the
game. “The man who made me take water last year in New York. I sure am
glad to see you, Matson. Our boys are counting on you to get us into the
World’s Series this year.”
“I’ll try to do my share,” laughed Joe, “that is, if McRae doesn’t keep
me warming the bench. By the way, where is he? I suppose it’s up to me
to report to him right away.”
“He’s talking to one of the big muckamucks in the next car,” chimed in
Barrett, the Giant second baseman. “How are you, Matson, old man? You
look as fine as silk.”
“Been keeping himself in condition by knocking crazy men off lumber
piles,” laughed “Red” Curry, the right fielder. “Oh, we’re onto your
curves all right. Read all about it in this morning’s paper. Was that
straight goods or was it just a reporter’s yarn?”
“The reporter hasn’t let the story lose anything in the telling,” said
Joe. “I did bean the fellow, but it was an easy enough shot. But for the
love of Pete, boys, don’t hold it against me!”
There was a general laugh, and then Hughson pushed Joe into a seat
and sat down beside him. In a few minutes they were in an animated
conversation as to the prospects of the team for the coming season.
Joe could not help contrasting his present reception with that he had
received when he first broke into the professional ranks. Then he was
just a “busher,” a “rookie,” a nobody who had his reputation yet to win.
The “old hands” had looked on him patronizingly or contemptuously and
flocked by themselves. He had been made to feel that he was outside the
pale, and some of the meaner spirits, fearing that he might supplant
them later on, had done everything in their power to keep him down. Only
a young fellow in his “first season” can know how utterly friendless and
forlorn he is sometimes made to feel.
But in baseball, as in everything else, “nothing succeeds like success.”
Joe had “arrived.” He had stood the gaff and won his spurs by the hard
ordeal of actual battle. He had faced the best batters of the country
and outguessed them. He had won his right to a place in the inner
circle. And here he was on a plane of equality and talking as a friend
and comrade with Hughson, the king of them all.
It was in no spirit of vainglory that Joe recalled these things. His
head was not swelled in the slightest degree. He knew how precarious is
baseball fame. He knew that the pitcher who one day had to doff his cap
to the applause of the crowd might, the next time he appeared, be hooted
from the box. But he was profoundly pleased and gratified that he had so
far advanced in his profession that he had a recognized standing. He
need not now fear that he would not even have a chance to make good. He
would have every opportunity and his success or failure would depend on
himself alone.
“Yes,” Hughson was saying, “I’ve been looking at the thing from every
angle, and I don’t see how any team has a license to beat us out. We’re
strong in every position except perhaps one. I won’t say what that is
but leave you to find it out for yourself. We’ve got rid of some trouble
makers that knocked us out of the pennant last year and just now we’re
like some big happy family.”
“How do you dope out the Chicagos?” asked Joe. “Don’t you think they’ll
give us a harder fight than any of the other teams?”
“They may,” admitted Hughson, thoughtfully. “They’ve got a terrific
batting combination. They led the league in that respect last year. But
I think some of their pitchers show signs of slowing up. I hear that
Blaney had to go to Bonesetter Reese this winter for some trouble in his
salary wing. He’s the most dependable southpaw they have on the staff
and if he goes back on them they’ll be in a pretty serious pickle.
“They may have picked up some port side flinger in the draft this
winter, but I haven’t heard of any that are likely to set the river
afire. Brennan, their manager, though, is as foxy as they make them,
and he may have something good under cover.”
“How do you figure Pittsburgh?” asked Joe.
“Pittsburgh doesn’t scare me much,” was the answer. “Of course old
Wagner is a team in himself. Isn’t it wonderful how that old slugger
keeps on year in and year out? He’s about the only man in the whole
league that I’m really afraid of. When he comes up to the plate with
that big wagon tongue of his I always feel that he’s more likely to get
my number than I am to get his. But he can’t do the work of a whole
ball team after all, and the rest of the nine don’t figure out so very
strong, to my way of thinking. They’re sure to be in the first division,
but I think that lets them out. To tell the truth, I’m more sweet on
Boston’s chances than any one else’s, outside of our own.”
“Boston!” ejaculated Joe in surprise. “I didn’t think they had a look in
for the flag.”
“Don’t fool yourself,” returned Hughson. “Believe me, that team will
bear a lot of watching. They’ve got Rawlings for a manager and he’s one
of the most cagey men in the game. He can take a ‘busher’ and develop
him into a star quicker than any man I ever saw outside of McRae. I
know they say he has a team of cast-offs, but he’s welding them into a
winning combination. His weakest spot was the keystone bag, but he’s
made a deal with Chicago this winter and got Ebers, the most brainy man
who ever played second base. I’ll bet he has the star infield of the
league before the year is out.”
“The Giants have good cause to remember Ebers,” laughed Joe.
“You bet we have,” returned Hughson, grimly. “It was his quick thinking
that knocked us out of the championship the year that Burkett forgot
to touch second. Oh, maybe we weren’t sore that day when we saw our
chance to get into the World’s Series go glimmering. We lost at least
fifty thousand dollars that afternoon by that one misplay. Poor Burkett
himself felt so bad about it that the boys were afraid he was going to
lose his mind. The gloom was so thick about the clubhouse that day that
you couldn’t cut it with a knife.”
Just then a thick-set man of medium height came through the car and
stopped at their seat.
“How are you, Matson?” he asked, pleasantly.
Joe was on his feet in an instant and his hand, outstretched in
greeting, grasped that of McRae, the far-famed leader of the Giants.