A NEW HOLD
"What--what all am de mattah, Massa Matson?" asked the colored lad, his
eyes bulging, and showing so much white that the rest of his face seemed
a shade or two darker. "What all am de mattah? Ain't yo'all put out
'bout me takin' dish yeah tie? I didn't go fo' to steal it, suh! 'Deed
an' I didn't. I were jest sort ob borrowin' it fo' to wear at a party
I'se gwine t' attend dis ebenin'."
"Put out about you!" laughed Joe. "Indeed I'm not. But don't say you're
going to borrow that tie," and he pointed to the one the lad had tried
unsuccessfully to conceal. It was of very gaudy hue--broad stripes and
prominent dots. "Don't say you were going to borrow it."
"'Deed an' dat's all I were gwine t' do, Massa Matson. I didn't go fo'
t' take it fo' keeps. I was a gwine t' ask yo'all fo' de lend ob it, but
I thought mebby yo'all wasn't comin' in time, so I jest made up mah mind
t' 'propriate it on mah own lookout, an' I was fixin' t' put it back
'fo' yo'all come in. I won't hurt it, 'deed an' I won't, an' I'll bring
yo'all ice water any time yo'all wants it. I--I'd laik mighty much,
Massa Matson, t' buy dish yeah tie offen yo'all."
"Buy it!" cried Joe, still laughing, though it was evident that the
colored lad could not understand why.
"Well, suh, that is, not exactly _buy_ it, 'case I ain't got no money,
but yo'all needn't gib me no tips, suh, fo' a--fo' a long time, an' I
could buy it dat way. Yes, suh, you needn't gib me no tips fo' two
weeks. An' yo'all is so generous, Massa Matson, dat in two weeks' time
I'd hab dis tie paid fo'. It's a mighty pert tie, it suah am!"
He gazed admiringly at it.
"Take it, for the love of mush!" cried Joe. "I'm glad you have it!"
"Yo'all am glad, Massa Matson?" repeated the lad, as though he had not
heard aright.
"Sure! That tie's been a nightmare to me ever since I bought it. I don't
know what possessed me to buy a cross section of the rainbow in the
shape of a scarf; but I did it in a moment of aberration, I reckon. Take
it away, Sam, and never let me see it again."
"Does yo'all really mean dat?"
"Certainly."
"Well, suh, I thanks yo'all fo' de compliment--I suah does. An' yo'all
ain't vexted wif me?"
"Not at all!"
"An'--an' yo'all won't stop giving me tips?"
"No, Sam."
"Golly! Dat's fine! I suah does thank you, mightily, suh! Won't all dem
odder coons open dere eyes when dey sees me sportin' dis yeah tie!
Yum-yum! I gass so!" and Sam bounced out of the room before Joe might
possibly change his mind. The colored lad nearly ran into Charlie Hall,
who was coming to have his usual chat with Joe, and the shortstop,
seeing the tie dangling from the bell boy's hand, guessed what had
happened.
"Was he making free with your things, Joe?" asked Charlie, when Sam had
disappeared around a corner of the hall.
"Oh, I caught him taking my tie, that's all."
"Yes, I did the same thing to one of the boys on my floor the other day.
I gave him a flea in his ear, too."
"And I gave Sam the tie," laughed Joe.
"You _gave_ it to him?"
"Yes, that thing has been haunting me. I never wore it but once and I
got disgusted with it." Joe failed to state that Mabel had showed a
dislike for the scarf, and that it was her implied opinion that had
turned him against it.
"You see," the young pitcher went on, "I didn't know just which of the
fellows to give it to, and two or three times I've left it in my hotel
room when we traveled on. And every blamed time some chambermaid
would find it, give it to the clerk, and he'd forward it to me. That
monstrosity of a scarf has been following me all over the circuit.
"I was getting ready to heave it down some sewer hole, when I came in to
find Sam 'borrowing' it. I had to laugh, and I guess he thought I was
crazy. Anyhow he's got the tie, and I've gotten rid of it. So we're both
satisfied."
"Well, that's a good way to look at it. How are things, anyhow?"
"They might, by a strain, be worse," answered Joe, a bit gloomily. The
game that day had been a hard one, and Gregory had used a string of
three pitchers, and had only been able to stop the winning streak of
Buffington. Joe had been taken out after twirling for a few innings.
"Yes, we didn't do ourselves very proud," agreed Charlie. "And to-morrow
we're likely to be dumped. Our record won't stand much of that sort of
thing."
"Indeed it won't. Charlie, I've got to do something!" burst out Joe.
"What is it? I can't see but what you're doing your best."
"My hardest, maybe, but not my best. You see this league pitching is
different from a college game. I didn't stop to figure out that I'd have
to pitch a deal oftener than when I was at Yale. This is business--the
other was fun."
"You're tired, I guess."
"That's it--I'm played out."
"Why don't you take a vacation; or ask Gregory not to work you so often?"
"Can't take any time off, Charlie. I need the money. As for playing the
baby-act--I couldn't do that, either."
"No, I reckon not. But what are you going to do?"
"Hanged if I know. But I've got to do something to get back into form.
We're going down."
"I know it. Has Gregory said anything?"
"No, he's been awfully decent about it, but I know he must think a lot.
Yes, something's got to be done."
Joe was rather gloomy, nor was Charlie in any too good spirits. In fact
the whole team was in the "dumps," and when they lost the next game they
were deeper in than ever.
Some of the papers began running headlines "Pittston Loses Again!" It
was galling.
Jimmie Mack worked hard--so did Gregory--and he, and Trainer McGuire,
devised all sorts of plans to get the team back in form again. But
nothing seemed to answer. The Pittstons dropped to the rear of the first
division, and only clung there by desperate work, and by poor playing
on the part of other teams.
In all those bitter, dreary days there were some bright spots for Joe,
and he treasured them greatly. One was that his father was no worse,
though the matter of the operation was not definitely settled. Another
was that he heard occasionally from Mabel--her letters were a source of
joy to him.
Thirdly, Old Pop Dutton seemed to be "making good." He kept steadily at
work, and had begun to do some real baseball practice. Joe wrote to him,
and his letters were answered promptly. Even cynical Gregory admitted
that perhaps, after all, the former star pitcher might come into his own
again.
"When will you give him a trial?" asked Joe, eagerly.
"Oh, some day. I'll put him in the field when we're sure of an easy
game."
The time came when the tail-enders of the league arrived for a series of
contests with Pittston, and Pop Dutton, to his delight, was allowed to
play. There was nothing remarkable about it, but he made no errors, and
once, taking a rather desperate chance on a long fly, he beat it out and
retired the batter.
He was roundly applauded for this, and it must have warmed his heart to
feel that once more he was on the road he had left so long before. But
coming back was not easy work. Joe realized this, and he knew the old
pitcher must have had a hard struggle to keep on the narrow path he had
marked out for himself. But Joe's influence was a great help--Dutton
said so often. The other players, now that they found their former mate
was not bothering them, begging money, or asking for loans, took more
kindly to him. But few believed he could "come back," in the full
meaning of the words.
"He may be a fairly good fielder, and his batting average may beat
mine," said Tooley, "but he'll never be the 'iron man' he once was." And
nearly all agreed with him.
Joe was faithful to his protegé. Often the two would saunter out to
some quiet place and there pitch and catch for each other. And Joe's
trained eye told him that the other's hand had lost little of its former
cunning.
Meanwhile the fortunes of Pittston did not improve much. Sometimes they
would struggle to second place, only to slip back again, while victorious
Clevefield held her place at the top.
There was only one consolation--Pittston did not drop out of the first
division. She never got lower than fourth.
Joe was being used less and less on the pitching mound, and his heart
was sore. He knew he could make good if only something would happen to
give him back his nerve, or a certain something he lacked. But he could
not understand what.
Properly enough it was Pop Dutton who put him on the right track. The
two were pitching and catching one day, when Joe delivered what he had
always called a "fade-away" ball, made famous by Mathewson, of the New
York Giants. As it sailed into Pop's big mitt the veteran called:
"What was that, Joe?"
"Fade-away, of course."
"Show me how you hold the ball when you throw it."
Joe did so. The old pitcher studied a moment, and then said:
"Joe, you've got it wrong. Have you been pitching that way all the
while?"
"Always."
"No wonder they have been hitting you. Let me show you something. Stand
behind me."
The old pitcher threw at the fence. Joe was amazed at the way the ball
behaved. It would have puzzled the best of batters.
"How did you do it?" asked Joe, wonderingly.
"By using a different control, and holding the ball differently. I'll
show you. You need a new hold."