THE QUARRELING MAN
Quite a little family party it was the St. Louis players composed as
they traveled South in their private car, for they enjoyed that
distinction. This was something new for Joe, as the Pittston team was
not blessed with a wealthy owner, and an ordinary Pullman had sufficed
when Joe made his former trip. Now it was travel "de luxe."
The more Joe saw of Rad Chase the more he liked the fellow, and the two
soon became good friends, being much in each other's company, sharing
the upper and lower berths by turns in their section, eating at the same
table, and fraternizing generally.
Some of the older players were accompanied by their wives, and after the
first few hours of travel everyone seemed to know everyone else, and
there was much talk and laughter.
"Can't you fellows supply me with some dope?" asked a voice in the aisle
beside the seats occupied by Joe and Rad. "I've gotten off all the
departure stuff, and I want something for a lead for to-morrow. Shoot
me some new dope; will you?"
"Oh, hello, Jim!" greeted Rad, and then, as Joe showed that he did not
recognize the speaker, the other player went on: "This is the
_Dispatch-Times's_ staff correspondent, Jim Dalrymple. You want to be
nice to him, Joe, and he'll put your name and picture in the paper. Got
anything you can give him for a story?"
"I'm afraid not," laughed Joe.
"Oh, anything will do, as long as I can hang a lead on it," said
Dalrymple hopefully. "If you've never tried to get up new stuff every
day at a training camp of a ball team, you've no idea what a little
thing it takes to make news. Now you don't either of you happen to have
a romance about you; do you?" he inquired, pulling out a fold of copy
paper. (Your real reporter never carries a note book. A bunch of paper,
or the back of an envelope will do to jot down a few facts. The rest is
written later from memory. Only stage reporters carry note books, and,
of late they are getting "wise" and abstaining from it.)
"A romance?" repeated Joe. "Far be it from me to conceal such a thing
about my person."
"But you _have_ had rather a rapid rise in baseball; haven't you, Joe?"
insinuated Rad. "You didn't have to wait long for promotion. Why not
make up a yarn about that?" went on Rad, nodding at the reporter.
"Sure I'll do it. Give me a few facts. Not too many," the newspaper man
said with a whimsical smile. "I don't want to be tied down too hard. I
like to let my fancy have free play."
"He's all right," whispered Rad in an aside to Joe. "One of the best
reporters going, and he always gives you a fair show. If you make an
error he'll debit you with it, but when you play well he'll feature you.
He's been South with the team a lot of times, I hear."
"But I don't like to talk about myself," objected Joe.
"Don't let that worry you!" laughed Rad. "Notoriety is what keeps
baseball where it is to-day, and if it wasn't for the free advertising
we get in the newspapers there would not be the attendance that brings
in the dollars, and lets us travel in a private car. Don't be afraid of
boosting yourself. The reporters will help you, and be glad to. They
have to get the stuff, and often enough it's hard to do, especially at
the training camp."
In some way or other, Joe never knew exactly how, Dalrymple managed to
get a story out of him, about how Joe had been drafted, how he had begun
playing ball as a boy on the "sand lots," how he had pitched Yale to
victory against Princeton, and a few other details, with which my
readers are already familiar.
"Say, this'll do first rate!" exulted the reporter, as he went to a
secluded corner to write his story, which would be telegraphed back to
his daily newspaper. "I'm glad I met you!" he laughed.
Dalrymple was impartial, which is the great secret of a newspaper
reporter's success. Though he gave Joe a good "show," he also "played
up" some of the other members of the team. So that when copies of the
paper were received later, they contained an account of Joe's progress,
sandwiched in between a "yarn" of how the catcher had once worked in a
boiler factory, where he learned to catch red-hot rivets, and how one of
the outfielders had inherited a fortune, which he had dissipated, and
then, reforming, had become a star player. So Joe had little chance to
get a "swelled head," which is a bad thing for any of us.
The first part of the journey South was made in record time, but after
the private car was transferred to one of the smaller railroad lines
there were delays that fretted the players.
"What's the matter?" asked Manager Watson of the conductor as that
official came through after a long stop at a water tank station, "won't
the cow get off the track?" and he winked at the players gathered about
him.
"That joke's a hundred years old," retorted the ticket-taker. "Think up
a new one! There's a freight wreck ahead of us, and we have to go slow."
"Well, as long as we get there some time this week, it will be all
right, I reckon," drawled the manager.
Reedville was reached toward evening of the second day, and the
travel-weary ball-tossers piled out of their coach to find themselves at
the station of a typical Southern town.
Laziness and restfulness were in the air, which was warm with the heat
of the slowly setting sun. There was the odor of flowers. Colored men
were all about, shuffling here and there, driving their slowly-ambling
horses attached to rickety vehicles, or backing them up at the platform
to get some of the passengers.
"Majestic Hotel right this yeah way, suh! Right over yeah!" voiced the
driver of a yellow stage. "Goin' right up, suh!"
"That's our place, boys," announced the manager. "Pile in, and let me
have your checks. I'll have the baggage sent up."
Joe and the others took their place in the side-seated stage. A little
later, the manager having arranged for the transportation of the
trunks, they were driven toward the hotel that was to be their
headquarters while in the South.
They were registering at the hotel desk, and making arrangements about
who was to room with who, when Joe heard the hotel clerk call Mr. Watson
aside.
"He says he's with your party, suh," the clerk spoke. "He arrived
yesterday, and wanted to be put on the same floor with your players.
Says he's going to be a member of the team."
"Huh! I guess someone is bluffing you!" exclaimed the manager. "I've got
all my team with me. Who is the fellow, anyhow?"
"That's his signature," went on the clerk, pointing to it on the hotel
register.
"Hum! Wessel; eh?" said Mr. Watson. "Never heard of him. Where is he?"
"There he stands, over by the cigar counter."
Joe, who had heard the talk, looked, and, to his surprise, he beheld the
same individual who had tried to pick a quarrel with him the night of
the sleigh ride.