JOE'S TRIUMPH
"Well, what do you know about that?" cried Rad, with a queer look at
Joe.
"I don't know what to think about it, and that's the truth," was the
simple but puzzled answer.
"But who are they--what do they mean? The idea of them threatening you
that way! Why, that's against the law!"
"Maybe it is," agreed Joe. "As for who those men are, you know Wessel,
of course."
"Yes. The fellow who jumped his board bill at the hotel. Say, I guess
the proprietor would like to see him. He has nerve coming back to this
town. I've a good notion to tell the hotel clerk he's here. Mr. Watson
would be glad to know it, too, for he takes it as a reflection on the
team that Wessel should claim to be one of us, and then cheat the way he
did."
"Maybe it would be a good plan to tell on him," agreed Joe.
"And who's the other chap, and why did he threaten you?" his chum asked.
"That's another queer thing," the young pitcher went on. "He's angry at
me, as near as I can tell, because I had to refuse him a loan," and he
detailed the circumstances of his meeting with Shalleg.
"But it's odd that he and Wessel should be chumming together. I've said
little about it, but I've been wondering for a long time why Wessel
quarreled with me. I begin to see a light now. It must have been that
Shalleg put him up to it."
"A queer game," admitted Rad. "Well, I think I'll put the hotel
proprietor wise to the fact that he can collect that board bill from Ike
Wessel."
But Joe and Rad found their plans unexpectedly changed when they went to
put them into effect. They were a little late getting back to the hotel
from the grounds, as Joe had some purchases to make. And, as the two
chums entered the lobby, they saw standing by the desk the two men in
question. Mr. Watson was addressing Shalleg in no uncertain tones.
"No, I tell you!" he exclaimed. "I won't have you on the team, and this
is the last time I'll tell you. And I don't want you hanging around,
either. You don't do us any good."
"Is that your last word?" asked Shalleg, angrily.
"Yes, my last word. I want you to clear out and leave us alone."
"Huh! I guess you can't keep me away from games!" sneered Shalleg. "This
is a free country."
"Well, you keep away from my club," warned Mr. Watson, with great
firmness. "I wouldn't have you as a bat-tender."
The flushed and ill-favored face of Shalleg grew more red, if that were
possible, and he growled:
"Oh, don't let that worry you. Some day you may be glad to send for me
to help pull your old club out of the cellar. Someone has been talking
about me, that's the trouble; and if I find out who it is I'll make 'em
sweat for it!" and he glared at Joe, who was too amazed at the strange
turn of affairs to speak.
Then the two cronies turned and started out of the hotel lobby. But Rad
was not going to be foiled so easily. He slipped over to the clerk and
whispered:
"Say, that's the fellow who jumped his board bill, you know," and he
nodded at Wessel.
"Yes, I know," the clerk replied. "He just came in to settle. He
apologized, and said he had to leave in a hurry," and the clerk winked
his eye to show how much belief he placed in the story.
"Hum!" mused Rad. "That's rather queer. He must have wanted to square
matters up so he could come back to town safely."
"Looks so," returned the clerk.
Joe talked the matter over with his roommate, as to whether or not it
would be advisable to tell Mr. Watson how Shalleg had threatened the
young pitcher, and also whether to speak about the queer actions of
Wessel.
"But I think, on the whole," concluded Joe, "that I won't say anything;
at least not yet a while. The boss has troubles enough as it is."
"I guess you're right," agreed Rad.
"But what about him being in our room that night?" asked Joe. "I wonder
if I hadn't better speak of that?"
"Oh, I don't know as I would," replied his chum. "In the first place, we
can't be absolutely sure that it was he, though I guess you're pretty
certain. Then, again, we didn't miss anything, and he could easily claim
it was all a mistake--that he went in by accident--and we'd be laughed
at for making such a charge."
"Probably," agreed Joe. "As you say, I can't be dead sure, though I'm
morally certain."
"One of the porters might have opened our door by mistake," went on Rad.
"You know the hotel workers have pass-keys. Better let it drop." And
they did. Joe, however, often wondered, in case Wessel had entered his
room, what his object could have been. But it was not until some time
later that he learned.
Shalleg and his crony were not seen around the hotel again, nor, for
that matter, at the ball grounds, either--at least during the next week.
Practice went on as usual, only it grew harder and more exacting. Joe
was made to pitch longer and longer each day, and, though he did not get
a chance to play in many games, and then only unimportant ones, still he
was not discouraged.
There were many shifts among the out and infield staff, the manager
trying different players in order to get the best results. The pitching
staff remained unchanged, however. Some more recruits were received,
some of them remaining after a gruelling try-out, and others "falling by
the wayside."
In addition to pitching balls for Boswell to catch, and doing some stick
work, Joe was required to practice with the other catchers of the team.
"I want you to get used to all of them, Matson," said the manager.
"There's no telling, in this business, when I may have to call on my
youngsters. I want you to be always ready."
"I'll try," promised Joe, with a smile.
"You're coming on," observed Boswell, after a day of hard pitching,
which had made Joe's arm ache. "You're coming on, youngster. I guess
you're beginning to feel that working in a big league is different than
in a minor; eh?"
"It sure is!" admitted Joe, rubbing his aching muscles.
"Well, you're getting more speed and better control," went on the
veteran. "And you don't mind taking advice; that's what I like about
you."
"Indeed I'd be glad of any tips you could give me," responded Joe,
earnestly.
He did indeed realize that there was a hard road ahead of him, and he
was a little apprehensive of the time when he might be called on to
pitch against such a redoubtable team as the Giants.
"Most folks think," went on Boswell, "that the chief advantage a pitcher
has over a batter is his speed or his curves. Well, that isn't exactly
so. The thing of it is that the batter has to guess whether the ball
that's coming toward him is a swift straight one, or a comparatively
slow curve. You see, he's got to make up his mind mighty quickly as to
the speed of the horsehide, and he can't always do it.
"Now, if a batter knew in advance just what the pitcher was going to
deliver--whether a curve or a straight one, why that batter would have
a cinch, so to speak. You may be the best twirler in the league, but you
couldn't win your games if the batters knew what you were going to hand
them--that is, knew in advance, I mean."
"But that's what signals are for," exclaimed Joe. "I watch the catcher's
signals, and if I think he's got the right idea I sign that I'll heave
in what he's signalled for. If not, I'll make a switch."
"Exactly," said the old player, "and that's what I'm coming to. If your
signals are found out, where are you? Up in the air, so to speak. So you
want to have several sets of signals, in order to change them in the
middle of an inning if you find you're being double-crossed. There's
lots of coaches who are fiends at getting next to the battery signs, and
tipping them off to their batters. Then the batters know whether to step
out to get a curve, or lay back to wallop a straight one. The signal
business is more important than most players think."
Joe believed this, and, at his suggestion, and on the advice of Boswell,
a little later, a new signal system was devised between the pitchers and
catchers. Joe worked hard to master it, for it was rather complicated.
He wrote the system out, and studied it in his room nights.
"Well, boys, a few weeks more and we'll be going home for the opening
of the season," said Mr. Watson in the hotel lobby one day. "I see the
Boston Braves are about through training, the Phillies are said to be
all primed, and the Giants are ready to eat up all the rest of us."
"Whom do we open with?" asked Joe.
"The Cincinnati Reds," answered the manager. "The exact date isn't set
yet, but it will be around the last of April. We've got some hard games
here yet. I'm going to play some exhibitions on the way up North, to
break you in gradually."
More hard work and practice, and the playing of several games with the
Reedville and other local nines soon brought the time of departure
nearer.
"This is our last week," Mr. Watson finally announced. "And I'm going to
put you boys up against a good stiff proposition. We'll play the Nipper
team Saturday, and I want to warn you that there are some former big
leaguers on it, who can still hit and run and pitch, though they're not
qualified for the big circuit. So don't go to the grounds with the idea
that it'll be a cinch. Play your best. Of course I know you will, and
win; but don't fall down!"
Joe hoped he would be called on to pitch, but when the game started,
before the biggest crowd that had yet assembled at the Reedville
grounds, the umpire announced the Cardinal battery as Slim Cooney and
Rob Russell.
"Play ball!" came the signal, and the game was under way.
To make the contest a little more even the St. Louis team were to bat
first, giving the visitors the advantage of coming up last in the ninth
inning.
"Doolin up!" called the score keeper, and the lanky left-handed hitter
strolled up to the plate, while Riordan, who was on deck, took up a
couple of bats, swinging them about nervously to limber his arms.
"Strike one!" bawled the umpire, at the first delivery of the visiting
pitcher.
Doolin turned with a look of disgust and stared at the arbiter, but said
nothing. There was an exchange of signals between catcher and pitcher,
and Joe watched to see if he could read them. But he could not.
"Ball," was the next decision, and this time the pitcher looked pained.
It got to be three and two, and the St. Louis team became rather
interested.
Doolin swung at the next with vicious force--and missed.
"Strike three--batter's out!" announced the umpire, as the ball landed
with a thud in the deep pit of the catcher's mitt.
Doolin threw down his bat hard.
"What's he got?" whispered Riordan, as he went forward.
"Aw, nothing so much! This light bothers me, or I'd have hit for a
three-sacker, believe me!"
Riordan smiled, but he did little better. He hit, but the next man flied
out. Rad was up next and hit a twisting grounder that just managed to
evade the shortstop, putting Rad on first and advancing Riordan.
But that was the end. The next man was neatly struck out, and a
goose-egg went up in St. Louis's frame.
"Got to get 'em, boys," announced the manager grimly, as the team went
to the field.
Cooney did not allow a hit that inning, but he was pounded for two when
he was on the mound again, St. Louis in the meanwhile managing to get a
run, through an error.
"Say, this is some little team," declared Boswell admiringly.
"I told you they were," replied the manager. "I want to see our boys
work."
And work they had to.
The best pitcher in the world has his off days, and the best pitcher in
the world may occasionally be pounded, as Slim Cooney was hit that day.
How it happened no one could say, but the Nippers began to slide ahead,
chiefly through hard hitting and excellent pitching.
"This won't do," said Manager Watson as the sixth inning saw the score
tied. "Matson, go out and warm up. I'm going to see what you can do. I'm
taking a chance, maybe; but I'll risk it."
Joe's heart beat fast. Here was his chance. Willard, who sat near him on
the bench, muttered angrily under his breath.
"If I can only do something!" thought Joe, anxiously.