MRS. MATSON IS WORRIED
"What do you mean by that?" demanded the lad whom Sam had struck.
"That's what I mean by it. I mean you can't insult me!"
"I can't, eh? Well, I can whip you all right," and with those words Sam
was nearly knocked off his feet by a return blow.
"Here, cut that out!" yelled Darrell.
"Aw, what's eating you?" demanded another of the Resolute crowd. "If you
fellows are looking for a fight you can have it; eh boys?"
"Sure thing!" came in a chorus, as the players crowded up, with bats in
their hands.
"This may be serious," murmured Darrell to Tom. "See if you can't stop
Sam from fighting."
But it was too late, as Sam and his opponent were at each other hammer
and tongs.
"Do you want to fight?" sneered the lad who had accosted the manager.
"No, I don't."
"Afraid?"
"No, of course not."
"Then come on," and the lad, half in fun perhaps, gave Darrell a shove.
Now Darrell, though disliking fistic encounters, was no coward and he
promptly retaliated with a blow that knocked his enemy down.
"Wow! It's a fight all right!" yelled another lad, and then Darrell and
his antagonist were at it.
The crowd from the stands and bleachers now began thronging about the
enraged players. There had always been more or less bad blood between
the two rival nines and now, when the Resolutes had taken a game that
was almost won away from the Silver Stars, the feeling broke out anew.
On all sides there were impromptu battles going on. Some of the lads
were good-natured about it, and only indulged in wrestling contests, but
others were striking viciously at each other and soon there were some
bloody noses and blackened eyes in evidence.
"I'll show you whether I can pitch or not!" yelled Sam, as he aimed a
hard blow at the lad with whom he had first had an encounter. He missed
his aim, and went whirling to one side, to be met by a blow as he turned
about, and almost sent down.
"Do you want anything?" suddenly demanded a lad stopping in front of
Joe, who was standing near Tom. Joe recognized his questioner as the
Resolute shortstop.
"No, he's a stranger here--he isn't on the nine," said Tom quickly.
"Well, can't he fight?" was the sneering demand.
"Yes, if I want to, but I don't want to," and Joe answered for himself.
"I'll make you want to," was the retort, and Joe was struck in the
chest. He was not a lad to stand for that and he retaliated with such
good effect that his opponent went down in a heap on the grass, and did
not arise for some seconds. When he did stagger up, and saw Joe calmly
waiting for him, the lad moved off.
"You can fight all right," he mumbled. "I've had enough."
Meanwhile Darrell had disposed of his lad, and Tom, who was engaged with
a small lad who made a sneering remark, grabbed hold of the chap and
shook him until the lad begged for mercy.
Sam and his opponent were still at it hot and heavy when there arose a
cry:
"Cheese it--here come the cops!"
Riverside boasted of a small police force, and while it was not very
formidable, most of the lads came from homes where a report of their
arrest for fighting would meet with severe punishment. Their ardor
suddenly cooled and, almost as soon as it had started, the impromptu
battle was over. The victorious nine gathered up their belongings and
moved off the diamond, jeering at their defeated rivals.
"It was their fault--they started the fights," declared Tom Davis.
"Yes, I guess it was," admitted Darrell. "Well come on, fellows. They
beat us, and though I think it wasn't exactly square on some of the
decisions, we can take our medicine. We'll do better next time."
"Do you mean me?" demanded Sam half fiercely.
"I mean--all of us," spoke Darrell slowly, "including myself."
"Some excitement; eh?" asked Tom, as he linked his arm in that of Joe
Matson and walked along with him.
"Yes, but it was a good game just the same."
"You play, don't you?"
"I used to, at Bentville, where we moved from," answered Joe.
"Have a good team?"
"Pretty good."
"Where'd you play?"
"Well, mostly at pitching. I like that better than anything else."
"Hum!" mused Tom. "It takes a pretty good one to pitch these days. It
isn't like it used to be. Pitching is a gift, like poetry I guess. You
can't go in and pitch right off the reel."
"I know it," answered Joe quietly. "But it's my one ambition. I want to
go to a good boarding school and get on the team as pitcher."
"Well, I hope you do," and Tom laughed frankly. "I wouldn't mind that
myself, though I don't know as I care so much for pitching."
"It's the best part of the game!" cried Joe, and his eyes shone and he
seemed to lose some of his usual quiet manner. "I'd like it above
everything else!"
"Got any curves?" asked the practical Tom.
"Well, I don't know as I have--yet. I'm practicing though."
"Got any speed?"
"They used to say I had, back there in Bentville."
"Hum! Well, I don't believe there's much chance for you here. Sam has
the Silver Stars cinched. But he was rotten the last half of to-day's
game. That's what made us lose it. Yes, it takes some pumpkins to pitch
now-a-days."
The boys walked on down the street after Tom had discarded his suit.
Before them and behind them were other players and spectators, talking
of nothing but the game and the fight that had followed. The Resolutes,
cheering and singing triumphantly, had departed in their big stages, and
in the hearts of the Silver Stars was gloom and despair.
"Well, come over and see me sometime," invited Tom, as he parted from
Joe.
"I will. You come over and see me."
The boys went their respective ways--Joe walking rather slowly and
thinking of what had just taken place.
"How I would like to pitch--and go to boarding school!" he mused as he
walked toward his house. As he entered the side door he saw his mother
sitting at the dining room table. Something about her attracted his
attention--aroused his fears. The cloth had been spread, and though it
was supper time, for the game had lasted until late, there were no
dishes on the table.
"Why mother!" exclaimed Joe, struck by a queer look on her face. "What
is the matter? Has anything happened?"
"Oh Joe!" she exclaimed starting up, as though she had not heard him
come in. "Oh, no, nothing is the matter," she went on, and she tried to
smile, but it was only an attempt. "I forgot it was so late. Your father
was home, but he went out again."
"Where?"
"I don't know. He said he had some business to attend to. But I must
hurry with the supper. Where were you?"
"At the ball game. There was a fight. Our side lost. Oh, how I wish I
had been pitching! If ever I go to that boarding school I'm going to try
for the nine, first thing!"
"Oh yes, you're always talking about a boarding school, Joe. Well, I--I
hope you can go."
"Mother, I'm sure something has happened!" exclaimed Joe, putting his
arms around her and patting her on the shoulder, for she was a little
woman.
"No, really," she assured him. "I'm just a little worried, that's all.
Now you can help me set the table if you will. Clara has gone to take
her music lesson and isn't back yet."
"Of course I will!" exclaimed Joe. "But what are you worried about,
mother? I wish you'd tell me."
"I can't now, Joe. Perhaps I will some time. It isn't anything
serious--yet," and with that Mrs. Matson hurried out of the room.
She smiled as she left her son, but when she reached the kitchen the
same serious look came over her face again.
"I hope what he fears doesn't come to pass," she remarked to herself.
"Poor Joe! it would be too bad if he couldn't go to a boarding school
when his heart is so set on it. And to become a pitcher! I wish he had
some higher ambition in life, though I suppose all boys are alike at his
age," and she sighed.
"Hum," mused Joe as he went about setting the table, for the Matsons
kept no girl and Joe and his sister often helped their mother with the
housework when their school duties permitted. "Something is worrying
mother," the lad went on. "I hope it isn't anything about father's
business in the harvester works. He took a risk when he gave up his
position in Bentville and took a new one here. But that was an exciting
game all right," and Joe smiled at the recollection as he went on
putting the plates around at their places.