A ROW WITH SAM
"What are you thinking about, Joe?"
It was his sister Clara who asked the question, and she had noticed that
her brother was rather dreaming over his books than studying. It was the
Monday night after the Saturday when the memorable game with the
Resolutes had taken place.
"Oh, nothing much," and Joe roused himself from a reverie and began to
pour over his books.
"Well, for 'nothing much' I should say that it was a pretty deep
subject," went on Clara with a laugh, as she finished doing her
examples. "It isn't one of the girls here, is it Joe? There are a lot of
pretty ones in our class."
"Oh--bother!" exclaimed Joe. "Let a fellow alone, can't you, when he's
studying? We have some pretty stiff work I tell you!" and he ruffled up
his hair, as if that would make his lessons come easier. "It's a heap
worse than it was back in Bentville."
"I think so too, but I like it, Joe. We have a real nice teacher, and
I've met a lot of pleasant girls. Do you know any of the boys?"
"Hu! I guess you want me to give you an introduction to them!" exclaimed
Joe.
"No more than you do to the girls I know," retorted his sister, "so
there!"
"Now, now," gently remonstrated Mrs. Matson, looking up from her sewing,
"you young folks keep on with your lessons. Your father can't go on
reading his paper if you dispute so."
Involuntarily Joe and his sister glanced to where Mr. Matson sat in his
easy chair. But he did not seem to be reading, though he held the paper
up in front of him. Joe fancied he saw a look of worriment on his
father's face, and he wondered if he was vexed over some problem in
inventive work, or whether he was troubled over business matters
concerning his new position.
Then there came to the lad's mind a memory of his mother's anxiety the
night he had come in from the game, and he wondered if the two had any
connection. But he knew it would not do to ask, for his father seldom
talked over business matters at home.
Finally, seeming to feel Joe's look, Mr. Matson, after a quick glance at
his son, began to scan the paper.
"Go on with your studying, Joe and Clara," commanded Mrs. Matson with a
smile. "Don't dispute any more."
"I was only asking Joe if he knew any nice boys," spoke Clara in
vindication. "I know how fond he was of playing baseball back in
Bentville, and I was wondering if he was going to play here."
"Guess I haven't much chance," murmured Joe half gloomily, as he drew
idle circles on the back blank leaf of his book.
"Why not?" asked Clara quickly. "The girls say the boys have a good nine
here, even if they were beaten last Saturday. There's going to be
another game this Saturday, and Helen Rutherford is going to take me."
"Oh, yes, there's a good enough team here," admitted Joe. "In fact the
Silver Stars are all right, but every position is filled. I _would_ like
to play--I'd like to pitch. I want to get all the practice I can on
these small teams, so when I go to boarding school I'll have something
to talk about."
"And you're still set on going to boarding school?" asked Mrs. Matson,
sighing gently as she looked at her son.
"I certainly am--if it can be managed," replied Joe quickly.
Mr. Matson started so suddenly that the paper rattled loudly, and his
wife asked:
"What's the matter, John, did something in the news startle you?"
"Oh--no," he said slowly. "I--I guess I'm a bit nervous. I've been
working rather hard lately on an improvement in a corn reaper and
binder. It doesn't seem to come just right. I believe I'll go to bed.
I'm tired," and with "good-nights" that were not as cheerful as usual he
left the room. Mrs. Matson sighed but said nothing, and Joe wondered
more than ever if any trouble was brewing. He hoped not. As for Clara
she was again bent over her lessons.
The Silver Star nine was variously made up. A number of lads worked in
different town industries, one even being employed in the harvester
works where Mr. Matson was employed. Others attended school.
Joe Matson had attended the academy in the town of Bentville whence they
moved to Riverside, and on arriving in the latter place had at once
sought admission to the high school. He was given a brief examination,
and placed in the junior class, though in some of the studies the pupils
there were a little ahead of him, consequently he had to do some hard
studying.
The ambition to attend a boarding school had been in Joe's mind for a
long while, and as his father was in moderate circumstances, and soon
hoped to make considerable from his patents, Joe reasoned that his
parents could then afford to send him.
Among others on the nine who attended the high school were Darrell
Blackney and Sam Morton, who were in the senior class, and Tom Davis,
whose acquaintance Joe had made soon after coming to Riverside. There
was a school nine, but it was made up of the smaller boys and Joe had no
desire to join this. In fact none of the lads who were on the Silver
Stars belonged to the school team.
"Well, I'm through, thank goodness!" finally exclaimed Clara, as she
closed her books.
"And I am too," added Joe, a moment later. "Hope I don't flunk
to-morrow."
"Are you going to the game Saturday?" asked Clara.
"Oh, I guess so. Wish I was going _in_ it, but that's too much to hope
for."
"Don't you know any one on the nine?"
"Yes, Tom Davis."
"He's the boy back of us, isn't he? His sister Mabel is in my class."
"Yes," assented Joe, "but Tom is only a substitute."
"Maybe you could be that at first, and then get a regular place,"
suggested Clara.
"Um!" murmured Joe. He didn't have a very high opinion of girls'
knowledge of baseball, even his sister's.
When Joe reached home from school the following afternoon he saw his
mother standing on the front steps with a letter in her hand.
"Oh, Joe!" she exclaimed, "I was just waiting for you. Your father----"
"Is there anything the matter with father?" the lad gasped, his thoughts
going with a rush to one or two little scenes that had alarmed him
lately.
"No, nothing at all," answered his mother with a smile. "But he just
hurried home from the factory with this note and he wanted you, as soon
as you came home, to take it to Moorville. It's for a Mr. Rufus Holdney
there. The address is on it, and I guess you can find him all right.
You're to wait for an answer. Go on your wheel. It's only a few miles to
Moorville, and a straight road, so your father says."
"I know where it is," answered Joe. "Tom Davis has relatives there. He
pointed out the road to me one day. I'll go right away. Here, catch
hold of my books, mother, and I'll get my wheel out of the barn," for a
barn went with the house Mr. Matson had rented.
A little later the lad was speeding down the country road that pleasant
spring afternoon. Joe was a good rider and was using considerable
strength on the pedals when suddenly, as he turned a sharp curve, he saw
coming toward him another cyclist. He had barely time to note that it
was Sam Morton, the pitcher of the Silver Stars, and to utter a warning
shout when he crashed full into the other lad.
In a moment there was a mix-up of wheels, legs and arms, while a cloud
of dust momentarily hid everything from sight. At first Joe did not know
whether or not he was hurt, or whether Sam was injured. Fortunately Joe
had instinctively put on the brake with all his strength, and he
supposed the other lad had done likewise.
Then, as the dust cleared away, and Joe began to pull his arms and legs
out of the tangle, and arise, he saw that Sam was doing the same thing.
"Hope you're not hurt much!" was Joe's first greeting.
"Humph! It isn't your fault if I'm not," was the ungracious answer, as
Sam felt of his pitching arm. "What do you mean by crashing into a
fellow that way for, anyhow?"
"I didn't mean to. I didn't know that curve was so sharp. I'd never
ridden on this road before."
"Well, why didn't you blow your horn or ring your bell or--or
something?"
"Why didn't you?" demanded Joe with equal right.
"Never mind. Don't give me any of your talk. You're one of the fresh
juniors at school, aren't you?"
"I don't know that I'm 'fresh,'" replied Joe quietly, "but I am a
junior. I'm sorry if I hurt you, but I couldn't help it."
"Yes you could, if you knew anything about riding a wheel."
"I tell you I couldn't," and Joe spoke a bit sharply. "I was into you
before I knew it. And besides, you ran into me as much as I did into
you."
"I did not. If you don't know enough to ride a wheel, keep off the
roads!" snarled the pitcher. "If I'm stiff for Saturday's game it will
be your fault."
"I hope you won't be stiff," spoke Joe, and he said it sincerely.
"And if my wheel is broken you'll have to pay for it," went on Sam.
"I don't think that's right," said Joe firmly. "It was as much your
fault as mine, and my wheel may be broken too. I'm going to look," he
added as he lifted his bicycle from where it was entangled with Sam's.
A bent pedal, which would not interfere with its use, was all the damage
Joe's wheel had sustained and beyond a few bent spokes and a punctured
tire Sam's seemed to have suffered no great harm.
"I'll help you straighten those spokes," said Joe cheerfully. "It won't
take but a minute. I can have my father straighten my pedal at the
factory. And I'll help you mend and pump up your tire. I'm sorry----"
"Look here!" burst out Sam in a rage, "I don't want any of your help.
You're too fresh. You come banging into a fellow, knocking him all over
and then you think you can square things by offering to help him. I
don't want any of your help!"
"Oh, very well," replied Joe quietly. "Then I'll be going on. I've got
an errand to do. But I'd like to help you."
"Mind your own business!" snapped Sam, still rubbing his pitching arm.
He made no motion to pick up his wheel.
Joe was half minded to make an angry retort but he thought better of it.
He wheeled his bicycle to the hard side-path of the road, and,
ascertaining that his letter was safe, prepared to mount and ride away.
"And mind you, if my arm is stiff, and I can't pitch Saturday it will be
your fault, and I'll tell the fellows so," called Sam as he leaned over
to pick up his wheel.
"All right, only you know it isn't so," replied Joe quietly.
As he pedaled on he looked back and saw Sam straightening some of the
bent spokes. The pitcher scowled at him.
"Hum," mused Joe as he speeded up. "Not a very good beginning for
getting on the nine--a run-in with the pitcher. Well, I guess I wouldn't
be in it anyhow. I guess they think I'm not in their class. But I will
be--some day!" and with a grim tightening of his lips Joe Matson rode
on.