JOE HAS HOPES
"Yes, here's the very thing, I guess!" said Joe, after rummaging about
in his leather tool case. He produced a short but heavy bolt with a nut.
"It isn't exactly the same thing," remarked Darrell, after looking at it
carefully, "but it will do, if it's long enough. Would you mind holding
Prince's head while I try it? He might start up, just as I got the shaft
in place, and hurt my fingers, if he didn't make me drop the bolt. Then
we'd have a sweet time hunting for it in the dark."
Joe went to the animal's head and patted the cold, velvety nose while
the other lad lifted up the dropped shaft and fitted it in place. He was
fumbling about in the flickering light of the bicycle lantern which he
had temporarily fastened to the dashboard.
"Will it do?" asked Joe.
"Yes, it's just the cheese. Lucky I met you, or, rather that you met me,
or I don't know what I would have done. The bolt is just long enough.
Now if I can get the nut on----"
"There's a wrench in my tool bag," interrupted Joe. "Shall I get it for
you?"
"No, thanks, you stay by Prince. I can find it. You haven't been in town
long, have you?" asked Darrell, as he was working away over the nut,
which was a little tight.
"No, about a week. I was at the Resolute ball game though."
"You were? It was a shame it broke up the way it did, but I don't think
it was our fault, though Sam Morton is pretty quick tempered."
Joe had good reason to know that.
"No," he answered from the darkness near the horse's head, "it was the
fault of the Resolutes all right. They ought to have been satisfied
after pulling the game out of the fire the way they did."
"I should say so! They never ought to have won it, and they wouldn't
have, only Sam sort of--well they got his 'goat' I guess."
"Yes," assented Joe, while Darrell went on fumbling with the wrench and
nut.
"Do you play at all?" came the manager's voice from the vicinity of the
flickering light.
"Oh, yes," and Joe's tone was eager while his heart was strangely
beating. It was a chance he had never dared hope for, to have the
manager of the Silver Stars ask him that.
"Where?" came the next inquiry.
"In Bentville, where I used to live."
"Oh. Have a good team?"
"Pretty fair."
"Where'd you play?"
"I used to pitch." There was a pause and then, emboldened by what had
happened, Joe went on. "I don't suppose there's a vacancy in your nine,
is there?" and he laughed half whimsically.
"No, hardly, that is, not in the box," said Darrell slowly. "Sam has his
faults, but he's the best pitcher we've had in a long time and I guess
we'll keep him. There, that's fixed," he went on, tapping the bolt to
see that it was firmly in place. "Now I can go on, I guess. I'm a
thousand times obliged to you. I don't know what I'd have done only for
you. After this I'm going to carry a light, and some spare bolts."
He handed Joe back the wrench and took the lamp off the dashboard.
"I'll give you a bolt in place of this the next time I see you," the
manager went on, as he held the lamp out to our hero.
"Oh, it isn't necessary. I don't need it for my wheel. It was just one
of some odds and ends that I carry with me."
Darrell stood looking at Joe, whose face was illuminated brightly by the
full focus of the lamp. The manager seemed struck by something.
"I say!" he exclaimed, "you look as if you were built to play ball. Were
you at it long?"
"Oh, a couple of years."
"Pitch all that time?"
"Oh, no, only just the last few months of the season. Our regular
pitcher left and I filled in."
"I see. Hum, well, as I said we haven't any vacancy in the box, but by
Jove! come to think of it I might give you a chance!"
Joe's heart leaped wildly and he could hardly answer.
"Can you, really?" he asked.
"Yes, but not as a regular, of course--at least that is not right off
the bat. But if you'd like to try for place at centre field I believe I
can manage it."
Joe's heart was a little despondent. Centre field was not a very
brilliant place in which to shine with the Stars, but it was a start and
he realized that.
"I'd be glad of the chance," he managed to say.
"All right, I'll keep you in mind. You see our regular centre fielder,
Jed McGraw, is going to leave. His folks are moving out west and we'll
have to have some one in his place. I don't know when he's going, but
it's this week or next. I'd like to do something for you, to sort of pay
you for what you did for me to-night, and----"
"Oh, I don't want anything for this!" exclaimed Joe.
"I know you don't, but it just happened so. I might not have known you
except for this accident, and as I said we will need some one to fill in
at centre field. Len Oswald is the regular substitute, but he doesn't
practice much, and he's got a job over at Fordham so he can't always be
sure of getting off Saturday afternoons, which is when we mostly play.
So I'll put you down as sub now and perhaps as regular--it depends on
Len."
"Thanks!" Joe managed to say and he found himself hoping that Len would
have to work every Saturday during the season.
"We need some one with experience," went on Darrell, "and I'm glad I
could give you the chance. Tom Davis was saying you got mixed up in the
row the other day."
"Yes. I seem to be getting the habit," replied Joe with a laugh. "I had
one with Sam Morton on this road a little while ago."
"You don't say so! How did it happen?"
Joe gave all the details.
"Hum! Well, Sam sure has a quick temper," went on the young manager.
"But he's all right soon after it," he added in extenuation. "He'll be
friendly with you in a few days and forget all about it. I wouldn't hold
a grudge against him, if I were you."
"Oh, I shan't. It was both our faults."
"Well, I'll be getting on," remarked Darrell, after a pause. "Come and
see me sometime. I'll see you at school to-morrow, and if there's
anything doing I'll let you know."
The two boys' hands met in a friendly clasp and then the manager,
getting into his carriage, drove off. A little later, his heart filled
with hope, Joe, having put back his lantern and tool bag pedaled toward
home.
"This was a lucky day for me, even if it did look bad after that crash
with Sam Morton," he said to himself. "I'm going to play ball, after
all!"
There was rather a grave look on Mr. Matson's face when Joe handed him
the reply from Mr. Holdney, and told of his interview.
"So he can't help me--Oh, well, never mind," and Mr. Matson turned aside
and went into the room where he kept a desk. Mrs. Matson followed,
closing the door after her, and for some time the voices of the two
could be heard in low but earnest conversation.
"What's the matter; nothing wrong I hope?" asked Clara.
"Oh, I guess not," answered Joe, though he was vaguely uneasy himself.
Then came the thought of his talk with the baseball manager and his
heart was light again.
Supper was rather a quiet affair that night, and Mr. Matson spoke but
little, quite in contrast to his usual cheerful flow of conversation.
Mrs. Matson, too, seemed preoccupied.
"I think I'm going to get on the Stars!" exclaimed Joe, when he got a
chance to tell of his experiences that day.
"That's good," said Mr. Matson heartily. "There's no game like
baseball."
"But it doesn't fit a boy for anything," complained Mrs. Matson. "It
doesn't help in any of the professions."
"It's a profession in itself!" declared Joe stoutly.
"I hope you don't intend to adopt it," spoke his sister.
"Oh, I don't know. I might do worse. Look at some of those big New York
players getting thousands of dollars a year."
"But look how long it takes them to get to that place," objected Clara,
who liked to argue.
"Oh, well, I'm young yet," laughed Joe.
In his room that night, while preparing for bed Joe got to thinking of
the possibility mentioned by Darrell Blackney.
"I'm going to play my head off in centre field," said Joe, "and I'm
going to practice batting, too. Stick work counts. I'm going to practice
pitching, also. Who knows, maybe I'll get a chance in the box if Sam
ever slumps.
"Wow! If I ever do!" and standing before an imaginary batter Joe flung
out his arm as if delivering a swift curve. With a crash his fist hit a
picture on the wall and brought it clattering down to the floor.
"What's that?" called Clara sharply from the next room.
"Oh, I was just practicing pitching," answered Joe sheepishly, as he
picked up the picture, the glass of which had fortunately not broken.
"Well, you'd better practice going to sleep," responded his sister with
a laugh.
Joe smiled. He had great hopes for the future.