LAUGHED AT
"What's that in your pocket, Joe?"
"Which pocket?"
"Your coat. I declare, you've got something in both pockets," and Clara
approached her brother as if with the intention of making a personal
inspection of two big bulges on either side of his coat. "What are
they?" she persisted, as Joe backed away. Brother and sister had just
gotten up from the breakfast table, and were about to start to school.
"Oh, never mind!" exclaimed Joe hastily, as he looked for his cap. "Got
your lessons, Clara?"
"Of course I have. But I'm curious to know what makes your pockets bulge
out so. Don't you know it will spoil your coat?"
"I don't care," and Joe made another hasty move to get out of reach of
Clara's outstretched hand. But he was not successful, and, with a laugh,
his sister caught hold of the bulging pocket on his left side.
"A ball!" she declared. "A baseball upon my word! Two of them! Oh, Joe,
are you really going to play on the nine Saturday?"
"I don't know. Maybe I'll get a chance if Jed McGraw leaves in time. But
I'm taking a couple of old balls to practice throwing this afternoon
when I come from school."
"You're starting in early," commented Clara. "I hope you don't sleep
with a baseball under your pillow the way we girls do with pieces of
wedding cake," and she laughed merrily.
"I'd be willing to sleep with a ball and a bat under my pillow if I
thought I'd get in the game by it," admitted Joe frankly. "But I'm not
hoping too much. Well, I'm going. Good-bye momsey," and he stopped to
kiss his mother before he hastened away to school. He looked at her
closely to discover whether there was any trace of worry, but she smiled
at him.
"I may not be home early," he told her. "I'm going down to the
fairgrounds."
"What for?" she asked quickly. "There isn't a show there, is there?"
"No, but I want to do a little baseball practicing, and that place is
well out of the way."
"Baseball practice on the fairgrounds. How----"
But she did not wait to finish her question for she exclaimed:
"My cake is burning in the oven. Good-bye, Joe!" and she ran to the
kitchen.
"I wonder what Sam Morton will say?" Joe reflected as he walked along.
"I certainly hope his arm isn't lame, even if it was as much his fault
as mine. I don't want him to tell the fellows I'm to blame for him
losing a game--if he should."
Fearing that the same thing might happen to him as when Clara laughed at
him for having the two baseballs in his pockets, Joe slipped to his desk
as soon as he reached the school, and hid the balls away back among his
books. The balls were two old ones he had used when on the Bentville
nine, and they were still in fair condition.
"I'm not going to let the fellows get on to the fact that I'm
practicing, until there's more of a chance for me than there is now,"
thought our hero, as he went out on the school grounds to watch the lads
at play.
An impromptu game was going on, but Joe did not join. Darrell Blackney
passed him, and in answer to Joe's nod of greeting asked:
"Did you get home all right?"
"Oh, yes. How about you?"
"Fine. The bolt was all right. I haven't forgotten. I'll see McGraw
to-day and find out when he's going to leave. Then if Oswald can't say
for sure whether he'll be with us, you'll go in at centre field."
"Good!" exclaimed Joe, his eyes bright with anticipation.
As Darrell passed on, Joe saw Sam Morton approaching. At first he had a
notion of turning away and avoiding what he felt would be an unpleasant
scene. But Joe was nothing of a coward and he realized that, sooner or
later, he would have to meet the pitcher with whom he had had the
collision. So he stood his ground.
"How's your arm?" he asked pleasantly, as Sam approached.
"Hu! None the better for what you did to it."
"What _I_ did?" and Joe's voice took on a surprised tone. "Do you still
insist it was my fault?"
"Pretty near," went on Sam, but Joe noticed that he was not quite so
vindictive as before. "It isn't as stiff as I thought it would be,
though."
"I hope you can pitch all right Saturday," went on Joe. He wanted very
much to hint at the fact that he, too, might be in the game, but Sam was
not a lad to invite confidences, especially after what had taken place.
Joe liked comradeship. He liked the company of boys of his own age and
he was just "hungry" to talk baseball. But, aside from Tom Davis, as
yet he had no chums with whom he could gossip about the great pastime.
In Bentville he was looked up to as one of the nine, and, though the
team was not as good a one as was the Silver Stars, still it was a team,
and Joe was one of the principal players. Coming to a strange town, and
being distinctly out of the game, made him feel like a "cat in a strange
garret," as he said afterward.
But with a grim tightening of his lips he made up his mind not to give
way to gloomy thoughts, and he determined that he would be on the town
team and one of the best players.
As the warning bell rang, Tom Davis came hurrying across the school
campus.
"I called for you!" he shouted to Joe who, with a crowd of other lads,
was going in the building, "but you'd gone."
"Thanks," replied Joe, grateful for the friendly spirit shown. "I'll
wait next time." He liked Tom, and was glad to have him for a chum.
Joe thought lessons would never be finished that day, but the classes
were finally dismissed and then, without waiting for Tom, though he
thought this might be construed as rather unfriendly, our hero hastened
off in the direction of the fairgrounds. There was a high wooden fence
around this plot, and it gave Joe just the chance he wanted, for he was
going to practice pitching, and he didn't want any witnesses.
"I wish I had half a dozen balls," he murmured as he went in through one
of the gates which was unlocked. "I wouldn't have to chase back and
forth so often. But two will do for a while."
He laid his books down on the grass, took out the horsehide spheres and,
measuring a distance from the fence about equal to the space from the
pitcher's box to home plate, he began to pitch the balls.
With dull thuds the balls struck the fence, one after the other, and
fell to the ground. Joe picked them up, took his place again in the
imaginary box, and repeated the performance.
His arm, that was a bit stiff at first, from lack of practice since
coming to Riverside, gradually became limber. He knew that his speed,
too, was increasing. He could not judge of his curves, and, truth to
tell he did not have very good ones as yet, for he had only recently
learned the knack. But he had the right ideas and a veteran professional
pitcher, who was a friend of one of the Bentville nine's members, had
showed Joe the proper manner to hold and deliver the ball.
"I wish I had some one back there to give me a line on myself," thought
Joe, as he pitched away, a solitary figure on the grounds. "I don't know
whether I'm getting them over the plate, or a mile beyond," for he had
laid down a flat stone to serve as "home."
"Anyhow this will improve my speed," he reasoned, "and speed is needed
now-a-days as much as curves."
Time and again he pitched his two horsehides, ran to pick them up as
they dropped at the foot of the fence, and then he raced back to his
"box" to repeat the performance. He was rather tiring of it, and his arm
was beginning to feel numb in spite of his enthusiasm, when he heard
some one laughing. The sound came from behind him, and, turning quickly,
Joe saw Sam Morton standing leaning up against his wheel, and
contemplating him with mirth showing on his face.
"Well, well!" exclaimed Sam. "This is pretty good. What are you trying
to do, Matson, knock the fence down? If you are, why don't you take a
hammer or some stones instead of baseballs? This is rich! Ha! Ha!"
For a moment Joe was tempted to make an angry answer, for the hot blood
of shame mounted to his cheeks. Then he said quietly, and with as much
good-nature as he could summon on the spur of the moment:
"I'm practicing, that's all. I came here as I didn't want to lose the
balls, and the fence makes a good backstop."
"Practicing, eh? What for?" and once more Sam laughed in an insulting
manner.
"To improve my pitching. There may be a chance to get on the team, I
understand."
"What team; the Silver Stars?"
Sam's voice had a harsh note in it.
"Yes." And Joe nodded.
"So you're practicing pitching, eh? And you hope to get on our nine.
Well let me tell you one thing, Matson; you won't pitch on the Silver
Stars as long as I'm on deck, and I intend to remain for quite a while
yet. Pitching practice, eh? Ho! That's pretty good! What you'd better
practice is running bases. We may let you run for some of the fellows,
if you're real good. Or how would you like to carry the bats or be the
water boy? I understand there's a vacancy there. Pitcher! Ha! Ha!" and
Sam doubled up in mirth. Joe's face flushed, but he said nothing.