A MEAN PROTEST
Finally Sam ceased his laughter, straightened up and prepared to ride
out of the fairgrounds on his wheel.
"I was just going past," he said, in needless explanation, "when I heard
something banging against the fence. First I thought it might be one of
the cattle left over from the last show, but when I saw it was you,
Matson--Oh, my! It's too rich! I'll have to tell the boys."
"Look here!" exclaimed Joe, who disliked as much as any one being
laughed at, "what have you got against me, anyhow? Are you afraid I'll
displace you as pitcher?"
"What's that? Not much. You couldn't do that you know," and Sam laughed
again.
"Then what do you want to be so mean for?" asked Joe.
"None of your business, if you want to know," snapped Sam. "But if you
think you're going to get on our team you've got another think coming.
Look out, now, don't break the fence with those balls, or the fair
committee might make you pay for it," and with this parting insult Sam
rode out of the grounds.
Joe's heart was beating fast, and he clenched his hands. He would liked
to have gone after Sam and given him a well deserved thrashing, but he
knew that would never do.
"I've just got to grin and bear it!" murmured Joe through his clenched
teeth. "If the fellows laugh at me I'll have to let 'em laugh. After all
I can stand it, and I _do_ want to get on the team.
"Queer why Sam Morton should be so down on me. I don't see his reason
unless it's jealousy, or because he's mad at me for running into him.
Maybe it's both.
"Well, there's no use practicing any longer. My arm is tired, and
besides he might be hiding behind the fence to laugh some more. I'll
have to find a different place if I want to practice getting up my speed
and curves."
Picking up the balls and his books Joe slowly made his way out of the
grounds. Sam Morton was nowhere in sight, for which the young ball
player was glad.
"Maybe this will end it," thought Joe. "He just wanted to amuse himself
at my expense." But our hero was soon to find that the vindictive
spirit of the pitcher was not quelled.
"Coming out to see us practice this afternoon?" asked Tom Davis of Joe
several days later. "We're getting ready to play the Red Stockings of
Rutherford, Saturday."
"Sure I'll come," answered Joe. "Will it be a good game?"
"It ought to. The Red Stockings used to have a good nine but they struck
a slump and lately we've been beating them. But I hear they have a new
pitcher and they may make it hard for us. Say, what's this yarn Sam is
telling about you practicing down on the fairgrounds."
"Oh, it's true enough," answered Joe with a flush. "I thought I'd get up
some speed. I've got a chance to get on the nine."
"Is that so; I hadn't heard it. Gee! I hope you do. How you going to
manage it?"
"Well, I don't know as Darrell wants it known," was the answer, "but
I'll tell you," and Joe proceeded to relate his talk with the manager,
about the prospective leaving of McGraw.
"That's so, Jed is going away," admitted Tom. "I had forgotten about
that. Say, I hope he leaves before Saturday and then you can get a
chance to play."
"What about Len Oswald, the substitute centre fielder?"
"Oh, Len is practically out of it. He can't get off Saturday afternoons
any more. Too much business in that Fordham grocery where he works.
That's a good thing for you. I'm real glad of it, Joe. But say, if you
want to practice pitching, why didn't you ask me to catch for you?"
"I didn't want to bother you?"
"Aw, get out. I'd be glad to do it. Next time you want to try it tip me
off and we'll go some place where Sam can't bother us. He's a mean chap
sometimes. I don't like him, but some of the fellows think he's all
there. He sure can pitch, and I guess that's why we keep him. But come
on, let's go to practice. There may be a scrub game and you can get in
on it."
Joe and Tom found quite a crowd assembled on the Riverside diamond when
they arrived. The nine and the substitutes were in uniforms, and Darrell
Blackney and George Rankin were talking to the team, giving them some
points about the coming game with the Red Stockings.
"I guess we've got enough for a scrub game," announced the captain, as
Joe and Tom strolled up. "Tom, you play first on the scrub. And let's
see--what's your name?" and he turned to Joe, who introduced himself.
"He's a friend of mine," added Tom, "so treat him right."
"Good!" exclaimed the captain. "Well, he can play on the scrub if he
wants to. Out in the field," he added.
"Oh, yes, that's Matson, whom I was telling you about," put in the
manager, and then he added something in a low voice which Joe could not
catch.
"Play ball!" called the umpire, and the impromptu contest was underway.
Joe narrowly watched Sam's pitching and even though he regarded the lad
as unfriendly to him, our hero could not but admit that his rival in the
box was doing good work.
"But I think I can equal him if I have a chance," thought Joe, and he
was not given to idle boasting, either. "Oh, if I only get the chance!"
he exclaimed in a whisper.
Then a high fly came his way and he had to get down to business and stop
his day-dreaming. He ran back to get under the ball, and made a pretty
one-handed catch. There was some applause from the little group of
spectators.
"Good eye!" yelled Tom Davis.
"That's the stuff!" cried some one else, and Joe felt a warm thrill of
pleasure as he threw the ball in.
Of course the first team won, for the scrub was composed of odds and
ends, with some substitutes from the Silver Stars, but Joe had done his
best to hold down the score.
"Good work, Matson," complimented Darrell, when the contest was over.
"By the way, I've about decided in your case. You can get ready to play
centre field Saturday. McGraw can't be with us, and we can't count on
Oswald. Have you a uniform?"
"Yes," said Joe eagerly.
"A uniform; what for?" asked Sam Morton quickly. He had come up behind
Joe and Darrell, and had heard the last part of the conversation.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you fellows that Matson is our new member of the
team," went on the manager. "Shake hands with him, boys. I've been
watching him play to-day and I think with a little practice he'll make
good."
"Where's he going to play?" demanded Sam roughly, while the lads crowded
around Joe, congratulating him, asking him questions as to where he had
played ball before, and shaking hands with him. "Where's he going to
play?" and Sam pointed what seemed like an accusing finger at Joe.
"Centre field--McGraw's place," answered the manager briefly.
"Regular or substitute?" demanded Sam.
"Practically a regular," replied Darrell. "We can't count on Oswald any
more, now that his busy season has begun."
Every member of the Silver Stars save Sam had shaken hands with Joe. The
pitcher now stood facing our hero.
"I want to protest!" suddenly exclaimed Sam, looking Joe full in the
face.
"Why?" asked Darrell.
"What business is it of yours, anyhow, Sam?" asked the captain. "Darrell
and I have settled this. Matson plays."
"Then I want my protest noted!" went on Sam angrily. "We're supposed to
be a local team--every one on it belongs in town."
"So does Joe Matson!" broke in Tom Davis.
"Well, he's only just moved in, and how do we know but what he'll move
out again?" demanded Sam. "I protest against him being a regular, or
even a substitute, member of the Silver Stars!"