THE FIGHT
There was a moment of silence following Joe's remark about being made
regular pitcher. Then Clara laughed and it was almost a laugh of relief,
for she had been under quite a strain since she came in and heard the
bad news.
"Oh, you silly boy!" cried Clara. "Just as if your being made pitcher
was going to help. I suppose you'll turn all your salary in to help out
now; won't you?" but there was no sting intended in her words and,
fearing there might have been just the touch of it, she crossed the room
and tried to slip her arm up around Joe's neck.
"No, you don't!" he cried as gaily as possible under the circumstances,
"fen on kissing. But say, dad, is it as bad as all that? Have Benjamin
and his crowd beaten you?"
"I'm afraid so, son. At least they've won the first skirmish in the
battle. Now it's up to the courts, and it may take a year or more to
settle the question of whether or not I have any rights in the
inventions I originated. But don't let that worry you," he went on more
cheerfully. "We'll make out somehow. I'm glad you got the place you
wanted. How was the game?"
"Pretty good. It was so tight we had to play ten innings. But can't I do
something to help you, dad?"
"We can't do anything right away," rejoined Mr. Matson. "We can only
wait. I shall have to see a lawyer, and have him look after my
interests. I never thought that Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Holdney would treat
me this way.
"But don't worry. Perhaps we shall come out all right, and in the end
this may be a good thing. It will teach me a lesson never again to trust
any one where patents are concerned. I should have had a written
contract and not taken their mere word that they would treat me right."
"And you are out of the harvester works?" asked Joe.
"Out completely," and Mr. Matson smiled. "I have a holiday, Joe, and I'm
coming to see you pitch some day."
"But--but," ventured Clara, "if you haven't any work, dad, you won't get
any money and----"
"Oh, so that's what is worrying you!" cried her father with a laugh as
he placed his arm around her. "Well, have no fears. There are still a
few shots in the locker, and we're not going to the poorhouse right
away. Now, Joe, tell us all about the ball game."
Which the young pitcher did with great enthusiasm.
"But won't this Sam Morton be angry with you?" asked Mrs. Matson, who
was a gentle woman, always in fear of violence.
"Oh, I don't suppose he'll be very _friendly_ toward me," replied Joe.
"Then he may do you some injury."
"Well, I guess I can take care of myself. I'm not afraid of him, mother,
and if it comes to a fight----"
"Oh, you horrid boys--always thinking about fighting!" interrupted
Clara. "Don't you fight, Joe!"
"I won't if I can help it, sis."
Next morning, Joe was in two states of mind. He was delighted at being
the regular pitcher for the Stars, but he was downcast when he thought
that to go to the boarding school was now out of the question. And that
it would be impossible for him to think of it under the present
financial state of the family was made plain to him when he spoke of the
matter to his mother.
"I'm sorry, Joe," she said, "but you'll have to give up the idea."
"All right," he answered, as cheerfully as he could, but he went out of
the house quickly for there was a suspicious moisture in his eyes, and a
lump in his throat that would not seem to go down, no matter how hard he
swallowed.
"Oh, I'm a chump!" he finally exclaimed. "I shouldn't want to go to an
expensive boarding school when dad is in such trouble. And yet--and
yet--Oh! I _do_ want to get on a big team and pitch!"
In the days that followed Joe saw little of his father, for Mr. Matson
was out of town trying to get matters in shape for the court
proceedings. But Joe was kept busy at practice with the Stars, and in
playing games.
The season was in full swing and the Silver Stars seemed to have struck
a streak of winning luck. Some said it was Joe's pitching, for really he
was doing very well. Others laid it just to luck and talked darkly of a
"slump."
"There won't be any slump if you fellows keep your eyes open, and hit
and run," said the manager.
The county league season was drawing to a close, and as it stood now the
championship practically lay between the Stars and their old enemies
the Resolutes. There was some talk of playing off a tie, if it should
come to that, but when Darrell mentioned this to the Resolute manager he
was told that the latter team had all dates filled to the end of the
season.
"We can't give you a game," he announced.
"It's too bad," said Darrell, "for we ought to decide which is the best
team."
"Oh, ours is, of course. Didn't we wallop you once?"
"Well, you can't do it again," was the quick retort.
It was several days after this when Joe was coming home from afternoon
practice in preparation for a game Saturday with the Red Stockings. As
he took a short cut over the fields to get home more quickly, he was
aware of a figure coming toward him. When too late to turn back he saw
it was Sam Morton. Sam saw Joe and came to a halt.
"Well," asked Sam with a sneer, "how is the high-and-mighty pitcher? I
suppose you've been doing nothing else but handing out no-hit and no-run
games?"
"Not quite as good as that," admitted Joe with what he meant for a
friendly smile.
"Who you laughing at?" demanded Sam fiercely.
"I wasn't laughing," replied Joe.
"Yes, you were! You were laughing at me and I won't stand it. You worked
and schemed to get me out of the nine so you could go in, and now you're
making fun of me, I won't stand it, I tell you. You think you're a
pitcher! Well you're not, and you'll never be. I won't be made fun of!"
All the pent-up anger--unreasoning as it was,--all the hate that had
been accumulating for weeks in Sam, burst out at once.
He made a spring for Joe, but the pitcher stepped back. Not in time,
however, for he received a blow on the chest.
Now I am not defending Joe for what he did. I am only telling of what
happened. Joe was a manly lad yet he had all the instincts and passions
that normal lads have. When he was hit his first instinct was to hit
back, and he did it in this case.
His left fist shot forward and clipped Sam on the chin. The blow was a
staggering one and for a moment the former pitcher reeled. Then with a
roar of rage he came back at Joe, and the pair were at it hammer and
tongs.
"I'll show you that you can't come sneaking around here and steal my
place!" blubbered Sam, as he aimed a blow at Joe's face.
"I didn't sneak!" retorted Joe, as he dodged the blow and got a
right-hander near Sam's solar plexus.
Both lads were evenly matched and the fight might have gone on for some
time but for Sam's rage which made him reckless. He left unguarded
openings of which Joe took quick advantage, and finally, with a straight
left, he sent Sam to the grass.
"I--I'll fix you for that!" yelled the former pitcher as he rushed at
Joe. It was easy to step aside and avoid the clumsy blow, and once more
Sam went down. This time he did not get up so quickly, and there was a
dazed look on his face.
"See here!" cried Joe, stepping over to him. "This has gone far enough.
I didn't want to fight, but you made me. I can beat you and you know it.
If you don't stop now I'll knock you down every time you get up until
you've had enough."
It was brutal talk, perhaps, but it was well meant. For a moment Sam
looked up at his antagonist. Then he murmured:
"I've had enough--for the present."