AN EMBARRASSED RESCUER
On the long trip to Australia the tourists encountered the most severe storm of the journey. In fact, it was almost equal to the dreaded typhoon, and there were times when, despite the staunchness of the vessel, the faces of the captain and the officers were lined with anxiety.
After two days and nights, however, of peril, the storm blew itself out and the rest of the journey was made over serene seas and under cloudless skies.
One night after the girls had retired, Joe and Jim, together with McRae and Braxton, were sitting in the smoking room. The conversation had been of the kind that always prevails when baseball “fans” get together.
After a while Jim accompanied McRae to the latter’s cabin to discuss some details of Jim’s contract for the coming season, leaving Joe and Braxton as the sole occupants of the room.
Joe had never been able to overcome the 192 instinctive antipathy that he had felt toward Braxton from the first, but he had kept this under restraint, and Braxton himself, though he might have suspected this feeling, was always suave and urbane.
There was no denying that he was good company and always interesting. In an apparently accidental way, Braxton, who had been scribbling aimlessly upon some pieces of paper that lay on the table, led the talk toward the subject of handwriting.
“It’s a gift to write a good hand,” he remarked. “It’s got to be born in you. Some men can do it naturally, others can’t. I’m one of the fellows that can’t. I’ll bet Horace Greeley himself never wrote a worse hand than I do.”
“I’ve heard that he was a weird writer,” smiled Joe.
“The worst ever,” rejoined Braxton. “I’ve heard that he wrote to his foreman once, ordering him to discharge a printer who had set up a bad copy. The printer hated to lose his job and an idea struck him. He got hold of the letter discharging him and took it to Greeley, who didn’t know him by sight, and told him it was a letter of recommendation from his last employer. Greeley tried to read it, but couldn’t, so he said he guessed it was all right and told him he was engaged.” 193
Joe laughed, and Braxton tossed over to him a sheet of paper on which he had written his name.
“Greeley has nothing on me,” he said. “If you didn’t know my name was Braxton, I’ll bet you wouldn’t recognize these hen tracks.”
“You’re right,” said Joe. “I’m no dabster myself at writing and I can sympathize with you.”
“It couldn’t be as bad as this,” challenged Braxton, slipping a pen over to Joe, together with a fresh piece of paper.
“No,” said Joe, as he took up the pen, “I guess at least you could make mine out.”
He scribbled his name and Braxton picked up the paper with a laugh.
“I win,” he said. “You’re bad, but I’m worse. You see I am proud even of my defects.”
He dropped the subject then and talked of other things until Joe, stifling a yawn, excused himself and went to his cabin.
The reception of the party in Australia went far beyond their expectations. That remote continent has always been noted for its sporting spirit and although of course the English blood made cricket their favorite game, the crowds were quick to detect and appreciate the merits of the great American pastime.
As a rule they would not concede that the batting was any better than that shown by their own 194 cricketers, but there was no question as to the superiority of the fielding.
The lightning throws, the double plays, the marvelous catches in the outfield and the speed shown on the bases were freely admitted to be far and away beyond that shown by their elevens. And the crowds grew larger and larger as the visiting teams made their triumphal progress through the great cities of Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide and Melbourne.
Inspired by their reception and put upon their mettle by the great outpouring of spectators, the teams themselves played like demons. One might almost have thought that they were fighting for the pennant.
They were so evenly matched that first one and then the other was on top, and by the time they reached Melbourne the Giants were only one game in the lead of the total that had been played since the trip began.
Melbourne itself with its romantic history and magic growth proved very attractive. But Joe was destined to remember it for very different reasons.
While walking with Jim one day outside the town near the Yarra Yarra river, they were startled by hearing a cry for help, and racing toward the sound they saw a young girl struggling in the water. 195
Trained by their vocation to act quickly, they threw off their coats, plunging into the water almost at the same instant. They swam fiercely, lashed on by that frantic wail, sounding fainter each time it was repeated.
The race for a life was almost neck and neck until Joe, showing his tremendous reserve strength, shot ahead at the very end, grasping the struggling figure as it was sinking for the last time.
Jim helped, and together they brought the rescued girl—the long dank black hair testified to her sex—back to shore, where a group of the native blacks, attracted by the cries, had gathered to welcome them.
Dripping and exhausted, the two heroes of the occasion staggered up the bank while willing hands relieved them of their burden.
“Let’s beat it,” whispered Jim, as the crowd of natives closed around the unconscious object of their heroism, “while the going’s good. If that girl ever finds out that you rescued her she’ll want to attach herself to you for life. That seems to be the fool custom of these parts.”
“She’d find it pretty hard work,” said Joe, with a wry smile. “Besides, we don’t even know that the girl’s alive. It would be pretty heartless to clear out without learning.”
“Oh, all right,” said Jim, uneasily. “But 196 remember, if there are any consequences you’ve got to take ’em.”
At that moment the crowd opened and the boys saw a remarkably good-looking black girl standing dizzily and supported by another native who might have been her father.
She looked dazedly from one to the other of the young men and Jim promptly “stepped out from under.”
“It’s him,” said Jim, neglecting grammar in his eagerness to shift the burden of credit to Joe’s broad shoulders. “He did it all.”
The girl walked unsteadily up to Joe and said, submissively: “My life is yours! Me your slave!”
Joe started, stared, and gulped, then turned to Jim to make sure he was awake, and not a victim of some bad dream. But Jim had suddenly acquired a peculiar form of hysteria, and with a choking sound turned his back upon his friend.
“N-no,” stuttered Joe, gently pushing the girl away, “no want.”
Another explosion from Jim did not serve to improve Joe’s state of mind. His face was fiery red, and his voice husky.
“Me slave!” persisted the girl stubbornly.
Then Joe turned and fled, manfully fighting a desire to shout with laughter one moment, and groan with dismay the next. 197
Two very much subdued baseball players crept in at the side door of the hotel, and scurried along the corridor toward their rooms, hoping ardently to meet no one on the way. It was with a sigh of relief that they slipped inside, locked the door, and repaired the ravages that the waters of the Yarra Yarra had made upon their clothing.
A few moments later, with self respect considerably improved, they sauntered down to the writing room, where they found the two girls looking more distractingly pretty than ever, engaged in folding the last of their letters.
“Oh, back so soon?” queried Mabel, looking up.
“Goodness, how the time has flown,” said Clara. “It seems as though you had just gone. Have you another stamp, Mabel dear? I have used mine all up.”
“Say, you’re complimentary,” remarked Jim, dryly. “It’s great to be missed like that.”
“Well, we’ll miss something more if we don’t get a move on,” said Joe, practically. “How about some lunch, girls?”
After luncheon the quartette sauntered out for a walk up Elizabeth street to the post-office. The boys were just congratulating themselves that their uncomfortable, though piquant, experience of the morning was a thing definitely of the past, when it happened! 198
Joe felt a touch on his arm, and, looking down, saw, to his horror, the black girl.
“Me yours!” she cried, eagerly.
Joe muttered savagely beneath his breath, and held the girl off at arm’s length, his misery increasing as, with a quick side glance, he saw the growing indignation in Mabel’s eyes.
“Me yours!” repeated the girl, with the maddening monotony of a phonograph.
But just then, when Joe was at his wit’s end, help came from an unexpected quarter. A big black man, glowering threateningly, elbowed his way through the curious group that had gathered about them, grasped the girl by the arm, and dragged her away. There was no mistaking the jealousy that prompted the action. Joe drew a deep sigh of deliverance, while Jim was crimson with suppressed laughter.
Mabel was the only one, except Joe himself, who could not see the joke. There were two pink spots in her cheeks, her eyes were very bright, her head was held high, and poor Joe had some explaining to do before the party left Australia, which they did soon after, and started on their journey to Ceylon.
They reached Colombo in Ceylon, the island of spices, the richest gem in the Indian ocean, and disembarked late one afternoon. At the hotel in the English quarter, while the women of the party 199 went to their rooms to refresh themselves and dress for dinner, the men, after a hasty toilet, went into the lobby of the hotel where, as always, their first thought was to get hold of the papers from home.
Joe’s eyes fell on a New York paper and he snatched it up eagerly and turned to the sporting page for the latest news of the diamond. He gave a startled exclamation as he saw the bold headline that stretched across the top of the page:
“Joe Matson, the Pitching King, Signs with the All-Star League!”