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!”