JOE HAS HOPES
“Yes, here’s the very thing, I guess!” said Joe, after rummaging about in his leather tool case. He produced a short but heavy bolt with a nut.
“It isn’t exactly the same thing,” remarked Darrell, after looking at it carefully, “but it will do, if it’s long enough. Would you mind holding Prince’s head while I try it? He might start up, just as I got the shaft in place, and hurt my fingers, if he didn’t make me drop the bolt. Then we’d have a sweet time hunting for it in the dark.”
Joe went to the animal’s head and patted the cold, velvety nose while the other lad lifted up the dropped shaft and fitted it in place. He was fumbling about in the flickering light of the bicycle lantern which he had temporarily fastened to the dashboard.
“Will it do?” asked Joe.
“Yes, it’s just the cheese. Lucky I met you, or, rather that you met me, or I don’t know what I would have done. The bolt is just long enough. Now if I can get the nut on——”
“There’s a wrench in my tool bag,” interrupted Joe. “Shall I get it for you?”
“No, thanks, you stay by Prince. I can find it. You haven’t been in town long, have you?” asked Darrell, as he was working away over the nut, which was a little tight.
“No, about a week. I was at the Resolute ball game though.”
“You were? It was a shame it broke up the way it did, but I don’t think it was our fault, though Sam Morton is pretty quick tempered.”
Joe had good reason to know that.
“No,” he answered from the darkness near the horse’s head, “it was the fault of the Resolutes all right. They ought to have been satisfied after pulling the game out of the fire the way they did.”
“I should say so! They never ought to have won it, and they wouldn’t have, only Sam sort of—well they got his ‘goat’ I guess.”
“Yes,” assented Joe, while Darrell went on fumbling with the wrench and nut.
“Do you play at all?” came the manager’s voice from the vicinity of the flickering light.
“Oh, yes,” and Joe’s tone was eager while his heart was strangely beating. It was a chance he had never dared hope for, to have the manager of the Silver Stars ask him that.
“Where?” came the next inquiry.
“In Bentville, where I used to live.”
“Oh. Have a good team?”
“Pretty fair.”
“Where’d you play?”
“I used to pitch.” There was a pause and then, emboldened by what had happened, Joe went on. “I don’t suppose there’s a vacancy in your nine, is there?” and he laughed half whimsically.
“No, hardly, that is, not in the box,” said Darrell slowly. “Sam has his faults, but he’s the best pitcher we’ve had in a long time and I guess we’ll keep him. There, that’s fixed,” he went on, tapping the bolt to see that it was firmly in place. “Now I can go on, I guess. I’m a thousand times obliged to you. I don’t know what I’d have done only for you. After this I’m going to carry a light, and some spare bolts.”
He handed Joe back the wrench and took the lamp off the dashboard.
“I’ll give you a bolt in place of this the next time I see you,” the manager went on, as he held the lamp out to our hero.
“Oh, it isn’t necessary. I don’t need it for my wheel. It was just one of some odds and ends that I carry with me.”
Darrell stood looking at Joe, whose face was illuminated brightly by the full focus of the lamp. The manager seemed struck by something.
“I say!” he exclaimed, “you look as if you were built to play ball. Were you at it long?”
“Oh, a couple of years.”
“Pitch all that time?”
“Oh, no, only just the last few months of the season. Our regular pitcher left and I filled in.”
“I see. Hum, well, as I said we haven’t any vacancy in the box, but by Jove! come to think of it I might give you a chance!”
Joe’s heart leaped wildly and he could hardly answer.
“Can you, really?” he asked.
“Yes, but not as a regular, of course—at least that is not right off the bat. But if you’d like to try for place at centre field I believe I can manage it.”
Joe’s heart was a little despondent. Centre field was not a very brilliant place in which to shine with the Stars, but it was a start and he realized that.
“I’d be glad of the chance,” he managed to say.
“All right, I’ll keep you in mind. You see our regular centre fielder, Jed McGraw, is going to leave. His folks are moving out west and we’ll have to have some one in his place. I don’t know when he’s going, but it’s this week or next. I’d like to do something for you, to sort of pay you for what you did for me to-night, and——”
“Oh, I don’t want anything for this!” exclaimed Joe.
“I know you don’t, but it just happened so. I might not have known you except for this accident, and as I said we will need some one to fill in at centre field. Len Oswald is the regular substitute, but he doesn’t practice much, and he’s got a job over at Fordham so he can’t always be sure of getting off Saturday afternoons, which is when we mostly play. So I’ll put you down as sub now and perhaps as regular—it depends on Len.”
“Thanks!” Joe managed to say and he found himself hoping that Len would have to work every Saturday during the season.
“We need some one with experience,” went on Darrell, “and I’m glad I could give you the chance. Tom Davis was saying you got mixed up in the row the other day.”
“Yes. I seem to be getting the habit,” replied Joe with a laugh. “I had one with Sam Morton on this road a little while ago.”
“You don’t say so! How did it happen?”
Joe gave all the details.
“Hum! Well, Sam sure has a quick temper,” went on the young manager. “But he’s all right soon after it,” he added in extenuation. “He’ll be friendly with you in a few days and forget all about it. I wouldn’t hold a grudge against him, if I were you.”
“Oh, I shan’t. It was both our faults.”
“Well, I’ll be getting on,” remarked Darrell, after a pause. “Come and see me sometime. I’ll see you at school to-morrow, and if there’s anything doing I’ll let you know.”
The two boys’ hands met in a friendly clasp and then the manager, getting into his carriage, drove off. A little later, his heart filled with hope, Joe, having put back his lantern and tool bag pedaled toward home.
“This was a lucky day for me, even if it did look bad after that crash with Sam Morton,” he said to himself. “I’m going to play ball, after all!”
There was rather a grave look on Mr. Matson’s face when Joe handed him the reply from Mr. Holdney, and told of his interview.
“So he can’t help me—Oh, well, never mind,” and Mr. Matson turned aside and went into the room where he kept a desk. Mrs. Matson followed, closing the door after her, and for some time the voices of the two could be heard in low but earnest conversation.
“What’s the matter; nothing wrong I hope?” asked Clara.
“Oh, I guess not,” answered Joe, though he was vaguely uneasy himself. Then came the thought of his talk with the baseball manager and his heart was light again.
Supper was rather a quiet affair that night, and Mr. Matson spoke but little, quite in contrast to his usual cheerful flow of conversation. Mrs. Matson, too, seemed preoccupied.
“I think I’m going to get on the Stars!” exclaimed Joe, when he got a chance to tell of his experiences that day.
“That’s good,” said Mr. Matson heartily. “There’s no game like baseball.”
“But it doesn’t fit a boy for anything,” complained Mrs. Matson. “It doesn’t help in any of the professions.”
“It’s a profession in itself!” declared Joe stoutly.
“I hope you don’t intend to adopt it,” spoke his sister.
“Oh, I don’t know. I might do worse. Look at some of those big New York players getting thousands of dollars a year.”
“But look how long it takes them to get to that place,” objected Clara, who liked to argue.
“Oh, well, I’m young yet,” laughed Joe.
In his room that night, while preparing for bed Joe got to thinking of the possibility mentioned by Darrell Blackney.
“I’m going to play my head off in centre field,” said Joe, “and I’m going to practice batting, too. Stick work counts. I’m going to practice pitching, also. Who knows, maybe I’ll get a chance in the box if Sam ever slumps.
“Wow! If I ever do!” and standing before an imaginary batter Joe flung out his arm as if delivering a swift curve. With a crash his fist hit a picture on the wall and brought it clattering down to the floor.
“What’s that?” called Clara sharply from the next room.
“Oh, I was just practicing pitching,” answered Joe sheepishly, as he picked up the picture, the glass of which had fortunately not broken.
“Well, you’d better practice going to sleep,” responded his sister with a laugh.
Joe smiled. He had great hopes for the future.