Braxton had a fund of anecdotes that made him good company, and the friendship that Reggie felt for him made him often a member of Joe’s party.
“Fine fellow, that Mr. Matson of yours,” he remarked one afternoon, when he and Reggie and Mabel were sitting together under an awning, which the growing heat of every day, as the vessel made its way deeper into the tropics, made very grateful for its shade and coolness.
“Indeed he is,” remarked Mabel, warmly, to whom praise of Joe was always sweet.
“He’s a ripper, don’t you know,” agreed Reggie.
“Not only as a man but as a player,” continued Braxton. “Hughson used to be king pin 165 once, but I think it can be fairly said that Matson has taken his place as the star pitcher of America. Hughson’s arm will probably never be entirely well again.”
“Joe thinks that Hughson is a prince,” remarked Mabel. “He says he stands head and shoulders above everybody else.”
“He used to,” admitted Braxton. “For ten years there was nobody to be compared with him. But now it’s Matson’s turn to wear the crown.”
“Have you ever seen Joe pitch?” asked Mabel.
“I should say I have,” replied Braxton. “And it’s always been a treat to see the way he did his work. I saw him at the Polo Grounds when in that last, heartbreaking game he won the championship for the Giants. And I saw him, too, in that last game of the World’s Series, when it seemed as though only a miracle could save the day. That triple play was the most wonderful thing I ever beheld. The way he nailed that ball and shot it over to Denton was a thing the fans will talk over for many years to come.”
“Wasn’t it great?” cried Mabel, enthusiastically, at the same time privately resolving to tell all this to Joe and show him how unjust he was in feeling the way he did toward this generous admirer.