“The fact is,” continued Braxton, “that Matson’s in a class by himself. He’s the big cog in 166 the Giant machinery. It’s a pity they don’t appreciate him more.”
“Why, they do appreciate him!” cried Mabel, her eyes opening wide with wonder. “Mr. McRae thinks nothing’s too good for him.”
“Nothing’s too good except money,” suggested Braxton.
“They give him plenty of that, too,” put in Mabel, loyally.
“He gets a ripping salary, don’t you know,” put in Reggie. “And he almost doubled it in this last World’s Series.”
“A man’s worth what he can get,” returned Braxton. “Now, of course, I don’t know and perhaps it might be an impertinence for me even to guess what his salary is, but I should say that it isn’t a bit more than ten thousand a year.”
“Oh, it isn’t anything like that,” said Reggie, a little chop fallen.
Braxton raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise.
“I didn’t think the Giants were so niggardly,” he remarked, with a touch of contempt. “It’s simply robbery for them to hold his services at such a figure. Mr. Matson could demand vastly more than that.”
“Where?” asked Reggie. “He’s under contract with the Giants and they wouldn’t let him go to any other club.” 167