“Got a thousand dollars handy, Joe?” inquired Denton, as Joe came near him.
“Because, if you have, the All-Star League wants it,” added Larry.
“What do you mean?” asked Joe, all the old discomfort and apprehension coming back to him. 224
“Read this,” replied Larry, handing him a paper opened at the sporting page.
Joe read:
“All-Star League Calls Matson’s Bluff. Produces Signed Contract. Facsimile of Contract Shown Below.”
And staring right out at him was the photographic reproduction of a regulation baseball contract and at the bottom was written the name: “Joseph Matson.”
Joe stared at it as though he were in a dream. Here was the old blow at his reputation, this time with redoubled force. Here was what claimed to be the actual contract. But it was not the body of the contract that held his attention. The thing that made him rage, that gave him a sense of furious helplessness, that put his brain in a whirl, was this:
He knew that that was his signature!
No matter how it came there, it was his. A man’s name can seldom be so skilfully forged that it can deceive the man himself. It may get by the cashier of the bank, but when it is referred back to the man who is supposed to have written it, that man knows instinctively whether he ever wrote it. Perhaps he cannot tell why he knows it, but he knows it just the same. 225