“Come along, Jim,” said Joe, picking up his cap. “Let’s warm up a little. We want to keep our salary wings in good condition, and maybe the 8 open air will help to get the bad taste of the new league out of our mouths.”
They went into an open lot near by and had a half-hour’s practice, pitching to each other at a moderate pace, only now and then unlimbering some of the fast balls that had been wont to stand opposing batters “on their heads” in the exciting games of the season just ended.
“How does the old soup bone feel?” inquired Jim.
“Fine as silk,” replied Joe; “I was afraid I might have strained it in that last game. But it feels as strong now as it did at the beginning of the season.”
They had supper a little earlier than usual that night, for with the exception of Joe’s father, who was busy on a new invention, they were all going to a show that evening at the Riverside Opera House. It promised to be an interesting entertainment, for the names of several popular actors appeared on the program. But what made it especially attractive to Joe and his party was the fact that Nick Altman, the famous pitcher of the “White Sox” of Chicago, was on the bill for a monologue. Although, being in the American League, Joe and Jim had never played against him, they knew him well by reputation and respected him for his ability in their chosen profession. 9
“As a pitcher he sure is classy,” remarked Joe. “They say that fast inshoot of his is a lulu. But that doesn’t say that he’s any good on the stage.”
“He’s pulling in the coin all right,” replied Jim. “They say that his contract calls for two hundred dollars a week. He won’t have to eat snowballs this winter.”
“Jim tells me that a vaudeville manager offered you five hundred dollars a week the day after you won the championship for the Giants,” said Clara.
“So he did,” replied Joe, “but it would have been a shame to take the money.”
“Such a shrinking violet,” teased his sister.