“Yale is champion!”
“Three cheers for Baseball Joe!”
The field swarmed with the spectators, who hardly stayed to hear the victors and vanquished cheer each other. The quiet man who had sat in the press box managed to get a word to Joe, though he had to shout to be heard above the din. The young pitcher looked startled, then pleased, and his voice faltered as he answered; after a little more talk:
“But supposing I don’t make good, Mr.—er—?”
“Mack is my name, I represent the manager; in fact I’m his assistant.”
“But supposing I don’t make good?” repeated Joe. “I know I can do pretty well here, but, as you say, I don’t seem to take to the college life. Still, I wouldn’t want to make a public try as I’d have to, and then give up. It would bar me from the amateur ranks forever.”
“Yes, I know that,” was the answer, “but you needn’t be afraid. Look here, Matson. This isn’t the first time I’ve done such a thing as this. It’s part of my business, and part of my business to know what I’m doing. I can size a player up as quick as a horse buyer can a spavined nag. I’ve sized you up, and I know you’re all wool and a yard wide.”
“But this is the first time you’ve seen me play.”
“It was enough, I tell you.”
“And, as I said,” went on Joe, “I don’t want to be in the position of putting myself out of the game. If I go in with you, and fail, I probably never could get another chance.”