“Baseball!” chuckled Mr. Matson, as he looked out of the window at the wintry New England landscape. “This is sleigh-riding weather—not baseball.”
“Oh, I do wish Joe would give up his foolish idea,” sighed Mrs. Matson. “He can never make anything of himself at baseball. A minister now, preaching to a large congregation——”
“I guess, mother, if you’d ever been to a big ball game, and seen thousands of fans leaning over their seats while the pitcher got ready to deliver a ball at a critical point in the contest, you’d think he had some congregation himself,” said Mr. Matson, with another chuckle.
“Oh, well, what’s the use talking to you?” demanded his wife; and there the subject was dropped.
Joe went back to Yale. He was doing fairly well in his lessons, but not at all brilliantly. Study came hard to him. He was longing for the Spring days and the green grass of the diamond.
Gradually the talk turned from debating clubs, from glees and concerts, to baseball. The weather raged and stormed, but there began to be the hint of mildness in the wintry winds.
In various rooms lads began rummaging through trunks and valises, getting out old gloves that needed mending. The cage in the gymnasium was wheeled out and some repairs made to it.
“By Jove!” cried Joe one day, “I—I begin to feel as if I had the spring fever.”