But they were soon enlightened, as Hank came bustling across the street, his face aglow with welcome and self-importance.
“Howdy, Mr. Matson!” he exclaimed, as he wrung Joe’s hand.
“Mr. Matson!” laughed Joe, returning the handshake. “Where do you get that stuff? What’s the matter with Joe?”
“Well, Joe, then,” beamed Hank. “You see, Joe, you’ve got to be such a big fellow now, known all over the United States, that I felt a bit shy about calling you by your first name. I got your wire and mentioned it to a fellow or two, and by heck it was all over town in no time that the greatest pitcher in the country was going to be here. This crowd’s been waiting here all night to say howdy to you.”
The people were all crowding around him by now, waiting their turn to shake hands, and Joe, although embarrassed, as he always was when he found himself the center of attention, did his best to respond to the expressions of good will and admiration that were showered upon him. Jim also came in for his share of the crowd’s interest as a promising and rapidly rising pitcher of the baseball champions of the world. It was with a sigh of relief that they settled themselves at last in the speedy car which Hank had provided for them and which he proudly assured them would “just burn up the road” between Martinsville and Riverside.
Joe took the wheel and the car started off, amid a waving of hands and a roar of farewell from the crowd.
“Great day for Martinsville,” said Jim mischievously, as he settled down by the side of his chum and the car purred along over the level road. “How does it feel to be a hero, Joe?”
“Quit your kidding,” replied Joe, with a grin. “If they’d wrung this old wing of mine much more, McRae would have been minus one of his pitchers.”
“One of the penalties of greatness,” chaffed Jim.