Joe laughed and passed it on to Jim.
“Sounds just like the old boy, doesn’t it?” he commented.
The second one was from Mabel:
“So proud of you, Joe. Not surprised though. Best love. Am writing.”
Jim did not see this one, but it went promptly into that one of Joe’s pockets that was nearest his heart, the same one that carried the little glove of Mabel’s that had been his inspiration in all his victorious baseball campaigns.
After a hearty breakfast, the chums went out for a stroll. Neither was slated to pitch for that day, and they had no immediate weight of responsibility on their minds. Markwith, the left-handed twirler of the Giants, would do the box work that day unless McRae altered his plans.
“Hope Red puts it over the Braves to-day the way you did yesterday,” remarked Jim, as they sauntered along.
“I hope so,” echoed Joe. “The old boy seems to be in good shape, and they’ve usually had trouble in hitting him. They’ll be out for blood though, and if they put in Belden against him it ought to be a pretty battle. Markwith beat him the last time he was pitted against him, but only by a hair.”
It was a glorious spring morning, and as they had plenty of time they prolonged their walk far up on the west side of the city. As they were approaching a corner, they saw a rather shabbily dressed man slouching toward them.
Jim gave him a casual glance, and then clutched Joe by the arm.