Reedville was reached toward evening of the second day, and the travel-weary ball-tossers piled out of their coach to find themselves at the station of a typical Southern town.
Laziness and restfulness were in the air, which was warm with the heat of the slowly setting sun. There was the odor of flowers. Colored men were all about, shuffling here and there, driving their slowly-ambling horses attached to rickety vehicles, or backing them up at the platform to get some of the passengers.
"Majestic Hotel right this yeah way, suh! Right over yeah!" voiced the driver of a yellow stage. "Goin' right up, suh!"
"That's our place, boys," announced the manager. "Pile in, and let me have your checks. I'll have the baggage sent up."
Joe and the others took their place in the side-seated stage. A little later, the manager having arranged for the transportation of the trunks, they were driven toward the hotel that was to be their headquarters while in the South.
They were registering at the hotel desk, and making arrangements about who was to room with who, when Joe heard the hotel clerk call Mr. Watson aside.
"He says he's with your party, suh," the clerk spoke. "He arrived yesterday, and wanted to be put on the same floor with your players. Says he's going to be a member of the team."
"Huh! I guess someone is bluffing you!" exclaimed the manager. "I've got all my team with me. Who is the fellow, anyhow?"
"That's his signature," went on the clerk, pointing to it on the hotel register.
"Hum! Wessel; eh?" said Mr. Watson. "Never heard of him. Where is he?"