“No. Not yet. I’m expecting Hastings back any minute,” naming a substitute player who had not gone into the game, and whom the manager had sent to call up Joe’s house. “But are you sure you want to keep on playing?”
“Sure,” answered Joe. He had a glimpse of Collin, and fancied that the eager look on the other pitcher’s face turned to one of disappointment.
“You’re beating me out,” said Tooley, the south-paw, with an easy laugh.
“I’m sorry,” said Joe, for he knew how it felt to be supplanted.
“Oh, I’m not worrying. My turn will come again. One can’t be up to the mark all the while.”
Pittston managed to get a run over the plate that inning, and when it came time for Joe to go to the mound again he had better news to cheer him up.
Word had come over the telephone that Mr. Matson, while making some tests at the Harvester Works, had been injured by an explosion of acids. Some had gone into his face, burning him badly.
His life was in no danger, but his eyesight might be much impaired, if not lost altogether. Nothing could be told in this respect for a day or so.
Hastings had been talking to Joe’s sister Clara, to whom he explained that Joe would start for home as soon as the game was over. Mrs. Matson was bearing up well under the strain, the message said, and Joe was told not to worry.
“Now I’ll be able to do better,” said the young pitcher, with a little smile. “Thanks for the good news.”