“Well, call it a business then, if you like,” said Joe good-naturedly. “Say it isn’t a profession, though it is called one. As a business proposition, Mother, it’s one of the biggest in the world to-day. The players make more money than lots of professional men, and they don’t have to work half so hard—not that I mind that.”
“Joe Matson! Do you mean to tell me a ball player—even one who tosses the ball for the other man to hit at—does he make more than—than a minister?” demanded his mother.
“I should say so, Mother! Why, there are very few ministers who make as much as even an ordinary player in a minor league. And as for the major leaguers—why, they could equal half a dozen preachers. Mind, I’m not talking against the ministry, or any of the learned professions. I only wish I had the brains and ability to enter one.
“But I haven’t, and there’s no use pretending I have. And, though I do say it myself, there’s no use spoiling a good pitcher to make a poor minister. I’m sorry, Mother, that I couldn’t keep on at Yale—sorry on your account, not on mine. But I just couldn’t.”
“How—how much do you suppose you’ll get a year for pitching in this Central League?” asked Mrs. Matson, hesitatingly.
“Well, they’re going to start me on fifteen hundred dollars a year,” said Joe rather proudly, “and of course I can work up from that.”
“Fifteen hundred dollars!” cried Mrs. Matson. “Why, that’s more than a hundred dollars a month!”
“A good deal more, when you figure that I don’t have to do anything in the Winter months, Mother.”
“Fifteen hundred dollars!” murmured Clara. “Why, that’s more than father earned when he got married, Mother. I’ve heard you say so—lots of times.”
“Yes, Clara. But then fifteen hundred dollars went further in those days than it does now. But, Joe, I didn’t think you’d get so much as that.”