“Oh, can’t you pass me on to Delamont?” pleaded the man. “I admit I was trying to beat you. But I’ve got to get to Delamont. I’ve the promise of work there, and God knows I need it. I’ll pay the company back when I earn it.”
“Huh!” sneered the conductor, “that’s too thin. I’ve heard that yarn before. No, sir; you get off at the next station, or I’ll have the brakeman run you off. Understand that! No more monkey business. Either you give me money or a ticket, or off you go.”
“All right,” was the short answer. “I reckon I’ll have to do it.”
The man turned and at the sight of his face Joe started.
“Pop Dutton!” exclaimed the young pitcher, hardly aware that he had spoken aloud.
“That’s me,” was the answer. “Oh—why—it’s Joe!” he added, and his face lighted up. Then a look of despair came over it. Joe decided quickly. No matter what Gregory and the others said he had determined to help this broken-down old ball player.
“What’s the fare to Delamont?” Joe asked the conductor.
“One-fifty, from the last station.”
“I’ll pay it,” went on Joe, handing over a bill. The ticket-puncher looked at him curiously, and then, without a word, made the change, and gave Joe the little excess slip which was good for ten cents, to be collected at any ticket office.
“Say, Joe Matson, that’s mighty good of you!” exclaimed Old Pop Dutton, as Joe came to sit beside him. “Mighty good!”