“That’s all right,” spoke Joe easily. “What are you going to do in Delamont?”
“I’ve got a chance to be assistant ground-keeper at the ball park. I—I’m trying to—trying to get back to a decent life, Joe, but—but it’s hard work.”
“Then I’m going to help you!” exclaimed the young pitcher, impulsively. “I’m going to ask Gregory if he can’t give you something to do. Do you think you could play ball again?”
“I don’t know, Joe,” was the doubtful answer. “They say when they get—get like me—that they can’t come back. I couldn’t pitch, that’s sure. I’ve got something the matter with my arm. Doctor said a slight operation would cure me, and I might be better than ever, but I haven’t any money for operations. But I could be a fair fielder, I think, and maybe I could fatten up my batting average.”
“Would you like to try?” asked Joe.
“Would I?” The man’s tone was answer enough.
“Then I’m going to get you the chance,” declared Joe. “But you’ll have to take care of yourself, and—get in better shape.”
“I know it, Joe. I’m ashamed of myself—that’s what I am. I’ve gone pretty far down, but I believe I can come back. I’ve quit drinking, and I’ve cut my old acquaintances.”
Joe looked carefully at Pop Dutton. The marks of the life he had led of late were to be seen in his trembling hands, and in his blood-shot eyes. But there was a fine frame and a good physique to build on. Joe had great hopes.
“You come on to Delamont with me,” said the young pitcher, “and I’ll look after you until you get straightened out. Then we’ll see what the doctor says, and Gregory, too. I believe he’ll give you the chance.”