“You’re taking too much trouble about me, Joe,” remarked the veteran player one day.
“Not a bit too much,” responded Joe, heartily.
From Joe’s father came slightly encouraging news. The need of an operation was not yet settled, and Mr. Matson’s general health had improved.
“And we can bless baseball a lot!” wrote Mrs. Matson to her son. “I’m sorry I ever said anything against it, Joe. If it were not for the money you make at the game I don’t know what we’d do now.”
Joe was glad his mother saw matters in a different light, but he was also a little disturbed. His pitching was not what it should be, and he felt, if his form fell off much more, that he would not last long, even in a small league.
Occasionally he did well—even brilliantly, and the team had hopes. Then would come a “slump,” and they would lose a much-needed game that would have lifted them well toward front place.
Joe’s despair grew, and he wondered what he could do to get back to his good form. Clevefield, the ancient rivals of Pittston, were now firmly entrenched in first place, and there remained only about a quarter of the league season yet to play.
“We’ve got to hustle if we want that pennant!” said Gregory, and his tone was not encouraging. Joe thought of what he had promised about having the money for his father’s operation, and wondered whether he could do as he said.
But I must not give the impression that all was unhappiness and gloom in the Pittston team. True, the members felt badly about losing, but their nerve did not desert them, and they even joked grimly when the play went against them.
Then came a little diversion. They played a contest against a well-known amateur nine for charity, and the game was made the occasion for considerable jollity.