“There’s my contract, Mother,” and he pulled it from his pocket with a flourish.
“Well, of course, Joe—Oh! I did want you to be a minister, or a lawyer, or a doctor; but since you feel you can’t—well, perhaps it’s all for the best, Joe,” and she sighed softly. “Maybe it’s for the best.”
“You’ll see that it will be, Mother. And now I’m going down street and see some of the boys. I suppose Tom Davis is around somewhere. Then I’ll stroll in on dad. I want to have a talk with him.”
“Shall I unpack your valise?” asked Clara.
“Yes. I guess I’ll be home for a few days before starting in at the training camp. I’ll be back to supper, anyhow,” and, with a laugh he went out and down the main street of Riverside, where the Matsons made their home.
As Baseball Joe walked along the thoroughfare he was greeted by many acquaintances—old and young. They were all glad to see him, for the fame of the pitcher who had won the victory for Yale was shared, in a measure, by his home town. In the case of baseball players, at least, they are not “prophets without honor save in their own country.”
Joe inquired for his old chum, Tom Davis, but no one seemed to have noticed him that day, and, making up his mind he would locate him later, the young pitcher turned his footsteps in the direction of the Royal Harvester Works, where his father was employed. To reach the plant Joe had to cross the railroad, and in doing this he noticed a man staggering along the tracks.
The man was not a prepossessing specimen. His clothes were ragged and dirty—in short “tramp” was written all over him.
“And he acts as though he were drugged, or had taken too much whiskey,” said Joe. “Too bad! Maybe he’s had a lot of trouble. You can’t always tell.
“But I’m sure of one thing, and that is he’d better get off the track. He doesn’t seem able to take care of himself.