“I know you’re not, but you’re going to get it. You just take a run home and see your folks. When you come back I’m going to pitch you in a series of our hardest games. We go up against Clevefield again. You take a rest.”
Joe objected, but half-heartedly, and ended by taking the train for home.
His heart felt lighter the moment he had started, and when he got to Riverside, and found his father much improved, Joe was more like himself than at any time since the opening of the ball season. His folks were exceedingly glad to see him, and Joe went about town, renewing old acquaintances, and being treated as a sort of local lion.
Tom Davis, Joe’s chum, looked at the young pitcher closely.
“Joe,” he said, “you’re getting thin. Either you’re in love, or you aren’t making good.”
“Both, I guess,” answered Joe, with a short laugh. “But I’m going to make good very soon. You watch the papers.”
Joe rejoined his team with a sparkle in his eye and a spring in his step that told how much good the little vacation had done him. He was warmly welcomed back—only Collin showing no joy.
Truth to tell Collin had been doing some wonderful pitching those last few days, and he was winning games for the team. The advent of Joe gave him little pleasure, for none knew better than he on how slim a margin a pitcher works, nor how easily he may be displaced, not only in the affection of the public, always fickle, but in the estimation of the manager.
“Hang him! I wish he’d stayed away!” muttered Collin. “Now he’s fresh and he may get my place again. But I’ll find a way to stop him, if Gregory gives him the preference!”
Joe went back at practice with renewed hope. He took Gregory and the catchers into his confidence, and explained about the fade-away. They were enthusiastic over it.