Joe was always glad to get back to Pittston to play games. He was beginning to feel that it was a sort of “home town,” though he had few friends there. He made many acquaintances and he was beginning to build up a reputation for himself. He was frequently applauded when he came out to play, and this means much to a baseball man.
Then, too, Joe was always interested in Pop Dutton. He was so anxious that the former fine pitcher should have his chance to “come back.” Often when scouts from bigger leagues than the Central stopped off to more or less secretly watch the Pittstons play, Joe would have a talk with them. Sometimes he spoke of Pop, but the scouts did not seem interested. They pretended that they had no special object in view, or, if they did, they hinted that it was some other player than Dutton.
To whisper a secret I might say that it was Joe himself who was under observation on many of these occasions, for his fame was spreading. But he was a modest youth.
Joe was not inquisitive, but he learned, in a casual way, that Pop Dutton was seemingly on the right road to success and prosperity. It was somewhat of a shock to the young pitcher, then, one evening, as he was strolling down town in Pittston, to see his protegé in company with a shabbily dressed man.
“I hope he hasn’t taken to going with those tramps again,” mused Joe. “That would be too bad.”
Resolving to make sure of his suspicions, and, if necessary, hold out a helping hand, the young pitcher quickened his pace until he was close behind the twain.
He could not help but hear part of the conversation.
“Oh, come on!” he caught, coming from Dutton’s companion. “What’s the harm?”
“No, I’ll not. You don’t know how hard it is to refuse, but I—I can’t—really I can’t.”