The next morning Joe read of the wholesale arrests in the lodging house, though it was said that the quarry the detectives most hoped to get escaped in the confusion.
“Baggage robbers, eh?” mused Joe. “I wonder if they were the ones who went through Reggie Varley’s valise? If they could be caught it would clear me nicely, providing I could prove it was they.”
[CHAPTER XXIII]
THE TRAMP AGAIN
Baseball again claimed the attention of Joe and his mates. They were working hard, for the end of the season was in sight, and the pennant ownership was not yet decided.
Clevefield was still at the top of the list, but Pittston was crowding her hard, and was slowly creeping up. Sometimes this would be the result of her players’ own good work, and again it would be because some other team had a streak of bad luck which automatically put Joe’s team ahead.
The young pitcher was more like himself than at any time since he had joined the club. He was really pitching “great” ball, and Gregory did not hesitate to tell him so. And, more than this, Joe was doing some good work with the bat. His average was slowly but steadily mounting.
Joe would never be a great performer in this line, and none realized it better than himself. No clubs would be clamoring for his services as a pinch hitter. On the other hand many a pitcher in the big leagues had not Joe’s batting average, though of course this might have been because they were such phenomenal twirlers, and saved all their abilities for the mound.
Also did Joe pay attention to the bases. He wished he was a south-paw, at times, or a left-hand pitcher, for then he could more easily have thrown to first. But it was too late to change now, and he made up his mind to be content to work up his reputation with his good right arm.