“You can’t help yourself,” declared Joe. “I saved your life—at least I’m not modest when it comes to that, you see—and so I have, in a way, the right to say what I shall do to you. Besides, if we win the pennant it will be due, as much as anything, to the instruction you gave me. Now will you be good!”
“I guess I’ll have to,” agreed Pop, laughingly.
Pittston closed all her games with the other teams, excepting only Clevefield. The pennant race was between these two clubs. Arrangements had been made so that the opening game would be played on the Pittston grounds. Then the battle-scene would shift to Clevefield, to come back to Pittston, and bring the final—should the fourth game be needed, to Clevefield.
“If we could only win three straight it would be fine,” said Joe.
“It’s too much to hope,” returned Pop.
It was the day before the first of the pennant games. The Pittstons had gone out for light practice on their home grounds, which had been “groomed” for the occasion. As far as could be told Pittston looked to be a winner, but there is nothing more uncertain than baseball.
As Joe and his mates came off the field after practice there shuffled up to the veteran player a trampish-looking man. At first Joe thought this might be Hogan again, but a second look convinced him otherwise. The man hoarsely whispered something to the old pitcher.
“He says Hogan and a gang of tramps are in a sort of camp in Shiller’s Woods,” said Pop, naming a place that was frequently the abiding place of “gentlemen of the road.”
“He is?” cried Joe. “Then let’s make a beeline for there. I’ve just got to get this thing settled! Are you with me, Pop?”
“I sure am. But how are we going to get out there? It’s outside the city limits, no car line goes there, and trains don’t stop.”