“I guess you’re going to be mine,” he said. “I think we’ll have to draft you.”
“What’s that?” asked Pop Dutton, who recognized the man as a well-known scout, on the lookout for promising players.
“Oh, nothing,” answered the keen-faced one, with a laugh. Pop laughed also, but it was a laugh of understanding.
And what it meant—and what the man’s remark meant to Joe, may be learned by reading the next volume of this series, to be called: “Baseball Joe in the Big League; Or, a Young Pitcher’s Hardest Struggles.”
Joe hurried home that night, stopping only to say good-bye to Mabel, and promising to come and see her as soon as he could. The operation on Mr. Matson was highly successful. It cost a large sum, and as his father had no money to pay for it, Joe used much of the extra cash that came to him as his share in the pennant series. Had his team not won he would hardly have had enough.
But there was enough to spare for the simple operation on Pop Dutton’s arm.
“Joe, I hate to have you spend your money this way—on me,” objected the grizzled veteran of many diamonds. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“Oh, play ball!” cried Joe, gaily. “You can pay me back, if you want to, you old duffer, when you get into a bigger league than the Central, and are earning a good salary.”
“I will!” cried Pop, enthusiastically. “For I know I’m good for some years yet. I have ‘come back,’ thanks to you, Joe.”
They clasped hands silently—the young pitcher at the start of his brilliant career, and the old one, whose day was almost done.