Pop’s operation was successful, and he went South for the Winter, there, in company with an old friend, to gradually work up into his old form. Hogan seemed to have vanished, but Reggie got all the pawned jewelry back. The Pittston players, in common with the others in the league teams, went their several ways to their Winter occupations, there to remain until Spring should again make green the grass of the diamond.
“Oh, Joe!” exclaimed Mrs. Matson, with trembling voice, when it was certain her husband would see again, “how much we owe to you, my son.”
“You owe more to baseball,” laughed Joe.
Clara came in with a letter.
“This is for you, Joe,” she said, adding mischievously:
“It seems to be from a girl, and it’s postmarked Goldsboro, North Carolina. Who do you know down there?”
“Give me that letter, Sis!” cried Joe, blushing.
And while he is perusing the missive, the writer of which you can possibly name, we will, for a time, take leave of Baseball Joe.
THE END