“Who’s Joe Matson?”
“Don’t you know?” The lad looked at the man in half-contempt. “Why, he pitched a winning game for Yale against Princeton, and now he’s going to the Pittstons of the Central League.”
“Oh, I see. Hum. Is that he?” and the man pointed to the figure of our hero, surrounded by his friends.
“That’s him! Say, I wish he was me!” and the lad looked enviously at Joe.
“I—I never knew baseball was so—so popular,” said Mrs. Matson to Clara, as the shouting and cheers grew, while Joe resisted an attempt on the part of the lads to carry him on their shoulders.
“I guess it’s as much Joe as it is the game,” answered Clara, proudly.
“Three cheers for Joe!” were called for, and given with a will.
Again came the question as to who was all right, and the usual answer followed. Joe was shaking hands with two lads at once, and trying to respond to a dozen requests for letters, or passes to the league games.
Then came the whistle of the train, more hurried good-byes, a last kiss for his mother and sister—final cheers—shouts—calls for good wishes—and Joe was on his way to the Southern baseball camp.