The Central League was of the Middle West. It played its eight clubs over a circuit composed of eight well-known cities, which for the purposes of this story I have seen fit to designate as follows: Clevefield, Pittston (to which club Joe had been signed), Delamont, Washburg, Buffington, Loston, Manhattan and Newkirk. Perhaps, as the story progresses, you may recognize, more or less successfully, certain players and certain localities. With that I have nothing to do.
The train sped on, stopping at various stations, but Joe took little interest in the passing scenery, or in what took place in his coach. He was busy over his baseball “dope,” by which I mean the statistics regarding players, their averages, and so forth.
“And my name will soon be among ’em!” exulted Joe.
As the train was pulling out of a small station, Joe looked out of the window, and, to his surprise, saw, sitting on a baggage truck, the same tramp he had saved from the freight train some days before.
“Hum!” mused Joe. “If he’s beating his way on the railroad he hasn’t gotten very far,” for this was not many miles from Riverside. “I guess he’s a sure-enough hobo, all right. Too bad!”
Others beside Joe seemed to have noticed the tramp, who, however, had not looked at our hero. One of two men in the seat back of Joe spoke, and said:
“I say, Reynolds, see that tramp sitting there?”
“You mean the one on the truck?”
“Yes. Do you recognize him?”