Then a calmer mood came over the young pitcher; he recalled the training at Yale—the training that had come when he had been in troublesome situations—and Joe laughed. It was that laugh which formed a safety-valve for him.
“I don’t see what there is to laugh at,” sneered the young man. “My valise has been opened, and my watch and some jewelry taken.”
“Well, what have I got to do with it?” demanded Joe hotly. “I’m not a detective or a police officer!”
Joe glanced from the youth to the bag in question. It was a peculiar satchel, made of some odd leather, and evidently constructed for heavy use. It was such a bag as Joe had never seen before. It was open now, and there could be noticed in it a confused mass of clothes, collars, shirts of gaudy pattern and scarfs of even gaudier hues.
The young pitcher also noticed that the bag bore on one end the initials “R. V.” while below them was the name of the city where young “R. V.” lived—Goldsboro, N. C.
“Suffering cats!” thought Joe, as he noted that. “He lives in Goldsboro. Montville is just outside that. I hope I don’t meet this nuisance when I’m at the training camp.”
“I did not assume that you were an officer,” answered the young man, who, for the present, must be known only as “R. V.” “But you were the only one near my valise, which was opened when I went to send that wire. Now it’s up to you——”
“Hold on!” cried Joe, trying not to let his rather quick temper get the better of him. “Nothing is ‘up to me,’ as you call it. I didn’t touch your valise. I didn’t even know I sat near it until you called my attention to it. And if it was opened, and something taken out, I beg to assure you that I had nothing to do with it. That’s all!”
“But if you didn’t take it; who did?” asked “R. V.” in some bewilderment.
“How should I know?” retorted Joe, coolly. “And I’d advise you to be more careful after this, in making accusations.”