“They’re all out practicing, I believe,” was the answer. “Mr. Gregory was here a while ago, but I reckon as how he-all went out to the field, too. Are you a member of the nine, sir?”
The clerk really said “suh,” but the peculiarities of Southern talk are too well known to need imitating.
“Well, I suppose I am, but I’ve only just joined,” answered Joe, with a smile. “I’m one of the new pitchers.”
“Glad to know you. We enjoy having you ball players here. It sort of livens things up. I believe your team is going to cross bats with our home team Saturday.”
“That’s good!” exclaimed Joe, who was just “aching” to get into a game again.
He ate a light luncheon and then, inquiring his way, went out to the ball field.
He was rather disappointed at first. It was not as good as the one where the Silver Stars played—not as well laid out or kept up, and the grandstand was only about half as large.
“But of course it’s only a practice field,” reasoned Joe, as he looked about for a sight of “Jimmie” Mack, whom alone he knew. “The home field at Pittston will probably be all right. Still, I’ve got to remember that I’m not playing in a major league. This will do for a start.”
He looked over the men with whom he was to associate and play ball for the next year or so—perhaps longer. The members of the team were throwing and catching—some were batting flies, and laying down grounders for others to catch or pick up. One or two were practicing “fungo” batting. Up near the grandstand a couple of pitchers were “warming-up,” while the catchers were receiving the balls in their big mitts.