Several small and worshipping boys were on hand, as always is the case, gathering up the discarded bats, running after passed balls and bringing water to their heroes.
“Well, I’m here, anyhow,” thought Joe. “Now to see what sort of a stab I can make at professional ball.”
No one seemed to notice the advent of the young pitcher on the field, and if he expected to receive an ovation, such as was accorded to him when he left home, Joe was grievously disappointed.
But I do not believe Joe Matson looked for anything of the sort. In fact I know he did not, for Joe was a sensible lad. He realized that however good a college player he might be he was now entering the ranks of men who made their living at ball playing. And there is a great deal of difference between doing a thing for fun, and doing it to get your bread and butter—a heap of difference.
Joe stood on the edge of the diamond looking at the players. They seemed to be a clean-cut set of young fellows. One or two looked to be veterans at the game, and here and there Joe could pick out one whose hair was turning the least little bit gray. He wondered if they had slid down the scale, and, finding their powers waning, had gotten out of the big leagues to take it a little easier in one of the “bush” variety.
“But it’s baseball—it’s a start—it’s just what I want!” thought Joe, as he drew a deep breath, the odors of crushed green grass, the dry dust and the whiff of leather mingling under the hot rays of the Southern sun.
“It’s baseball, and that’s enough!” exulted Joe.
“Well, I see you got here!” exclaimed a voice behind him, and Joe turned to see “Jimmie” Mack, in uniform, holding out a welcoming hand.
“Yes,” said Joe with a smile. “I’m a little late, but—I’m here.”
“If the trains arrive on time down here everybody worries,” went on Jimmie. “They think something is going to happen. Did you bring a uniform?”