“Put some speed into that!”
“Look out for a high one!”
“Oh, get farther back! I’m going to knock the cover off this time!”
These were only a few of the cries and calls that echoed over the ball field at Montville. The occasion was the daily practice of the Pittston nine, and orders had come from the manager and trainer to start in on more lively work. It was Joe’s third day with the professionals.
He had made the acquaintance of all the players, but as yet had neither admitted, nor been admitted to, a real friendship with any of them. It was too early.
Joe held back because he was naturally a bit diffident. Then, too, most of the men were older than he, and with one exception they had been in the professional ranks for several seasons. That one exception was Charlie Hall, who played short. He, like Joe, had been taken that Spring from the amateur ranks. Hall had played on a Western college team, and had been picked out by one of the ever-present professional scouts.
With Charlie, Joe felt more at home than with any of the others and yet he felt that soon he would have good friends among the older men.
On their part they did not become friendly with Joe at once simply for the reason that they wanted to “size him up,” or “get his number,” as Jimmie Mack put it in speaking of the matter.
“But they’ll cotton to you after a bit, Joe,” said the assistant manager, “and you’ll like them, too. Don’t get discouraged.”
“I won’t,” was the answer.