Little Terry stole up to Joe, when the players came back from the dining-car, and, slipped his small hand into that of the pitcher.
“I—I like you,” he said, softly.
“Do you?” asked Joe with smile. “I’m glad of that, Terry.”
“And I’ll always see that you have the bat you want when you want it,” went on the little mascot. Poor little chap, he was an orphan, and Gus Harrison, the big centre fielder, had practically adopted him. Then he was made the official mascot, and while perhaps the constant association with the ball players was not altogether good for the small lad, still he might have been worse off.
Pittston was reached in due season, no happenings worth chronicling taking place on the way. Joe was eager to see what sort of a ball field the team owned, and he was not disappointed when, early the morning after his arrival, he and the others went out to it for practice.
It was far from being the New York Polo Grounds, nor was the field equal to the one at Yale, but Joe had learned to take matters as they came, and he never forgot that he was only with a minor league.
“Time enough to look for grounds laid out with a rule and compass when I get into a major league,” he told himself. “That is, if I can get my release.”
Joe found some letters from home awaiting him at the hotel where the team had its official home. But, before he answered them he wrote to Mabel. I wonder if we ought to blame him?