Joe Matson sensed that something disagreeable was in the air.
“What is it?” he demanded, turning from his mother to his sister. “What has happened?” It was not Joe’s way to shrink from danger, or from a disagreeable duty. And part of his success as a baseball pitcher was due to this very fact.
Now he was aware that something had gone amiss since his last visit home, and he wanted to know what it was. He put his arms on his mother’s shoulders—frail little shoulders they were, too—yet they had borne many heavy burdens of which Joe knew nothing. What mother’s shoulders have not?
The lad looked into her eyes—eyes that held a hint of pain. His own were clear and bright—they snapped with life and youthful vigor.
“What is it, Momsey?” he asked softly. “Don’t be afraid to tell me. Has anything happened to dad?”
“Oh, no, it isn’t anything like that, Joe,” said Clara quickly. “We didn’t write to you about it for fear you’d worry and lose that last big game with Princeton. It’s only that——”
“Your father has lost some money!” interrupted Mrs. Matson, wishing to have the disagreeable truth out at once.
“Oh, if that’s all, we can soon fix that!” cried Joe, gaily, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. “Just wait until I begin drawing my salary as pitcher for the Pittston team in the Central League, and then you’ll be on Easy Street.”
“Oh, but it’s a great deal of money, Joe!” spoke Clara in rather awed tones.