But I am getting a little ahead of my story.
The game was almost over, and it was practically won by Pittston, when a voice spoke back of where Joe sat on the players’ bench. It was a husky, uncertain, hesitating sort of voice and it said, in the ear of the young pitcher:
“Never mind, my lad. Ten years from now, when you’re in a big league, you’ll forget all about this. It’ll do you good, anyhow, for it’ll make you work harder, and hard work makes a good ball player out of a middle-class one. Brace up. I know what I’m talking about!”
Joe hesitated a moment before turning. Somehow he had a vague feeling that he had heard that voice before, and under strange circumstances. He wanted to see if he could place it before looking at the speaker.
But it was baffling, and Joe turned quickly. He started as he saw standing behind him, attired rather more neatly than when last he had confronted our hero—the tramp whom he had saved from the freight train.
On his part the other looked sharply at Joe for a moment. Over his face passed shadows of memory, and then the light came. He recognized Joe, and with a note of gladness in his husky voice—husky from much shouting on the ball field, and from a reckless life—he exclaimed:
“Why it’s the boy! It’s the boy who pulled me off the track! It’s the boy!”
“Of course!” exclaimed Joe. Impulsively he held out his hand.
A shout arose as one of the Pittston players brought in the winning run, but Joe paid no heed. He was staring at old Pop Dutton.
The other player—the “has-been”—looked at Joe’s extended hand a moment as if in doubt. Then he glanced over the field, and listened to the glad cries. He seemed to straighten up, and his nostrils widened as he sniffed in the odors of the crushed green grass. It was as though a broken-down horse had heard from afar the battle-riot in which he never again would take part.