“And our next game is with Newkirk!” exulted Joe one morning as they took the train for that place. They were strictly on schedule, and Joe was eager, for more reasons than one, to reach the city where he hoped a certain girl might be.
“If we win, and Clevefield loses to-morrow,” spoke Charlie Hall, as he dropped into a seat beside Joe, “we’ll be on top of the heap.”
“Yes—if!” exclaimed the young pitcher. “But I’m going to do my best, Charlie!”
“The same here!”
It was raining when the team arrived in Newkirk, and the weather was matched by the glum faces of the players.
“No game to-morrow, very likely,” said Charlie, in disappointed tones. “Unless they have rubber grounds here.”
“No such luck,” returned Joe.
As he walked with the others to the desk to register he saw, amid a pile of luggage, a certain peculiar valise. He knew it instantly.
“Reggie Varley’s!” he exclaimed to himself. “There never was another bag like that. And it has his initials on it. Reggie Varley is here—at this hotel, and—and—she—must be here too. Let it rain!”