Most of the ball players had gone in to dinner, discussing, meanwhile, the weather probabilities. There was a dreary drizzle outside, and the prospects for a fair day to follow were remote indeed. It meant almost certainly that there would be no game, and this was a disappointment to all. The Pittston team was on edge for the contest, for they wanted their chance to get to the top of the league.
“Well, maybe it’s just as well,” confided Gregory to Jimmie Mack. “It’ll give the boys a chance to rest up, and they’ve been going the pace pretty hard lately. I do hope we win, though.”
“Same here,” exclaimed Jimmie earnestly.
As Joe came down from his apartment, and crossed the foyer into the dining room, he turned around a pillar and came face to face with Reggie Varley—and his sister.
They both started at the sight of the young pitcher, and Mabel blushed. Joe did the same, for that matter.
“Oh, why how do you do!” the girl exclaimed graciously, holding out her hand. “I’m awfully glad to see you again! So you are here with your team? Oh, I do hope you’ll win! Too bad it’s raining; isn’t it? Reggie, you must take me to the game! You remember Mr. Matson, of course!”
She spoke rapidly, as though to cover some embarrassment, and, for a few seconds, Joe had no chance to say anything, save incoherent murmurs, which, possibly, was proper under the circumstances.
“Oh, yes, I remember him,” said Reggie, but there was not much cordiality in his tone or manner. “Certainly I remember him. Glad to meet you again, old man. We haven’t forgotten what you did for sis. Awfully good of you.”
Joe rather resented this tone, but perhaps Reggie could not help it. And the young pitcher wondered whether there was any significance in the way Reggie “remembered.”
Young Varley glanced over toward where his odd valise had been placed, in a sort of checking room.