Now they were happy beyond all words. They fairly devoured the papers that for the next day or two were full of Joe’s exploits. They could not stir out of the house without being overwhelmed with congratulations and questions. Clara, Joe’s sister, a pretty, winsome girl, declared laughingly that there could hardly have been more fuss made if Joe had been elected President of the United States.
“I’m sure he’d make a very good one if he had,” said Mrs. Matson, complacently, as she bit off a thread of her sewing.
“You dear, conceited Momsey,” said Clara, kissing her.
Mr. Matson smiled over his pipe. He was a quiet, undemonstrative man, but in his heart he was intensely proud of this stalwart son of his.
“How I wish we could have seen that game!” remarked Clara, wistfully. “Just think, Momsey, of sitting in a box at the Polo Grounds and seeing that enormous crowd go crazy over Joe, our Joe.”
“I’m afraid my heart would almost break with pride and happiness,” replied her mother, taking off her glasses and wiping her eyes.
“Of course it’s great, reading all about it in the papers and seeing the pictures,” continued Clara, “but that isn’t like actually being there and hearing the shouts and all that. But I’m a very wicked girl to want anything more than I’ve got,” she went on brightly. “Now I’m going to run down to the post-office. The mail must be in by this time and I shouldn’t wonder if I’d find a letter from Joe.”
She put on her hat and left the house. Mrs. Matson looked inquiringly at her husband.
“You heard what Clara said, dear,” she observed. “I don’t suppose there’s any way in the world we could manage it, is there?”