“Yes, but you know what happened. He was knocked out of the box and we were whitewashed that game.”
“Say!” exclaimed Darrell. “I just happened to think of it. That new fellow—Joe Matson. He told me he used to pitch in his home town—Bentville I think it was. I wonder if he’d be any good?”
“Hard telling,” replied the captain, somewhat indifferently. “We ought to do something, anyhow.”
“I tell you what I’m going to do,” went on Darrell. “I’m going to write to some one in Bentville. I think I know an old baseball friend there, and I’ll ask him what Matson’s record was. If he made good at all we might give him a tryout.”
“And have Sam get on his ear?”
“I don’t care whether he does or not. Things can’t be much worse; can they?”
“No, I guess not. Go ahead. I’m with you in anything you do. Three straight wallops in three weeks have taken the heart out of me.”
“Same here. Well, we’ll see what we can do.”
Joe reached home that night rather tired and discouraged. He felt the defeat of his team keenly, and the more so as the nine he had played with in Bentville had had a much better record than that of the Silver Stars—at least so far, though the Silver Stars were an older and stronger team.