“And you are out of the harvester works?” asked Joe.
“Out completely,” and Mr. Matson smiled. “I have a holiday, Joe, and I’m coming to see you pitch some day.”
“But—but,” ventured Clara, “if you haven’t any work, dad, you won’t get any money and——”
“Oh, so that’s what is worrying you!” cried her father with a laugh as he placed his arm around her. “Well, have no fears. There are still a few shots in the locker, and we’re not going to the poorhouse right away. Now, Joe, tell us all about the ball game.”
Which the young pitcher did with great enthusiasm.
“But won’t this Sam Morton be angry with you?” asked Mrs. Matson, who was a gentle woman, always in fear of violence.
“Oh, I don’t suppose he’ll be very friendly toward me,” replied Joe.
“Then he may do you some injury.”
“Well, I guess I can take care of myself. I’m not afraid of him, mother, and if it comes to a fight——”
“Oh, you horrid boys—always thinking about fighting!” interrupted Clara. “Don’t you fight, Joe!”