The day of the game between the Silver Stars and their old enemies drew nearer. Joe had practiced hard and he knew he was in good shape to pitch. In fact the Stars were much improved by their season’s work, and they were as good an amateur nine in their class as could be found in the country.
Word came to them, however, that the Resolutes were trained to the minute, and were going to put up a stiff fight for the county championship.
“Let ’em,” said Darrell briefly. “We don’t want a walk-over.”
“Well,” remarked Clara to her brother, on the Saturday of the game, “isn’t it almost time for you to start if you’re going to Rocky Ford?”
“Yes, I guess I had better be going,” answered Joe. “I want to put a few stitches in my glove. It’s ripped.”
“I’ll do it,” offered Clara and she had just finished when the door bell rang.
“I’ll go,” volunteered Joe, and when he saw a messenger boy standing there, with a yellow envelope in his hands somehow the heart of the young pitcher sank.
Quickly he took the telegram to his mother, to whom it was addressed.
“You open it, Joe,” she said. “I can’t. I’m afraid it’s bad news. My hand trembles so.”
Joe tore open the telegram. It was from his father.