“Well, did you win?” asked his mother, as Joe entered the house—entered it more listlessly than winning a big game would seem to warrant. “Did you beat the Resolutes, Joe?”
“Yes, we did—why, mother, what’s the matter?” cried the young pitcher, for there was a look of joy and happiness on her face, a look entirely different than when he had left her after the bad news. “Has anything—anything good happened?” he asked.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, “there has. I just had another telegram from your father. Everything is all right. He gets back his patents.”
“No!” cried Joe, as if unable to believe the news.
“But I tell you yes!” repeated Mrs. Matson, and there was joy in her voice. “At first your father believed that all was lost, just as he wired us. Then, most unexpectedly he tells me, they were able to obtain some evidence from outside parties which they had long tried for in vain.
“It seems that a witness for Mr. Benjamin and his side, on whom they very much depended, deserted them, and went over to your father and his lawyer, and——”
“Hurray for that witness, whoever he was!” cried Joe.
“Be quiet,” begged Clara, “and let mother tell.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” went on Mrs. Matson. “With the unexpected evidence of this witness your father’s lawyer won the case, almost at the last moment. In fact your father had given up, and was about ready to leave the court when the man sent in word that he would testify for them. That was after your father sent the telegram that came just before you went off to the game, Joe.”