“Now, now,” gently remonstrated Mrs. Matson, looking up from her sewing, “you young folks keep on with your lessons. Your father can’t go on reading his paper if you dispute so.”
Involuntarily Joe and his sister glanced to where Mr. Matson sat in his easy chair. But he did not seem to be reading, though he held the paper up in front of him. Joe fancied he saw a look of worriment on his father’s face, and he wondered if he was vexed over some problem in inventive work, or whether he was troubled over business matters concerning his new position.
Then there came to the lad’s mind a memory of his mother’s anxiety the night he had come in from the game, and he wondered if the two had any connection. But he knew it would not do to ask, for his father seldom talked over business matters at home.
Finally, seeming to feel Joe’s look, Mr. Matson, after a quick glance at his son, began to scan the paper.
“Go on with your studying, Joe and Clara,” commanded Mrs. Matson with a smile. “Don’t dispute any more.”
“I was only asking Joe if he knew any nice boys,” spoke Clara in vindication. “I know how fond he was of playing baseball back in Bentville, and I was wondering if he was going to play here.”
“Guess I haven’t much chance,” murmured Joe half gloomily, as he drew idle circles on the back blank leaf of his book.
“Why not?” asked Clara quickly. “The girls say the boys have a good nine here, even if they were beaten last Saturday. There’s going to be another game this Saturday, and Helen Rutherford is going to take me.”
“Oh, yes, there’s a good enough team here,” admitted Joe. “In fact the Silver Stars are all right, but every position is filled. I would like to play—I’d like to pitch. I want to get all the practice I can on these small teams, so when I go to boarding school I’ll have something to talk about.”