“Hum! Well, Sam sure has a quick temper,” went on the young manager. “But he’s all right soon after it,” he added in extenuation. “He’ll be friendly with you in a few days and forget all about it. I wouldn’t hold a grudge against him, if I were you.”
“Oh, I shan’t. It was both our faults.”
“Well, I’ll be getting on,” remarked Darrell, after a pause. “Come and see me sometime. I’ll see you at school to-morrow, and if there’s anything doing I’ll let you know.”
The two boys’ hands met in a friendly clasp and then the manager, getting into his carriage, drove off. A little later, his heart filled with hope, Joe, having put back his lantern and tool bag pedaled toward home.
“This was a lucky day for me, even if it did look bad after that crash with Sam Morton,” he said to himself. “I’m going to play ball, after all!”
There was rather a grave look on Mr. Matson’s face when Joe handed him the reply from Mr. Holdney, and told of his interview.
“So he can’t help me—Oh, well, never mind,” and Mr. Matson turned aside and went into the room where he kept a desk. Mrs. Matson followed, closing the door after her, and for some time the voices of the two could be heard in low but earnest conversation.
“What’s the matter; nothing wrong I hope?” asked Clara.
“Oh, I guess not,” answered Joe, though he was vaguely uneasy himself. Then came the thought of his talk with the baseball manager and his heart was light again.
Supper was rather a quiet affair that night, and Mr. Matson spoke but little, quite in contrast to his usual cheerful flow of conversation. Mrs. Matson, too, seemed preoccupied.