His arm, that was a bit stiff at first, from lack of practice since coming to Riverside, gradually became limber. He knew that his speed, too, was increasing. He could not judge of his curves, and, truth to tell he did not have very good ones as yet, for he had only recently learned the knack. But he had the right ideas and a veteran professional pitcher, who was a friend of one of the Bentville nine’s members, had showed Joe the proper manner to hold and deliver the ball.
“I wish I had some one back there to give me a line on myself,” thought Joe, as he pitched away, a solitary figure on the grounds. “I don’t know whether I’m getting them over the plate, or a mile beyond,” for he had laid down a flat stone to serve as “home.”
“Anyhow this will improve my speed,” he reasoned, “and speed is needed now-a-days as much as curves.”
Time and again he pitched his two horsehides, ran to pick them up as they dropped at the foot of the fence, and then he raced back to his “box” to repeat the performance. He was rather tiring of it, and his arm was beginning to feel numb in spite of his enthusiasm, when he heard some one laughing. The sound came from behind him, and, turning quickly, Joe saw Sam Morton standing leaning up against his wheel, and contemplating him with mirth showing on his face.
“Well, well!” exclaimed Sam. “This is pretty good. What are you trying to do, Matson, knock the fence down? If you are, why don’t you take a hammer or some stones instead of baseballs? This is rich! Ha! Ha!”
For a moment Joe was tempted to make an angry answer, for the hot blood of shame mounted to his cheeks. Then he said quietly, and with as much good-nature as he could summon on the spur of the moment:
“I’m practicing, that’s all. I came here as I didn’t want to lose the balls, and the fence makes a good backstop.”
“Practicing, eh? What for?” and once more Sam laughed in an insulting manner.
“To improve my pitching. There may be a chance to get on the team, I understand.”