“What team; the Silver Stars?”
Sam’s voice had a harsh note in it.
“Yes.” And Joe nodded.
“So you’re practicing pitching, eh? And you hope to get on our nine. Well let me tell you one thing, Matson; you won’t pitch on the Silver Stars as long as I’m on deck, and I intend to remain for quite a while yet. Pitching practice, eh? Ho! That’s pretty good! What you’d better practice is running bases. We may let you run for some of the fellows, if you’re real good. Or how would you like to carry the bats or be the water boy? I understand there’s a vacancy there. Pitcher! Ha! Ha!” and Sam doubled up in mirth. Joe’s face flushed, but he said nothing.
CHAPTER VIII
A MEAN PROTEST
Finally Sam ceased his laughter, straightened up and prepared to ride out of the fairgrounds on his wheel.
“I was just going past,” he said, in needless explanation, “when I heard something banging against the fence. First I thought it might be one of the cattle left over from the last show, but when I saw it was you, Matson—Oh, my! It’s too rich! I’ll have to tell the boys.”