“Good eye!” yelled Tom Davis.
“That’s the stuff!” cried some one else, and Joe felt a warm thrill of pleasure as he threw the ball in.
Of course the first team won, for the scrub was composed of odds and ends, with some substitutes from the Silver Stars, but Joe had done his best to hold down the score.
“Good work, Matson,” complimented Darrell, when the contest was over. “By the way, I’ve about decided in your case. You can get ready to play centre field Saturday. McGraw can’t be with us, and we can’t count on Oswald. Have you a uniform?”
“Yes,” said Joe eagerly.
“A uniform; what for?” asked Sam Morton quickly. He had come up behind Joe and Darrell, and had heard the last part of the conversation.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you fellows that Matson is our new member of the team,” went on the manager. “Shake hands with him, boys. I’ve been watching him play to-day and I think with a little practice he’ll make good.”
“Where’s he going to play?” demanded Sam roughly, while the lads crowded around Joe, congratulating him, asking him questions as to where he had played ball before, and shaking hands with him. “Where’s he going to play?” and Sam pointed what seemed like an accusing finger at Joe.
“Centre field—McGraw’s place,” answered the manager briefly.