“How about my being a minister now, Momsey?” asked Joe with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Do you suppose a minister would have been as useful at the lumber yard this afternoon as a professional ball player?”
His mother bit off a thread before replying. It had always been a sore point with her that Joe had abandoned the plan of studying for the ministry. She had become somewhat reconciled to the idea by the success that Joe had won and the fact, as shown in his own life, that he could be a ball player and at the same time an upright, moral man. And she had to confess that the large salary that Joe earned by his skill had helped his father out on critical occasions and kept the little household together.
“Well,” she admitted, half reluctantly, “I suppose you did do more good this afternoon because you were so good at throwing the ball. And yet you might be a minister and still be a good enough ball player to have done what you did today.”
“I hardly think so,” laughed Joe. “But that’s right, Momsey, stick to your guns. But what’s this?” he asked, as he saw a telegram on the mantel piece.
“Oh, yes, I meant to tell you,” Mrs. Matson hastened to say. “That came for you this afternoon just before dark. I was so flustered by all that had happened it went clear out of my head. Open it and let’s see what it is. I hope there’s no bad news in it.”
Joe tore open the flimsy yellow envelope and his eye ran rapidly over its contents.
“Why, it’s from Reggie!” he cried, “and it’s dated from Goldsboro, North Carolina.”
“From Reggie!” cried Clara with a glint of mischief in her eye. “Are you sure that it isn’t from Mabel?”
Joe withered her with a look.