“That’s what!” chimed in Reggie emphatically. “It’s the old rounders who trail along with drink and who gamble that go back to the bushes. If a man lives straight and cuts out the booze, he can last as long in baseball as in anything else. Even after he gets a little too old for playing, there are plenty of splendid jobs as managers.”
“That’s right, too,” confirmed Sol. “Look at Griff and Clarkey and Jenn and Connie. Why, those fellows are getting enormous salaries!”
“Well, that’s looking a long way ahead,” laughed Joe. “Just at present my job is to make good as pitcher for the Giants, and I’ve got my work cut out for me to do it. But we’ll have to go now, Sol. Thank you for showing me the papers.”
“Save a copy of each of them for me,” said Reggie. “I’ll stop and get them on my way back. I want to cut them out and send them to Mabel,” he explained to Joe, as he hurried away. “She’s so interested in baseball news, you know.”
Joe knew, and he hoped that the interest had in it more of a personal touch than her brother seemed to suspect.
A few minutes’ brisk walk brought them to the jail, and Joe gave a vigorous tug at the bell.
They cooled their heels for two minutes without any response, and Reggie became somewhat impatient.
“Your jailer doesn’t seem to be an early riser,” he remarked. “What’s the matter with him?”
“Oh, Hank Bailey was never known to do anything in a hurry,” chuckled Joe. “Besides, he hasn’t any helper here except his wife, and I suppose he’s busy in some other part of the jail.”