“What’s all the racket about?” he asked.
“Oh, Dad!” cried Clara, running to him and putting her arms about his neck. “It’s the letter from the New York Club, and it has Joe’s contract in it, and now we’ll know all about it and whether it’s for one year or three years, and——”
“It seems to me that you’re quite a prophetess, young lady,” laughed her father, as he sat down in his easy-chair and drew her to his lap, “especially as the letter hasn’t been opened yet.”
“Perhaps it’s just a note telling me that after thinking it over they don’t want me after all,” teased Joe.
“Well, now that we’re all here, suppose you settle the question by reading it,” suggested Mrs. Matson.
There was a moment of breathless suspense and it must be admitted that Joe’s hand was not quite steady as he tore open the envelope. There was a big formal document inside, and as Joe unfolded it a little blue slip fluttered out and fell to the floor. Clara was on it in an instant.
“It’s a check!” she exclaimed, with a little squeal of delight. “That looks a lot as if they didn’t want you, eh, Mr. Joseph Matson?”
It was a check for one hundred dollars to cover traveling expenses to the training camp.
Joe cleared his throat and began to read the formidable-looking document. It abounded with any number of “wherefores” and “whereases,” but the sum and substance of it was that the New York Club agreed to pay Joseph Matson the sum of four thousand five hundred dollars a year, for a period of three years from date.