The train was a local and he had to travel twenty miles before he should reach the Junction, where he was to connect with the “Flyer.” He found the latter train puffing impatiently when he arrived, and it was the work of a moment to transfer his belongings to the sleeper. He found the seat which his ticket called for and settled down for an unbroken trip to Goldsboro.
He was lost in the pleasant thoughts this name called up when the porter passed through announcing that dinner was ready in the dining car. Joe’s healthy appetite seldom had to be prodded by a second announcement, and he promptly went forward. He found a good seat facing forward, and he was soon engrossed in a careful study of the bill of fare. It proved to be all that he could ask, and he soon had a most tempting and abundant meal spread before him.
He applied himself to this conscientiously, and was half-way through the meal when a man took the seat directly opposite him. Joe gave him a passing glance and saw that he was a man rather advanced in years but who bore himself with a certain suppleness and vigor that bespoke an early athletic training. It was an honest, pleasing face he had, Joe decided, after a careless glance. Then he went on eating and forgot all about the stranger.
But the newcomer kept looking at Joe from time to time with a puzzled expression, as though he had seen him before but scarcely knew how to place him. Several times he seemed on the point of addressing the young pitcher, but checked himself. At last the impulse proved too strong for him to resist.
“Beg pardon,” he said, “but your face looks very familiar to me. Would you mind telling me your name?”
Joe looked up with quick suspicion. He had been approached more than once by oily strangers who had sought to scrape acquaintance, and he had learned to be on his guard. But there was nothing in the frank smile and candid face before him to arouse distrust, and he answered readily:
“Not the least in the world. My name is Joseph Matson.”
“Not the Matson that is going to play on the Giants this year?” asked the stranger eagerly.
“I guess I am,” returned Joe, smiling.
“That explains why your face looked so familiar!” exclaimed the other. “I’ve seen your picture in various papers twenty times in the last week. I’ve read all about you, and I’m mighty glad to meet you. My name is Wilson, and I’m an old ball player myself. In fact, I guess I was playing professional ball twenty years or more before you were born.”