“Come, old man,” Joe said to himself, “this will never do. Brace up and get on the job. Help the Giants to win the flag, get a slice of the money from the World’s Series, and then you’ll be in a position to ask the sweetest girl in the world whether she is willing to pour your coffee for the rest of her life.”
Naturally it was the sporting page that engrossed most of his attention. A great deal of space was devoted to the departure of McRae and most of the Giants from New York on their way to the grounds at Marlin for the spring training trip. Rosy predictions were indulged in as to the result of the coming season. The general opinion seemed to be that New York had a capital chance for the pennant, now that McRae had plugged up two weak places in the team, and especially because he had strengthened his pitching staff by the addition of Matson, who had done such sterling work in the box for the Cardinals the previous season.
These predictions interested Joe, but were not especially convincing. He had seen so many “good things” go wrong, so many teams strong on paper “come a cropper,” while those who were only given an outside chance by the baseball scribes came up from the ruck, that he had become an habitual resident of “Missouri,” and had to be “shown.” Moreover, this was a New York paper, and he knew that local sheets in the seven other cities of the National League were industriously trying to prove, to their own satisfaction at least, that their favorite sons could not lose.
What did have an especial interest for him, however, was an article that told of his exploit in subduing Talham Tabbs. The news had filtered out from Riverside through the columns of the local paper, and the metropolitan sporting reporter had been quick to recognize it as having all the elements of a good story. So he had featured it for all that he was worth, even introducing an imaginary picture of the madman standing on the lumber pile while Joe was in the act of hurling the ball.
Joe was amused and rather pleased, and yet he knew that the story would win him a large amount of banter from his mates.
“They’ll be joking about Matson’s ‘freeze’ ball from now to the end of the season,” he grinned. “Well, as long as it gives ‘cold feet’ to the batters I have to face, I won’t have to worry about it.”
He made a hearty breakfast and strolled back into his car, wholly at peace with himself and the world. The pleasant influence of his dream still clung around him, and then, too, every mile traversed by the “Flyer” was bringing him nearer and nearer to Goldsboro.
It is not to be hastily assumed from this that Joe was unduly anxious to meet his new team-mates. There would be plenty of time to become acquainted with them before the season closed. In fact, he would probably have a surfeit of their society.
But Goldsboro was a pleasant town, and he would have four hours to stay before the train from New York bearing McRae and his men should pull into the station.
While he had been in the dining car the train had stopped at a station and several passengers had boarded it. Joe noticed as he went to his seat that the car seemed fuller than when he had left it.