[CHAPTER XVII]
AWAY DOWN SOUTH
There were perhaps thirty men or thereabouts in the car. Some were playing cards, others telling stories, still others skylarking, while a few were quietly reading or looking out of the windows at the crowd gathered on the station platform. There was an utter absence of formality and restraint, and the prevailing atmosphere was one of good fellowship. Most of the men were well but quietly dressed, although a few were conspicuous by reason of loud ties and silken hose and flashing diamonds. And as Joe looked at the latter he grinned as he thought of his old friend Campbell, the third baseman of the Cardinals, with his love of gaudy raiment and neckwear that could be “heard a mile.”
The light of recognition flashed in many eyes as they lighted on the newcomer, and the next instant Joe was shaking hands warmly with half a dozen who crowded around him.
“Joe Matson, as I live!” cried Hughson, the most famous pitcher in the game. “The man who made me take water last year in New York. I sure am glad to see you, Matson. Our boys are counting on you to get us into the World’s Series this year.”
“I’ll try to do my share,” laughed Joe, “that is, if McRae doesn’t keep me warming the bench. By the way, where is he? I suppose it’s up to me to report to him right away.”
“He’s talking to one of the big muckamucks in the next car,” chimed in Barrett, the Giant second baseman. “How are you, Matson, old man? You look as fine as silk.”
“Been keeping himself in condition by knocking crazy men off lumber piles,” laughed “Red” Curry, the right fielder. “Oh, we’re onto your curves all right. Read all about it in this morning’s paper. Was that straight goods or was it just a reporter’s yarn?”
“The reporter hasn’t let the story lose anything in the telling,” said Joe. “I did bean the fellow, but it was an easy enough shot. But for the love of Pete, boys, don’t hold it against me!”