There was a general laugh, and then Hughson pushed Joe into a seat and sat down beside him. In a few minutes they were in an animated conversation as to the prospects of the team for the coming season.
Joe could not help contrasting his present reception with that he had received when he first broke into the professional ranks. Then he was just a “busher,” a “rookie,” a nobody who had his reputation yet to win. The “old hands” had looked on him patronizingly or contemptuously and flocked by themselves. He had been made to feel that he was outside the pale, and some of the meaner spirits, fearing that he might supplant them later on, had done everything in their power to keep him down. Only a young fellow in his “first season” can know how utterly friendless and forlorn he is sometimes made to feel.
But in baseball, as in everything else, “nothing succeeds like success.” Joe had “arrived.” He had stood the gaff and won his spurs by the hard ordeal of actual battle. He had faced the best batters of the country and outguessed them. He had won his right to a place in the inner circle. And here he was on a plane of equality and talking as a friend and comrade with Hughson, the king of them all.
It was in no spirit of vainglory that Joe recalled these things. His head was not swelled in the slightest degree. He knew how precarious is baseball fame. He knew that the pitcher who one day had to doff his cap to the applause of the crowd might, the next time he appeared, be hooted from the box. But he was profoundly pleased and gratified that he had so far advanced in his profession that he had a recognized standing. He need not now fear that he would not even have a chance to make good. He would have every opportunity and his success or failure would depend on himself alone.
“Yes,” Hughson was saying, “I’ve been looking at the thing from every angle, and I don’t see how any team has a license to beat us out. We’re strong in every position except perhaps one. I won’t say what that is but leave you to find it out for yourself. We’ve got rid of some trouble makers that knocked us out of the pennant last year and just now we’re like some big happy family.”
“How do you dope out the Chicagos?” asked Joe. “Don’t you think they’ll give us a harder fight than any of the other teams?”
“They may,” admitted Hughson, thoughtfully. “They’ve got a terrific batting combination. They led the league in that respect last year. But I think some of their pitchers show signs of slowing up. I hear that Blaney had to go to Bonesetter Reese this winter for some trouble in his salary wing. He’s the most dependable southpaw they have on the staff and if he goes back on them they’ll be in a pretty serious pickle.
“They may have picked up some port side flinger in the draft this winter, but I haven’t heard of any that are likely to set the river afire. Brennan, their manager, though, is as foxy as they make them, and he may have something good under cover.”
“How do you figure Pittsburgh?” asked Joe.
“Pittsburgh doesn’t scare me much,” was the answer. “Of course old Wagner is a team in himself. Isn’t it wonderful how that old slugger keeps on year in and year out? He’s about the only man in the whole league that I’m really afraid of. When he comes up to the plate with that big wagon tongue of his I always feel that he’s more likely to get my number than I am to get his. But he can’t do the work of a whole ball team after all, and the rest of the nine don’t figure out so very strong, to my way of thinking. They’re sure to be in the first division, but I think that lets them out. To tell the truth, I’m more sweet on Boston’s chances than any one else’s, outside of our own.”