cry:

“Cheese it—here come the cops!”

Riverside boasted of a small police force, and while it was not very formidable, most of the lads came from homes where a report of their arrest for fighting would meet with severe punishment. Their ardor suddenly cooled and, almost as soon as it had started, the impromptu battle was over. The victorious nine gathered up their belongings and moved off the diamond, jeering at their defeated rivals.

“It was their fault—they started the fights,” declared Tom Davis.

“Yes, I guess it was,” admitted Darrell. “Well come on, fellows. They beat us, and though I think it wasn’t exactly square on some of the decisions, we can take our medicine. We’ll do better next time.”

“Do you mean me?” demanded Sam half fiercely.

“I mean—all of us,” spoke Darrell slowly, “including myself.”

“Some excitement; eh?” asked Tom, as he linked his arm in that of Joe Matson and walked along with him.

“Yes, but it was a good game just the same.”

“You play, don’t you?”

“I used to, at Bentville, where we moved from,” answered Joe.

“Have a good team?”

“Pretty good.”

“Where’d you play?”

“Well, mostly at pitching. I like that better than anything else.”

“Hum!” mused Tom. “It takes a pretty good one to pitch these days. It isn’t like it used to be. Pitching is a gift, like poetry I guess. You can’t go in and pitch right off the reel.”

“I know it,” answered Joe quietly. “But it’s my one ambition. I want to go to a good boarding school and get on the team as pitcher.”

“Well, I hope you do,” and Tom laughed frankly. “I wouldn’t mind that myself, though I don’t know as I care so much for pitching.”

“It’s the best part of the game!” cried Joe, and his eyes shone and he seemed to lose some of his usual quiet manner. “I’d like it above everything else!”

“Got any curves?” asked the practical Tom.

“Well, I don’t know as I have—yet. I’m practicing though.”

“Got any speed?”

“They used to say I had, back there in Bentville.”

“Hum! Well, I don’t believe there’s much chance for you here. Sam has the Silver Stars cinched. But he was rotten the last half of to-day’s game. That’s what made us lose it. Yes, it takes some pumpkins to pitch now-a-days.”

The boys walked on down the street after Tom had discarded his suit. Before them and behind them were other players and spectators, talking of nothing but the game and the fight that had followed. The Resolutes, cheering and singing triumphantly, had departed in their big stages, and in the hearts of the Silver Stars was gloom and despair.

“Well, come over and see me sometime,” invited Tom, as he parted from Joe.

“I will. You come over and see me.”

The boys went their respective ways—Joe walking rather slowly and thinking of what had just taken place.

“How I would like to pitch—and go to boarding school!” he mused as he walked toward his house. As he entered the side door he saw his mother sitting at the dining room table. Something about her attracted his attention—aroused his fears. The cloth had been spread, and though it was supper time, for the game had lasted until late, there were no dishes on the table.

“Why mother!” exclaimed Joe, struck by a queer look on her face. “What is the matter? Has anything happened?”

“Oh Joe!” she exclaimed starting up, as though she had not heard him come in. “Oh, no, nothing is the matter,” she went on, and she tried to smile, but it was only an attempt. “I forgot it was so late. Your father was home, but he went out again.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. He said he had some business to attend to. But I must hurry with the supper. Where were you?”

“At the ball game. There was a fight. Our side lost. Oh, how I wish I had been pitching! If ever I go to that boarding school I’m going to try for the nine, first thing!”

“Oh yes, you’re always talking about a boarding school, Joe. Well, I—I hope you can go.”

“Mother, I’m sure something has happened!” exclaimed Joe, putting his arms around her and patting her on the shoulder, for she was a little woman.

“No, really,” she assured him. “I’m just a little worried, that’s all. Now you can help me set the table if you will. Clara has gone to take her music lesson and isn’t back yet.”

“Of course I will!” exclaimed Joe. “But what are you worried about, mother? I wish you’d tell me.”

“I can’t now, Joe. Perhaps I will some time. It isn’t anything serious—yet,” and with that Mrs. Matson hurried out of the room.

She smiled as she left her son, but when she reached the kitchen the same serious look came over her face again.

“I hope what he fears doesn’t come to pass,” she remarked to herself. “Poor Joe! it would be too bad if he couldn’t go to a boarding school when his heart is so set on it. And to become a pitcher! I wish he had some higher ambition in life, though I suppose all boys are alike at his age,” and she sighed.

“Hum,” mused Joe as he went about setting the table, for the Matsons kept no girl and Joe and his sister often helped their mother with the housework when their school duties permitted. “Something is worrying mother,” the lad went on. “I hope it isn’t anything about father’s business in the harvester works. He took a risk when he gave up his position in Bentville and took a new one here. But that was an exciting game all right,” and Joe smiled at the recollection as he went on putting the plates around at their places.

CHAPTER IV

A ROW WITH SAM

“What are you thinking about, Joe?”

It was his sister Clara who asked the question, and she had noticed that her brother was rather dreaming over his books than studying. It was the Monday night after the Saturday when the memorable game with the Resolutes had taken place.

“Oh, nothing much,” and Joe roused himself from a reverie and began to pour over his books.

“Well, for ‘nothing much’ I should say that it was a pretty deep subject,” went on Clara with a laugh, as she finished doing her examples. “It isn’t one of the girls here, is it Joe? There are a lot of pretty ones in our class.”

“Oh—bother!” exclaimed Joe. “Let a fellow alone, can’t you, when he’s studying? We have some pretty stiff work I tell you!” and he ruffled up his hair, as if that would make his lessons come easier. “It’s a heap worse than it was back in Bentville.”

“I think so too, but I like it, Joe. We have a real nice teacher, and I’ve met a lot of pleasant girls. Do you know any of the boys?”

“Hu! I guess you want me to give you an introduction to them!” exclaimed Joe.

“No more than you do to the girls I know,” retorted his sister, “so there!”

“Now, now,” gently remonstrated Mrs. Matson, looking up from her sewing, “you young folks keep on with your lessons. Your father can’t go on reading his paper if you dispute so.”

Involuntarily Joe and his sister glanced to where Mr. Matson sat in his easy chair. But he did not seem to be reading, though he held the paper up in front of him. Joe fancied he saw a look of worriment on his father’s face, and he wondered if he was vexed over some problem in