said Joe firmly. “It was as much your fault as mine, and my wheel may be broken too. I’m going to look,” he added as he lifted his bicycle from where it was entangled with Sam’s.

A bent pedal, which would not interfere with its use, was all the damage Joe’s wheel had sustained and beyond a few bent spokes and a punctured tire Sam’s seemed to have suffered no great harm.

“I’ll help you straighten those spokes,” said Joe cheerfully. “It won’t take but a minute. I can have my father straighten my pedal at the factory. And I’ll help you mend and pump up your tire. I’m sorry——”

“Look here!” burst out Sam in a rage, “I don’t want any of your help. You’re too fresh. You come banging into a fellow, knocking him all over and then you think you can square things by offering to help him. I don’t want any of your help!”

“Oh, very well,” replied Joe quietly. “Then I’ll be going on. I’ve got an errand to do. But I’d like to help you.”

“Mind your own business!” snapped Sam, still rubbing his pitching arm. He made no motion to pick up his wheel.

Joe was half minded to make an angry retort but he thought better of it. He wheeled his bicycle to the hard side-path of the road, and, ascertaining that his letter was safe, prepared to mount and ride away.

“And mind you, if my arm is stiff, and I can’t pitch Saturday it will be your fault, and I’ll tell the fellows so,” called Sam as he leaned over to pick up his wheel.

“All right, only you know it isn’t so,” replied Joe quietly.

As he pedaled on he looked back and saw Sam straightening some of the bent spokes. The pitcher scowled at him.

“Hum,” mused Joe as he speeded up. “Not a very good beginning for getting on the nine—a run-in with the pitcher. Well, I guess I wouldn’t be in it anyhow. I guess they think I’m not in their class. But I will be—some day!” and with a grim tightening of his lips Joe Matson rode on.