all his hard work!”

“There, there, Mother!” exclaimed the lad, soothingly. “Let’s talk about something pleasant. I’ll go down to the works soon, and see dad. Just now I’m as hungry as a—well, as a ball player after he’s won out in the world’s series. Got anything to eat in the house?”

“Of course!” exclaimed Clara, with a laugh, “though whether it will suit your high and mightiness, after what you have been used to at college, I can’t say.”

“Oh, I’m not fussy, Sis! Trot out a broiled lobster or two, half a roast chicken, some oysters, a little salad and a cup of coffee and I’ll try and make that do until the regular meal is ready!”

They laughed at his infectious good-humor, and a look of relief showed on Mrs. Matson’s face. But it did not altogether remove the shadow of concern that had been there since Joe wrote of his decision to leave Yale to take up the life of a professional baseball player. It had been a sore blow to his mother, who had hopes of seeing him enter the ministry, or at least one of the professions. And with all his light-heartedness, Joe realized the shattered hopes. But, for the life of him, he could not keep on at college—a place entirely unsuited to him. But of that more later.

Seated at the dining-room table, the three were soon deep in a rather disjointed conversation. Joe’s sister and mother waited on him as only a mother and sister can serve a returned son and brother.

Between bites, as it were, Joe asked all sorts of questions, chiefly about his father’s business troubles. Neither Mrs. Matson nor her daughter could give a very clear account of what had happened, or was in danger of happening, and the young pitcher, whose recent victory in the college championship games had made him quite famous, remarked:

“I’ll have to go down and see dad myself, and give him the benefit of my advice. I suppose he’s at the Harvester Works?”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Matson. “He is there early and late. He is working on another patent, and he says if it’s successful he won’t mind about the bad investments. But he hasn’t had much luck, so far.”

“I’ll have to take him out to a ball game, and get the cobwebs out of his head,” said Joe, with a laugh. “It’s a bad thing to get in a rut. Just a little more bread, Sis.”

“And so you have really left Yale?” asked his mother, almost hoping something might have occurred to change her son’s mind. “You are not going back, Joe?”

“No, I’ve quit, Mother, sold off what belongings I didn’t want to keep, and here I am.”

“And when are you going to begin pitching for that professional team?” asked Clara, coming in with the bread.

“I can’t exactly say. I’ve got to go meet Mr. Gregory, the manager and the largest stockholder in the club. So far I’ve only dealt with Mr. James Mack, his assistant and scout. He picked me up and made a contract with me.”

“Perhaps it won’t go through,” ventured Mrs. Matson, half-hopefully.

“Oh, I guess it will,” answered Joe, easily. “Anyhow, I’ve got an advance payment, and I can hold them to their terms. I expect I’ll be sent South to the training camp, where the rest of the players are. The season opens soon, and then we’ll be traveling all over the circuit—mostly in the Middle West.”

“Then we won’t see much of you, Joe,” and his sister spoke regretfully.

“Well, I’ll have to be pretty much on the jump, Sis. But I’ll get home whenever I can. And if ever you get near where the Pittston club is playing—that’s my team, you know—” and Joe pretended to swell up with pride—“why, just take a run in, and I’ll get you box seats.”

“I’m afraid I don’t care much for baseball,” sighed Mrs. Matson.

“I do!” cried Clara with enthusiasm. “Oh, we’ve had some dandy games here this Spring, Joe, though the best games are yet to come. The Silver Stars are doing fine!”

“Are they really?” Joe asked. “And since they lost my invaluable services as a twirler? How thoughtless of them, Sis!”

Clara laughed.

“Well, they miss you a lot,” she pouted, “and often speak of you. Maybe, if you’re going to be home a few days, you could pitch a game for them.”

“I wouldn’t dare do it, Clara.”

“Why not, I’d like to know,” and her eyes showed her surprise.

“Because I’m a professional now, and I can’t play in amateur contests—that is, it wouldn’t be regular.”

“Oh, I guess no one here would mind, Joe. Will you have some of these canned peaches?”

“Just a nibble, Sis—just a nibble. I’ve made out pretty well. You can make as good bread as ever, Momsey!”

“I’m glad you like it, Joe. Your father thinks there’s nothing like home-made bread.”

“That’s where dad shows his good judgment. Quite discriminating on dad’s part, I’m sure. Yes, indeed!”

“Oh, Joe, you’re so—so different!” said Clara, looking at her brother sharply.

“In what way, Sis?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, slowly. “I suppose it’s—the college influence.”

“Well, a fellow can’t live at Yale, even for a short time, without absorbing something different from the usual life. It’s an education in itself just to go there if you never opened a book. It’s a different world.”

“And I wish you had stayed there!” burst out Mrs. Matson, with sudden energy. “Oh, I don’t like you to be a professional ball player! It’s no profession at all!”

“Well, call it a business then, if you like,” said Joe good-naturedly. “Say it isn’t a profession, though it is called one. As a business proposition, Mother, it’s one of the biggest in the world to-day. The players make more money than lots of professional men, and they don’t have to work half so hard—not that I mind that.”

“Joe Matson! Do you mean to tell me a ball player—even one who tosses the ball for the other man to hit at—does he make more than—than a minister?” demanded his mother.

“I should say so, Mother! Why, there are very few ministers who make as much as even an ordinary player in a minor league. And as for the major leaguers—why, they could equal half a dozen preachers. Mind, I’m not talking against the ministry, or any of the learned professions. I only wish I had the brains and ability to enter one.

“But I haven’t, and there’s no use pretending I have. And, though I do say it myself, there’s no use spoiling a good pitcher to make a poor minister. I’m sorry, Mother, that I couldn’t keep on at Yale—sorry on your account, not on mine. But I just couldn’t.”

“How—how much do you suppose you’ll get a year for pitching in this Central League?” asked Mrs. Matson, hesitatingly.

“Well, they’re going to start me on fifteen hundred dollars a year,” said Joe rather proudly, “and of course I can work up from that.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars!” cried Mrs. Matson. “Why, that’s more than a hundred dollars a month!”

“A good deal more, when you figure that I don’t have to do anything in the Winter months, Mother.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars!” murmured Clara. “Why, that’s more than father earned when he got married, Mother. I’ve heard you say so—lots of times.”

“Yes, Clara. But then fifteen hundred dollars went further in those days than it does now. But, Joe, I didn’t think you’d get so much as that.”

“There’s my contract, Mother,” and he pulled it from his pocket with a