flourish.

“Well, of course, Joe—Oh! I did want you to be a minister, or a lawyer, or a doctor; but since you feel you can’t—well, perhaps it’s all for the best, Joe,” and she sighed softly. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

“You’ll see that it will be, Mother. And now I’m going down street and see some of the boys. I suppose Tom Davis is around somewhere. Then I’ll stroll in on dad. I want to have a talk with him.”

“Shall I unpack your valise?” asked Clara.

“Yes. I guess I’ll be home for a few days before starting in at the training camp. I’ll be back to supper, anyhow,” and, with a laugh he went out and down the main street of Riverside, where the Matsons made their home.

As Baseball Joe walked along the thoroughfare he was greeted by many acquaintances—old and young. They were all glad to see him, for the fame of the pitcher who had won the victory for Yale was shared, in a measure, by his home town. In the case of baseball players, at least, they are not “prophets without honor save in their own country.”

Joe inquired for his old chum, Tom Davis, but no one seemed to have noticed him that day, and, making up his mind he would locate him later, the young pitcher turned his footsteps in the direction of the Royal Harvester Works, where his father was employed. To reach the plant Joe had to cross the railroad, and in doing this he noticed a man staggering along the tracks.

The man was not a prepossessing specimen. His clothes were ragged and dirty—in short “tramp” was written all over him.

“And he acts as though he were drugged, or had taken too much whiskey,” said Joe. “Too bad! Maybe he’s had a lot of trouble. You can’t always tell.

“But I’m sure of one thing, and that is he’d better get off the track. He doesn’t seem able to take care of himself.

“Look out there!” cried the young pitcher, with sudden energy. “Look out for that freight, old man! You’re walking right into danger!”

A train of freight cars was backing down the rails, right upon the man who was staggering along, unheeding.

The engineer blew his whistle shrilly—insistently; but still the ragged man did not get off the track.

Joe sprinted at his best pace, and in an instant had grasped the man by the arm. The tramp looked up with bleary, blood-shot eyes—uncomprehending—almost unseeing.

“Wha—wha’s matter?” he asked, thickly.

“Matter—matter enough when you get sense enough to realize it!” said Joe sharply, as he pulled him to one side, and only just in time, for a second later the freight train thundered past at hardly slackened speed in spite of the fact that the brakes had been clapped on.

The man staggered at Joe’s sudden energy, and would have toppled over against a switch had not the young pitcher held him.

CHAPTER II
OFF FOR THE SOUTH

Sweeping past, in the cab of the locomotive, the engineer leaned out and shook his fist at the tramp.

“You ought to be locked up!” he yelled, with savage energy. Then, lest he might not seem to appreciate Joe’s action in saving the man’s life and preventing a lot of trouble for the railroad authorities, the engineer added:

“Much obliged to you, young fellow. You saved us a bad mess. Better turn that hobo over to one of the yard detectives. He’ll take care of him, all right.”

“No, I’ll get him off the tracks and start him home, if I can,” answered Joe, but it is doubtful if the engineer heard.

“You had a close call, old man,” went on Joe, as he helped the tramp to stand upright. “Better get off the railroad. Where do you want to go?”

“Hey?”

“I ask you where you want to go. I’ll give you a hand, if it isn’t too far. It’s dangerous here—for a man in your—condition.”

“Uh! Don’t make no difference where I go, I reckon,” replied the man, thickly. “No difference at all. I’m down and out, an’ one place’s good’s nuther. Down—an’—out!”

“Oh, well, maybe you can come back,” said Joe, as cheerfully as he could. “Don’t give up.”

“Come back! Huh! Guess you don’t know the game. Fellers like me never come back. Say, bo, you’ve got quite an arm on you,” he said admiringly, as he noted the ease with which the young pitcher helped him over the tracks. The unfortunate man could hardly help himself. “You’ve got an arm—all right.”

“Oh, nothing much. Just from pitching. I expect.”

“Pitching!” The man straightened up as though a lash had struck him. “Pitching, did you say? In—er—in what league?”

“Not in any league yet, though I’ve signed with the Central.”

“The Central? Huh! A bush league.”

“I left the Yale ’varsity to go with them,” said Joe, a little nettled at the tone of the man whose life he had just saved.

“Oh—you pitched for Yale?” There was more deference shown now.

“Yes, and we beat Princeton.”

“You did? An’ you pitched? Say, young feller, put her there! Put her—there!” The man held out an unsteady hand, which Joe, more to quiet him than for any other reason, clasped firmly.

“An’ you beat Princeton! Good for you! Put her there! I—er—I read about that. I can read—I got a good education. But I—er—Oh, I’m a fool, that’s what I am. A fool! An’ to think that I once—Oh, what’s the use—what’s the use?”

The energy faded away from his voice, and he ended in a half sob. With bowed head he allowed Joe to lead him across the tracks. A number of railroad men who had seen the rescue looked at the pair, but once the tramp was off the line, and out of immediate danger, they lost interest.

“Can I help you—do you want to go anywhere in particular?” asked Joe, kindly.

“What’s the use of goin’ anywhere in particular?” was the demand. “I’ve got nowhere to go. One place is as good as another when you’re down—and out. Out! Ha! Yes, out! He’s out—out at first—last—out all the time! Out!”

“Oh, quit!” exclaimed Joe, sharply, for the man was fast losing his nerve, and was almost sobbing.

“That’s right, young feller—that’s right!” came the quick retort. “I do need pullin’ up. Much obliged to you. I—I guess I can take care of myself now.”

“Have you any—do you need any—money?” hesitated Joe.

“No—no, thank you. I’ve got some. Not much, but enough until I can get—straightened out. I’m much obliged to you.”

He walked straighter now, and more upright.

“Be careful to keep off the tracks,” warned Joe.

“I—I will. Don’t worry. Much obliged,” and the man walked off into the woods that adjoined the railroad.

“Poor old chap,” mused the young pitcher, as he resumed his way to his father’s shop. And while I have just a few moments I will take advantage of them to make my new readers better acquainted with Joe, and his achievements, as detailed in the former books of this series.

The first volume is entitled “Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars,” and tells how Joe began his career as a pitcher. The Silver Stars were made up of ball-loving lads in Riverside, a New England town where Joe lived with his parents and his sister Clara. Mr. Matson was an inventor of farming machinery, and had perfected a device that brought him in substantial returns.

Joe, Tom Davis, and a number of other lads formed a team that was to represent Riverside. Their bitterest rivals