were the Resolutes of Rocky Ford, a neighboring town, and many hot battles of the diamond were fought. Joe rapidly developed as a pitcher, and it was due to his efforts that his team made such an excellent showing.

In the second book, entitled, “Baseball Joe on the School Nine,” I related what happened when our hero went to Excelsior Hall, a boarding institution just outside of Cedarhurst.

Joe did not find it so easy, there, to make a showing as a pitcher. There was more competition to begin with, and he had rivals and enemies. But he did not give up, and, in spite of many difficulties, he finally occupied the mound when the annual struggle for the Blue Banner took place. And what a game that was!

Joe spent several terms at Excelsior Hall, and then, more in deference to his mother’s wishes than because he wanted to, he went to Yale.

For an account of what happened there I refer my readers to the third book of the series, called “Baseball Joe at Yale.” Joe had an uphill climb at the big university. Mingled with the hard work, the hopes deferred and the jealousies, were, however, good times a-plenty. That is one reason why Joe did not want to leave it. But he had an ambition to become a professional ball player, and he felt that he was not fitted for a college life.

So when “Jimmie” Mack, assistant manager of the Pittston team of the Central League, who was out “scouting” for new and promising players, saw Joe’s pitching battle against Princeton, he made the young collegian an offer which Joe did not feel like refusing.

He closed his college career abruptly, and when this story opens we find him coming back from New Haven to Riverside. In a day or so he expected to join the recruits at the training camp of the Pittston nine, which was at Montville, North Carolina.

As Joe kept on, after his rescue of the tramp, his thoughts were busy over many subjects. Chief among them was wonder as to how he would succeed in his new career.

“And then I’ve got to learn how dad’s affairs are,” mused Joe. “I may have to pitch in and help him.”

Mr. Matson came from his private office in the Harvester Works, and greeted Joe warmly.

“We didn’t expect you home quite so soon,” he said, as he clasped his son’s hand.

“No, I found out, after I wrote, that I was coming home, that I could get an earlier train that would save me nearly a day, so I took it. But, Dad, what’s this I hear about your financial troubles?”

“Oh, never mind about them, Joe,” was the evasive answer.

“But I want to mind, Dad. I want to help you.”

Mr. Matson went into details, with which I will not tire the reader. Sufficient to say that the inventor had invested some capital in certain stocks and bonds the value of which now seemed uncertain.

“And if I have to lose it—I have to, I suppose,” concluded Joe’s father, resignedly. “Now, my boy, tell me about yourself—and—baseball,” and he smiled, for he knew Joe’s hobby.

Father and son talked at some length, and then, as Mr. Matson had about finished work for the day, the two set out for home together. On the way Joe met his old chum, Tom Davis, and they went over again the many good times in which they had taken part.

Joe liked his home—he liked his home town, and his old chums, but still he wished to get into the new life that had called him.

He was not sorry, therefore, when, a few days later he received a telegram from Mr. Mack, telling him to report at once at Montville.

“Oh, Joe!” exclaimed his mother. “Do you really have to go so soon?”

“I’m afraid so, Momsey,” he answered. “You see the league season will soon open and I want to begin at the beginning. This is my life work, and I can’t lose any time.”

“Pitching ball a life work!” sighed Mrs. Matson. “Oh, Joe! if it was only preaching—or something like that.”

“Let the boy alone, Mother,” said Mr. Matson, with a good-humored twinkle in his eye. “We can’t all be ministers, and I’d rather have a world series winner in my family than a poor lawyer or doctor. He’ll do more good in society, too. Good luck to you, Joe.”

But Joe was not to get away to the South as quietly as he hoped. He was importuned by his old baseball chums to pitch an exhibition game for them, but he did not think it wise, under the circumstances, so declined.

But they wanted to do him honor, and, learning through Tom Davis—who, I may say in passing, got the secret from Clara—when Joe’s train was to leave, many of the old members of the Silver Stars gathered to wish their hero Godspeed.

“What’s the matter with Baseball Joe?” was the cry outside the station, whither Joe had gone with his sister and mother, his father having bidden him good-bye earlier.

“What’s the matter with Joe Matson?”

“He’s—all—right!” came the staccato reply.

Again the demand:

“Who’s all right?”

“Baseball Joe!”

“Why—what—what does it mean?” asked Mrs. Matson in bewilderment as she sat near her son in the station, and heard the cries.

“Oh, it’s just the boys,” said Joe, easily.

“They’re giving Joe a send-off,” explained Clara.

Quite a crowd gathered as the members of the amateur nine cheered Joe again and again. Many other boys joined in, and the scene about the railroad depot was one of excitement.

“What’s going on?” asked a stranger.

“Joe Matson’s going off,” was the answer.

“Who’s Joe Matson?”

“Don’t you know?” The lad looked at the man in half-contempt. “Why, he pitched a winning game for Yale against Princeton, and now he’s going to the Pittstons of the Central League.”

“Oh, I see. Hum. Is that he?” and the man pointed to the figure of our hero, surrounded by his friends.

“That’s him! Say, I wish he was me!” and the lad looked enviously at Joe.

“I—I never knew baseball was so—so popular,” said Mrs. Matson to Clara, as the shouting and cheers grew, while Joe resisted an attempt on the part of the lads to carry him on their shoulders.

“I guess it’s as much Joe as it is the game,” answered Clara, proudly.

“Three cheers for Joe!” were called for, and given with a will.

Again came the question as to who was all right, and the usual answer followed. Joe was shaking hands with two lads at once, and trying to respond to a dozen requests for letters, or passes to the league games.

Then came the whistle of the train, more hurried good-byes, a last kiss for his mother and sister—final cheers—shouts—calls for good wishes—and Joe was on his way to the Southern baseball camp.

CHAPTER III
AN ACCUSATION

“Whew!” exclaimed Joe, as he sank into a car seat and placed his valise beside him. “Some doings—those!”

Several passengers looked at him, smiling and appreciative. They had seen and heard the parting ovation tendered to our hero, and they understood what it meant.

Joe waved his hand out of the window as the train sped on, and then settled back to collect his thoughts which, truth to tell, were running riot.

Pulling from his pocket some books on baseball, one of which contained statistics regarding the Central League, Joe began poring over them. He wanted to learn all he could about the organization with which he had cast his fortunes.

And a few words of