href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@41847@[email protected]#CHAPTER_XVII" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">Old Pop Again

136 XVIII In Despair 144 XIX A New Hold 153 XX Joe’s Triumph 161 XXI A Danger Signal 168 XXII Victory 176 XXIII The Tramp Again 185 XXIV On the Track 191 XXV Reggie’s Auto 198 XXVI The Tramp Rendezvous 206 XXVII The Slow Watch 212 XXVIII The Race 220 XXIX A Diamond Battle 228 XXX The Pennant 237

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BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE

CHAPTER I
DANGER

“Why, here’s Joe!”

“So soon? I didn’t expect him until night.”

The girl who had uttered the first exclamation, and her mother whose surprise was manifested in the second, hurried to the door of the cottage, up the gravel walk to which a tall, athletic youth was then striding, swinging a heavy valise as though he enjoyed the weight of it.

“Hello, Mother!” he called gaily. “How are you, Sis?” and a moment later Joe Matson was alternating his marks of affection between his mother and sister.

“Well, it’s good to be home again!” he went on, looking into the two faces which showed the pleasure felt in the presence of the lad. “Mighty good to be home again!”

“And we’re glad to have him; aren’t we, Mother?”

“Yes, Clara, of course,” and Mrs. Matson spoke with a hesitation that her son could not help noticing. “Of course we just love to have you home Joe——”

“There, now, Mother, I know what you’re going to say!” he interrupted with good-natured raillery. “You rather wish I’d stuck on there at Yale, turning into a fossil, or something like that, and——”

“Oh, Joe! Of course I didn’t want you to turn into a fossil,” objected his mother, in shocked tones. “But I did hope that you might——”

“Become a sky-pilot! Is that it, Momsey?” and he put his arm about her slender waist.

“Joe Matson! What a way to talk about a minister!” she cried. “The idea!”

“Well, Mother, I meant no disrespect. A sky-pilot is an ancient and honorable calling, but not for me. So here I am. Yale will have to worry along without yours truly, and I guess she’ll make out fairly well. But how is everything? Seen any of the fellows lately? How’s father? How’s the business?”

The last two questions seemed to open a painful subject, for mother and daughter looked at one another as though each one was saying:

“You tell him!”

Joe Matson sensed that something disagreeable was in the air.

“What is it?” he demanded, turning from his mother to his sister. “What has happened?” It was not Joe’s way to shrink from danger, or from a disagreeable duty. And part of his success as a baseball pitcher was due to this very fact.

Now he was aware that something had gone amiss since his last visit home, and he wanted to know what it was. He put his arms on his mother’s shoulders—frail little shoulders they were, too—yet they had borne many heavy burdens of which Joe knew nothing. What mother’s shoulders have not?

The lad looked into her eyes—eyes that held a hint of pain. His own were clear and bright—they snapped with life and youthful vigor.

“What is it, Momsey?” he asked softly. “Don’t be afraid to tell me. Has anything happened to dad?”

“Oh, no, it isn’t anything like that, Joe,” said Clara quickly. “We didn’t write to you about it for fear you’d worry and lose that last big game with Princeton. It’s only that——”

“Your father has lost some money!” interrupted Mrs. Matson, wishing to have the disagreeable truth out at once.

“Oh, if that’s all, we can soon fix that!” cried Joe, gaily, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. “Just wait until I begin drawing my salary as pitcher for the Pittston team in the Central League, and then you’ll be on Easy Street.”

“Oh, but it’s a great deal of money, Joe!” spoke Clara in rather awed tones.

“Well, you haven’t heard what my salary is to be.”

“You mustn’t make it so serious, Clara,” interposed Mrs. Matson. “Your father hasn’t exactly lost the money, Joe. But he has made a number of investments that seem likely to turn out badly, and there’s a chance that he’ll have to lose, just as some others will.”

“Oh, well, if there’s a chance, what’s the use of worrying until you have to?” asked Joe, boy-like.

“The chances are pretty good—or, rather, pretty bad—that the money will go,” said Mrs. Matson with a sigh. “Oh, dear! Isn’t it too bad, after