explanation concerning the Central League may not be unappreciated by my readers.

In the first place let me be perfectly frank, and state that the Central League was not one of the big ones. I have not masqueraded a major league under that title. Some day I hope to tell you some stories concerning one of the larger leagues, but not in this volume.

And in the second place Joe realized that he was not going to astonish the world by his performances in this small league. He knew it was but a “bush league,” in a sense, yet he had read enough of it to know that it was composed of clean-cut clubs and players, and that it bore a good reputation. Many a major league player had graduated from this same Central, and Joe—well, to put it modestly—had great hopes.

The Central League was of the Middle West. It played its eight clubs over a circuit composed of eight well-known cities, which for the purposes of this story I have seen fit to designate as follows: Clevefield, Pittston (to which club Joe had been signed), Delamont, Washburg, Buffington, Loston, Manhattan and Newkirk. Perhaps, as the story progresses, you may recognize, more or less successfully, certain players and certain localities. With that I have nothing to do.

The train sped on, stopping at various stations, but Joe took little interest in the passing scenery, or in what took place in his coach. He was busy over his baseball “dope,” by which I mean the statistics regarding players, their averages, and so forth.

“And my name will soon be among ’em!” exulted Joe.

As the train was pulling out of a small station, Joe looked out of the window, and, to his surprise, saw, sitting on a baggage truck, the same tramp he had saved from the freight train some days before.

“Hum!” mused Joe. “If he’s beating his way on the railroad he hasn’t gotten very far,” for this was not many miles from Riverside. “I guess he’s a sure-enough hobo, all right. Too bad!”

Others beside Joe seemed to have noticed the tramp, who, however, had not looked at our hero. One of two men in the seat back of Joe spoke, and said:

“I say, Reynolds, see that tramp sitting there?”

“You mean the one on the truck?”

“Yes. Do you recognize him?”

“Recognize him? I should say not. I’m not in the habit of——”

“Easy, old man. Would you be surprised if I told you that many times you’ve taken your hat off to that same tramp, and cheered him until you were hoarse?”

“Get out!”

“It’s a fact.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know who he is now—not much, to judge by his looks; but that’s old Pop Dutton, who, in his day, was one of the best pitchers Boston ever owned. He was a wonder!”

“Is that Pop Dutton?”

“That’s the wreck of him!”

“How have the mighty fallen,” was the whispered comment. “Poor old Pop! Indeed, many a time I have taken my hat off to him! He sure was a wonder. What caused his downfall?”

“Bad companions—that and—drink.”

“Too bad!”

Joe felt an irresistible impulse to turn around and speak to the two men. But he refrained, perhaps wisely.

“And to think that I saved his life!” mused Joe. “No wonder he talked as he did. Pop Dutton! Why, I’ve often read of him. He pitched many a no-hit no-run game. And now look at him!”

As the train pulled out Joe saw the wreck of what had once been a fine man stagger across the platform. A railroad man had driven him from the truck. Joe’s heart was sore.

He realized that in baseball there were many temptations, and he knew that many a fine young fellow had succumbed to them. But he felt himself strong enough to resist.

If Joe expected to make the trip South with speed and comfort he was soon to realize that it was not to be. Late that afternoon the train came to an unexpected stop, and on the passengers inquiring what was the trouble, the conductor informed them that, because of a wreck ahead, they would be delayed at a little country station for several hours.

There were expostulations, sharp remarks and various sorts of suggestions offered by the passengers, all of whom seemed to be in a hurry. Joe, himself, regretted the delay, but he did not see how it could be avoided.

“The company ought to be sued!” declared a young man whose rather “loud” clothes proclaimed him for an up-to-date follower of “fashion.” He had with him a valise of peculiar make—rather conspicuous—and it looked to be of foreign manufacture. In fact, everything about him was rather striking.

“I ought to be in New York now,” this young chap went on, as though everyone in the train was interested in his fortunes and misfortunes. “This delay is uncalled for! I shall start suit against this railroad. It’s always having wrecks. Can’t we go on, my good man?” he asked the conductor, sharply.

“Not unless you go on ahead and shove the wreck out of the way,” was the sharp answer.

“I shall report you!” said the youth, loftily.

“Do! It won’t be the first time I’ve been reported—my good fellow!”

The youth flushed and, taking his valise, left the car to enter the small railway station. Several other passengers, including Joe, did the same, for the car was hot and stuffy.

Joe took a seat near one where the modish young man set down his queer valise. Some of the other passengers, after leaving their baggage inside, went out on the platform to stroll about. Joe noted that the young man had gone to the telegraph office to send a message.

Our hero having nothing else to do, proceeded to look over more of his baseball information. He was deep in a study of batting averages when he was aware that someone stood in front of him.

It was the young man, who had his valise open, and on his face was a puzzled expression, mingled with one of anger.

“I say now! I say!” exclaimed the young chap. “This won’t do! It won’t do at all, you know!” and he looked sharply at Joe.

“Are you speaking to me?” asked the young pitcher. “If you are I don’t know what it is that won’t do—and I don’t care.”

“It won’t do at all, you know!” went on the young man, speaking with what he probably intended to be an English accent. “It won’t do!”

“What won’t?” asked Joe sharply.

“Why, taking things out of my valise, you know. There’s a gold watch and some jewelry missing—my sister’s jewelry. It won’t do!”

“Do you mean to say that I had anything to do with taking jewelry out of your valise?” asked Joe hotly.

“Why—er—you were sitting next to it. I went to send a wire—when I come back my stuff is missing, and——”

“Look here!” cried the young pitcher in anger. “Do you mean to accuse me?” and he jumped to his feet and faced the young man. “Do you?”

“Why—er—yes, I think I do,” was the answer. “You were next my bag, you know, and—well, my stuff is gone. It won’t do. It won’t do at all, you know!”

CHAPTER IV
IN TRAINING

For a moment Joe stood glaring at the modish young man who had accused him. The latter returned the look steadily. There were superciliousness, contempt and an abiding sense of his own superiority in the look, and Joe resented these too-well displayed feelings fully as much as he did the accusation.

Then a calmer mood came over the young pitcher; he recalled the training