at Yale—the training that had come when he had been in troublesome situations—and Joe laughed. It was that laugh which formed a safety-valve for him.

“I don’t see what there is to laugh at,” sneered the young man. “My valise has been opened, and my watch and some jewelry taken.”

“Well, what have I got to do with it?” demanded Joe hotly. “I’m not a detective or a police officer!”

Joe glanced from the youth to the bag in question. It was a peculiar satchel, made of some odd leather, and evidently constructed for heavy use. It was such a bag as Joe had never seen before. It was open now, and there could be noticed in it a confused mass of clothes, collars, shirts of gaudy pattern and scarfs of even gaudier hues.

The young pitcher also noticed that the bag bore on one end the initials “R. V.” while below them was the name of the city where young “R. V.” lived—Goldsboro, N. C.

“Suffering cats!” thought Joe, as he noted that. “He lives in Goldsboro. Montville is just outside that. I hope I don’t meet this nuisance when I’m at the training camp.”

“I did not assume that you were an officer,” answered the young man, who, for the present, must be known only as “R. V.” “But you were the only one near my valise, which was opened when I went to send that wire. Now it’s up to you——”

“Hold on!” cried Joe, trying not to let his rather quick temper get the better of him. “Nothing is ‘up to me,’ as you call it. I didn’t touch your valise. I didn’t even know I sat near it until you called my attention to it. And if it was opened, and something taken out, I beg to assure you that I had nothing to do with it. That’s all!”

“But if you didn’t take it; who did?” asked “R. V.” in some bewilderment.

“How should I know?” retorted Joe, coolly. “And I’d advise you to be more careful after this, in making accusations.”

He spoke rather loudly—in fact so did “R. V.,” and it was but natural that several of the delayed passengers should gather outside the station, attracted by the voices.

Some of them looked in through the opened windows and doors, and, seeing nothing more than what seemed to be an ordinary dispute, strolled on.

“But this won’t do,” insisted “R. V.,” which expression seemed to be a favorite with him. “This won’t do at all, you know, my good fellow. My watch is gone, and my sister’s jewelry. It won’t do——”

“Well, I have nothing to do with it,” declared Joe, “and I don’t want to hear any more about it. This ends it—see!”

“Oh, but I say! You were nearest to my valise, and——”

“What’s the trouble?” interrupted the ticket agent, coming from his little office. “What’s the row here?”

“My valise!” exclaimed “R. V.” angrily. “It’s been opened, and——”

“He thinks I did it just because I sat near it!” broke in Joe, determined to get in his word first. “It’s absurd! I never touched his baggage.”

The agent looked at the modish youth.

“Is that the only reason you accuse him—because he sat near your satchel?” he asked.

“Why—er—yes, to be sure. Isn’t that reason enough?”

“It wouldn’t be for me, young man. I don’t see that you can do anything about it. You say he took something of yours, and he says he didn’t. That’s six of one and a half-dozen of the other. You ought to have your satchel locked if you carry valuables in it.”

“It was locked, but I opened it and forgot to lock it again.”

“That’s up to you then,” and the agent’s sympathies seemed to be with Joe.

“Well, but it won’t do, you know. It won’t do at all!” protested “R. V.,” this time pleadingly. “I must have my things back!”

“Then you had better go to the police,” broke in the agent.

“If you like, though I’ve never done such a thing before, I’ll submit to a search,” said Joe, the red blood mantling to his cheeks as he thought of the needless indignity. “I can refer to several well-known persons who will vouch for me, but if you feel——”

“All aboard!” suddenly called the conductor of the stalled train, coming into the depot. “We just got word that we can proceed. If we can reach the next junction before the fast mail, we can go ahead of her and get around the wreck. Lively now! All aboard!”

There was a scramble in which Joe and “R. V.” took a part. All of the passengers were anxious to proceed, and if haste meant that they could avoid further delay they were willing to hasten. The engineer whistled impatiently, and men and women scrambled into the coaches they had left.

“R. V.” caught up his peculiar bag and without another look at Joe, got aboard. For a moment the young pitcher had an idea of insisting on having the unpleasant matter settled, but he, too, wanted to go on. At any rate no one he knew or cared about had heard the unjust accusation made, and if he insisted on vindication, by means of a personal search, it might lead to unpleasant complications.

“Even if he saw that I didn’t have his truck on me that wouldn’t prove anything to him—he’d say it ‘wouldn’t do,’” thought Joe. “He’s altogether too positive.”

And so, leaving the matter of the missing articles unsettled, Joe sprinted for the train.

Joe saw his accuser enter the rear coach, while the young ball player took his place in the second coach, where he had been before.

“If he wants to take up this matter again he knows I’m aboard,” mused Joe, as the train pulled out of the way-station.

But the matter was not reopened, and when the junction was reached our hero saw “R. V.” hurrying off to make other connections. As he turned away, however, he favored Joe with a look that was not altogether pleasant.

The remainder of our hero’s trip to Montville was uneventful, save that it was rather monotonous, and, the further South he went the worse the railroad service became, until he found that he was going to be nearly half a day late.

But he was not expected at any special time, and he knew that he had done the best possible. Arriving in Montville, which he found to be a typical small Southern town, Joe put up at the hotel where he had been told by “Jimmie” Mack to take quarters.

“Are any of the Pittston players around—is Mr. Gregory here?” asked Joe of the clerk, after registering. It was shortly after two o’clock.

“They’re all out practicing, I believe,” was the answer. “Mr. Gregory was here a while ago, but I reckon as how he-all went out to the field, too. Are you a member of the nine, sir?”

The clerk really said “suh,” but the peculiarities of Southern talk are too well known to need imitating.

“Well, I suppose I am, but I’ve only just joined,” answered Joe, with a smile. “I’m one of the new pitchers.”

“Glad to know you. We enjoy having you ball players here. It sort of livens things up. I believe your team is going to cross bats with our home team Saturday.”

“That’s good!” exclaimed Joe, who was just “aching” to get into a game again.

He ate a light luncheon and then, inquiring his way, went out to the ball field.

He was rather disappointed at first. It was not as good as the one where the Silver Stars played—not as well laid out or kept up, and the grandstand was only about half as large.

“But of course it’s only a practice field,” reasoned Joe, as he looked about for a sight of “Jimmie” Mack, whom alone