he knew. “The home field at Pittston will probably be all right. Still, I’ve got to remember that I’m not playing in a major league. This will do for a start.”

He looked over the men with whom he was to associate and play ball for the next year or so—perhaps longer. The members of the team were throwing and catching—some were batting flies, and laying down grounders for others to catch or pick up. One or two were practicing “fungo” batting. Up near the grandstand a couple of pitchers were “warming-up,” while the catchers were receiving the balls in their big mitts.

Several small and worshipping boys were on hand, as always is the case, gathering up the discarded bats, running after passed balls and bringing water to their heroes.

“Well, I’m here, anyhow,” thought Joe. “Now to see what sort of a stab I can make at professional ball.”

No one seemed to notice the advent of the young pitcher on the field, and if he expected to receive an ovation, such as was accorded to him when he left home, Joe was grievously disappointed.

But I do not believe Joe Matson looked for anything of the sort. In fact I know he did not, for Joe was a sensible lad. He realized that however good a college player he might be he was now entering the ranks of men who made their living at ball playing. And there is a great deal of difference between doing a thing for fun, and doing it to get your bread and butter—a heap of difference.

Joe stood on the edge of the diamond looking at the players. They seemed to be a clean-cut set of young fellows. One or two looked to be veterans at the game, and here and there Joe could pick out one whose hair was turning the least little bit gray. He wondered if they had slid down the scale, and, finding their powers waning, had gotten out of the big leagues to take it a little easier in one of the “bush” variety.

“But it’s baseball—it’s a start—it’s just what I want!” thought Joe, as he drew a deep breath, the odors of crushed green grass, the dry dust and the whiff of leather mingling under the hot rays of the Southern sun.

“It’s baseball, and that’s enough!” exulted Joe.

“Well, I see you got here!” exclaimed a voice behind him, and Joe turned to see “Jimmie” Mack, in uniform, holding out a welcoming hand.

“Yes,” said Joe with a smile. “I’m a little late, but—I’m here.”

“If the trains arrive on time down here everybody worries,” went on Jimmie. “They think something is going to happen. Did you bring a uniform?”

Joe indicated his valise, into which he had hastily stuffed, at the hotel, one of his old suits.

“Well, slip it on—take any dressing room that’s vacant there,” and Jimmie motioned to the grandstand. “Then come out and I’ll have you meet the boys. We’re only doing light practice as yet, but we’ll soon have to hump ourselves, for the season will shortly open.”

“Is Mr. Gregory here?” asked Joe, feeling that he ought to meet the manager of the team.

“He’ll be here before the day is over. Oh, Harrison!” he called to a passing player, “come over and meet Joe Matson, one of our new pitchers. Harrison tries to play centre,” explained the assistant manager with a smile.

“Quit your kiddin’!” exclaimed the centre fielder as he shook hands with Joe. “Glad to meet you, son. You mustn’t mind Jimmie,” he went on. “Ever played before?”

“Not professionally.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“Joe’s the boy who pitched Yale to the championship this year,” explained Jimmie Mack.

“Oh, ho! Yes, I heard about that. Well, hope you like it here. I’m going out in the field. See you there,” and Harrison passed on.

Joe lost no time in changing into his playing togs. The dressing rooms in the Montville grandstand were only apologies compared with what Joe was used to.

But he knew that this was only a training camp, and that they would not be here long.

He walked out on the field, feeling a little nervous and rather lonesome—“like a cat in a strange garret,” as he wrote home to his folks. But Joe’s school and college training stood him in good stead, and when he had been introduced to most of the players, who welcomed him warmly, he felt more at home.

Then he went out in the field, and began catching flies with the others.

“But I wish they’d put me at pitching,” mused Joe. “That’s what I want to do.”

He was to learn that to make haste slowly is a motto more or less followed by professional ball players. There would be time enough to put on speed before the season closed.