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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h1>Baseball Joe at Yale</h1> OR Pitching for the College Championship By LESTER CHADWICK <hr class="chap" />[1] <h1>BASEBALL JOE AT YALE</h1> <h2>CHAPTER I</h2> <h3>JUST IN TIME</h3> “Joe Matson, I can’t understand why you don’t fairly jump at the chance!” “Because I don’t want to go—that’s why.” “But, man alive! Half the fellows in Riverside would stand on their heads to be in your shoes.” “Perhaps, Tom. But, I tell you I don’t think I’m cut out for a college man, and I don’t want to go,” and Joe Matson looked frankly into the face of his chum, Tom Davis, as they strolled down the village street together that early September day. “Don’t want to go to Yale!” murmured Tom, shaking his head as if unable to fathom the mystery. “Why I’d work my way through, if they’d let me, and here you’ve got everything comparatively easy, and yet you’re balking like a horse that hasn’t had his oats in a month. Whew! What’s up, Joe, old man?” [2] “Simply that I don’t believe I’m cut out for that sort of life. I don’t care for this college business, and there’s no use pretending that I do. I’m not built that way. My mind is on something else. Of course I know a college education is a great thing, and something that lots of fellows need. But for yours truly—not!” “I only wish I had your chance,” said Tom, enviously. “You’re welcome to it,” laughed Joe. “No,” and the other spoke half sadly. “Dad doesn’t believe in a college career any more than you do. When I’m through at Excelsior Hall he’s going to take me into business with him. He talks of sending me abroad, to get a line on the foreign end of it.” “Cracky!” exclaimed Joe. “That would suit me down to the ground—that is if I could go with a ball team.” “So you haven’t gotten over your craze for baseball?” queried Tom. “No, and I never shall. You know what I’ve always said—that I’d become a professional some day; and I will, too, and I’ll pitch in the world series if I can last long enough,” and Joe laughed. “But look here!” exclaimed his chum, as they swung down a quiet street that led out into the country; “you can play baseball at Yale, you know.” [3] “Maybe—if they’ll let me. But you know how it is at those big universities. They are very exclusive—societies—elections—eating clubs—and all that sort of rot. A man has to be in with the bunch before he can get a show.” “That’s all nonsense, and you know it!” snapped Tom. “At Yale, I warrant you, just as at every big college, a man has to stand on his own feet. Why, they’re always on the lookout for good fellows on the nine, crew or eleven, and, if you can make good, you’ll be pitching on the ’varsity before the Spring term opens.” “Maybe,” assented Joe with rather a moody face. “Anyhow, as long as I’ve got to go to college I’m going to make a try for the nine. I think I can pitch a little——” “A little!” cried Tom. “Say, I’d like to know what sort of a showing we’d have made at Excelsior Hall if it hadn’t been for your pitching! Didn’t you win the Blue Banner for us when it looked as if we hadn’t a show? Pitch! Say if those fellows at Yale——” “Spare my blushes,” begged Joe, with a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m going to college for one reason, more than another, because mother wants me to. Dad is rather set on it, too, and so I’ve said I’ll go. Between you and me,” whispered Joe, as if he feared someone would overhear him,[4] “I have a faint suspicion that my respected mother wants to make a sky pilot of me.” “A minister!” cried Tom. “That’s it.” “Why—why——” “Oh, don’t worry!” laughed Joe, and then his face grew a bit sober as he continued: “I’m not half good enough—or smart enough. I’m not cut out for that sort of life. All I want is baseball and all I can get of it. That’s my one ambition.” “Yes, it’s easy to see that,” agreed Tom. “I wonder you don’t carry a horsehide about with you, and I do believe—what’s this?” he demanded, pulling a bundle of papers from his chum’s pocket. “Some dope on the world series, or I’m a June bug!” “Well, I was only sort of comparing batting averages, and making a list of the peculiarities of each player—I mean about the kind of balls it is best to serve up to him.” “You’re the limit!” exclaimed Tom, as he tried unsuccessfully to stop Joe from grabbing the papers away from him. “Do you think you might pitch to some of these fellows?” “I might,” replied Joe calmly. “A professional ball player lasts for some time, and when I come up for my degree on the mound at some future world series I may face some of these same men.” [5] “Go to it, old man!” exclaimed Tom enthusiastically. “I wish I had your hopes. Well, I suppose I’ll soon be grinding away with the old crowd at Excelsior, and you—you’ll be at—Yale!” “Probably,” admitted Joe, with something of a sigh. “I almost wish I was going back to the old school. We had good times there!” “We sure did. But I’ve got to leave you now. I promised Sis I’d go to the store for her. See you later,” and Tom clasped his chum’s hand. “That reminds me,” spoke Joe. “I’ve got to go back home, hitch up the horse, and take some patterns over to Birchville for dad.” “Wish I could go along, but I can’t,” said Tom. “It’s a fine day for a drive. Come on over to-night.” “Maybe I will—so long,” and the two friends parted to go their ways, one to dream over the good fortune of the other—to envy him—while Joe himself—Baseball Joe as his friends called him—thought rather regretfully of the time he must lose at college when, if he had been allowed his own way, he would have sought admission to some minor baseball league, to work himself up to a major position. “But as long as the folks want me to have a college course I’ll take it—and do my best,” he mused. [6] A little later, behind the old family horse, he was jogging over the country road in the direction of a distant town, where his father, an inventor, and one of the owners of the Royal Harvester Works, had been in the habit of sending his patterns from which to have models made. “Well, in a few weeks I’ll be hiking it for New Haven,” said Joe, half talking to himself. “It’s going to be awful lonesome at first. I won’t know a soul there. It isn’t like going up from some prep school, with a lot of your own chums. Well, I’ve got to grin and bear it, and if I do get a chance for the ’varsity nine—oh, won’t I jump at it!” He was lost in pleasant reflections for a moment, and then went on, still talking to himself, and calling to the horse now and then, for the steed, realizing that he had an easy master behind him, was inclined to slow down to a walk every now and then. “There are bound to be lessons, of course,” said Joe. “And lectures on things I don’t care any more about than the man in the moon does. I suppose, though, I’ve got to swallow ’em. But if I can get on the diamond once in a while it won’t be so bad. The worst of it is, though, that ball playing won’t begin until April at the earliest, and there’s all winter to live through. I’m not[7] going in for football. Well, I guess I can stand it.” Once more Joe was off in a day-dream, in fancy seeing himself standing in the box before yelling thousands, winding up to deliver a swiftly-curving ball to the batter on whom “three and two” had been called, with the bases full, two men out and his team but one run ahead in the final inning. “Oh! that’s what life is!” exclaimed Joe, half aloud, and at his words the horse started to trot. “That’s what makes me willing to stand four years at Yale—if I have to. And yet——” Joe did not complete his sentence. As he swung around a bend in the road his attention was fully taken by a surprising scene just ahead of him. A horse, attached to a carriage, was being driven down the road, and, just as Joe came in sight, the animal, for some unaccountable reason, suddenly swerved to the left. One of the wheels caught in a rut, there was a snapping, cracking sound, the wheel was “dished,” and the carriage settled down on one side. “Whoa! Whoa!” yelled Joe, fearing the horse would bolt and that perhaps a woman might be in the carriage, the top of which was up. The lad was about to spring from his own vehicle and rush to the aid of the occupant of the other, when he saw a man leap out. With one bound the man was at the head of[8] his steed, holding him from running away, but there was no need, for the horse, after a calm look around, seemed to resign himself to his fate. “Jove!” ejaculated Joe. “That was quick work. That fellow is in training, whoever he is.” Following his original plan, even though he saw no need of going to the rescue, Joe leaped from his seat. His steed, he knew, would stand without hitching. He approached the stranger. “A bad break,” murmured Joe sympathetically. “Indeed it is, young man,” replied the other in quick, tense accents. “And it comes at a particularly bad time, too.” Joe looked at him. The man seemed about thirty-five, and his face, though stern, was pleasant, as though in the company of his friends he could be very jolly. He was of dark complexion, and there was that in the set of his figure, and his poise, as he stood at the head of the horse, that at once proclaimed him an athlete, at least if not one in active training, one who could get into condition quickly. “A bad break, and at a bad time, too,” the man went on. “I never knew it to fail, when I was in a hurry.” “I guess that wheel is past fixing,” spoke Joe. “You might get one at the barn here,” and he nodded toward a farmhouse not far distant. “I haven’t time to make the try,” said the man.[9] “I’m in a great hurry. How far is it from here to Preston?” “About five miles,” replied Joe. “Hum! I never could make that in time to catch the train for New York, though I might have run it at one time. A little too heavy now,” and he seemed referring to himself. “I might ride the horse, I suppose,” he went on dubiously. “He doesn’t look much like a saddle animal,” ventured Joe. “No, and there isn’t a saddle, either. I must get to New York though—it’s important. I don’t suppose you are going to Preston; are you?” he asked of Joe quickly, referring to the nearest railroad station. “Well, I wasn’t,” replied the youth, “but if you’re in a hurry——” “I am—in a very great hurry. I just had about time to get the New York train, when, most unfortunately, I got into that rut. At the same time the reins got caught, and I must have pulled on the wrong one. I’m not much of a horseman, I’m afraid. The animal turned too quickly, and the wheel collapsed.” “It wasn’t very strong, anyhow,” remarked Joe, as he looked critically at it. “But if you want to get to Preston I can take you.” “Can you—will you? It would be a very great accommodation. I really can’t afford to miss that[10] train. I came out here on some business, and hired this rig in Preston. I thought I would have ample time to get back, and I believe I would. But now, with this accident—I wonder if I could leave this outfit at the farmhouse, and hire another there?” he asked musingly. “I don’t believe Mr. Murchison has a horse now,” said Joe, nodding toward the farmhouse. “He has about given up working his place. But you could leave this rig here to be called for, and——” “Yes—yes!” interrupted the man, quite impatiently. “I beg your pardon,” he added quickly. “I’m all upset over this accident, and I really must reach New York to-night.” “I’ll drive you in!” offered Joe. “But it will be out of your way, will it not?” “That doesn’t matter. I’m in no hurry, and going to Preston will not take me many miles off my road. I’ll be glad to help you.” “Thank you. Then I’ll take advantage of your offer. Shall I——?” he made a move as though to lead the horse up to the farmhouse. “I’ll attend to that,” spoke Joe. “Just get in my carriage, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” The stranger obeyed, and Joe, unhitching the horse from the broken carriage, quickly led the steed to the stable, stopping on his way to explain[11] to Mrs. Murchison, whom he knew slightly, the circumstances. She readily agreed to let the animal stay in their stall. Then Joe pulled the tilted carriage to one side of the road, and a few minutes later was sending his steed ahead at a pace not hitherto attained that day. “Think we can make that train?” asked the man, who seemed immersed in his own thoughts. “I’m going to make a big try,” answered Joe. “Do you live around here?” came the next question. “At Riverside—about eight miles away.” The man lapsed into silence, and as Joe was rather diffident with strangers he did not press the conversation. They drove on for several miles, and suddenly the silence of the country was broken by a distant whistle. “Is that the train?” exclaimed the man nervously, looking at his watch. “Yes, but it’s about three miles away. You can always hear it plainly here. We’ll be in Preston in a few minutes now, and I’ll have you at the station in time.” “I hope so,” murmured the man. “I must get to New York—it means a great deal to me.” Joe urged the horse to even faster speed, and when he reached the quiet streets of Preston more than one person turned to look at the carriage,[12] which went along faster than vehicles usually did in that quiet community. Once more the whistle sounded, and the man exclaimed: “We’ll never make it!” “Yes, we will,” said Joe quietly. “The station is only another block.” “I’m sure I can’t thank you enough,” went on the man, and his hand sought his pocket. “You say you’ll notify the livery keeper?” “Yes, I’ll tell him where his horse is, and he can send for it.” “That’s very kind of you. I wish you’d let me give you something—reward you for this service.” “No—no!” exclaimed Joe. “I couldn’t think of it!” He saw a roll of bills in the man’s hand. “But you don’t know, young man, what it means for me to catch this train. I wish you’d let me pay for your time and trouble——” “No, indeed!” exclaimed the young pitcher. “I would do as much for anyone, and I hope he’d do the same for me.” “That’s a nice way of looking at it. But are you sure you won’t let me make you——” The man again held out some bills, but the look on Joe’s face must have told him he was getting on dangerous ground, for he suddenly withdrew them and said: [13] “Well, I can’t thank you enough. Some day—is that the train?” he cried, as a puffing was heard. “I mustn’t miss it now.” “Here we are!” cried Joe, swinging around a corner. Down a short street was the depot, and as they came in sight of it the train pulled in. “I—er—I wish—I must run for it!” exclaimed the man. “Wait. I’ll drive you right up!” called Joe. “I’ll take your valise. You get right out and run. Have you a ticket?” “Yes. This is exceedingly good of you. I——” But he did not finish. Joe drove the horse up to the platform edge as the train came to a stop with a grinding of the brake shoes. The man leaped out almost before the horse had ceased running, and Joe was not a second behind him with the valise. “Go on!” exclaimed the youth, as the man hesitated. He fairly flung himself up the car steps, and the train began to move, for Preston was little more than a flag station for the New York express. “Thank you a thousand times!” cried the man as Joe handed up the valise. “I wish—I didn’t ask your name—mine is—I ought to have a card—I—er——” he began fumbling in his pocket, and Joe half feared he was going to offer money[14] again. But the man seemed to be hunting for a card. However his search was unsuccessful. He waved his hand to Joe, and called: “Thank you once more. Perhaps I may meet you again. I meant to ask your name—too much occupied—mine is——” But just then the train gathered speed and the engineer, opening the exhaust, effectually drowned out all other sounds in the puffing of the locomotive. Joe saw the man’s lips moving, and realized that he was calling out his name, but he could not hear it. Then, with a wave of his hand the stranger went inside the car. He had caught the train just in time. <hr class="chap" />[15] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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