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Baseball Joe in the Central League

<h1>Baseball Joe in the Central League</h1> OR Making Good as a Professional Pitcher By LESTER CHADWICK <hr class="chap" /> <h2>CHAPTER I DANGER</h2> “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?” [2] “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. [3] “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[4] 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 all his hard work!” “There, there, Mother!” exclaimed the lad, soothingly. “Let’s talk about something pleasant. I’ll go down to the works soon, and see dad. Just now I’m as hungry as a—well, as a ball player after he’s won out in the world’s series. Got anything to eat in the house?” “Of course!” exclaimed Clara, with a laugh, “though whether it will suit your high and mightiness, after what you have been used to at college, I can’t say.” “Oh, I’m not fussy, Sis! Trot out a broiled[5] lobster or two, half a roast chicken, some oysters, a little salad and a cup of coffee and I’ll try and make that do until the regular meal is ready!” They laughed at his infectious good-humor, and a look of relief showed on Mrs. Matson’s face. But it did not altogether remove the shadow of concern that had been there since Joe wrote of his decision to leave Yale to take up the life of a professional baseball player. It had been a sore blow to his mother, who had hopes of seeing him enter the ministry, or at least one of the professions. And with all his light-heartedness, Joe realized the shattered hopes. But, for the life of him, he could not keep on at college—a place entirely unsuited to him. But of that more later. Seated at the dining-room table, the three were soon deep in a rather disjointed conversation. Joe’s sister and mother waited on him as only a mother and sister can serve a returned son and brother. Between bites, as it were, Joe asked all sorts of questions, chiefly about his father’s business troubles. Neither Mrs. Matson nor her daughter could give a very clear account of what had happened, or was in danger of happening, and the young pitcher, whose recent victory in the college championship games had made him quite famous, remarked: “I’ll have to go down and see dad myself, and[6] give him the benefit of my advice. I suppose he’s at the Harvester Works?” “Yes,” answered Mrs. Matson. “He is there early and late. He is working on another patent, and he says if it’s successful he won’t mind about the bad investments. But he hasn’t had much luck, so far.” “I’ll have to take him out to a ball game, and get the cobwebs out of his head,” said Joe, with a laugh. “It’s a bad thing to get in a rut. Just a little more bread, Sis.” “And so you have really left Yale?” asked his mother, almost hoping something might have occurred to change her son’s mind. “You are not going back, Joe?” “No, I’ve quit, Mother, sold off what belongings I didn’t want to keep, and here I am.” “And when are you going to begin pitching for that professional team?” asked Clara, coming in with the bread. “I can’t exactly say. I’ve got to go meet Mr. Gregory, the manager and the largest stockholder in the club. So far I’ve only dealt with Mr. James Mack, his assistant and scout. He picked me up and made a contract with me.” “Perhaps it won’t go through,” ventured Mrs. Matson, half-hopefully. “Oh, I guess it will,” answered Joe, easily. “Anyhow, I’ve got an advance payment, and I can[7] hold them to their terms. I expect I’ll be sent South to the training camp, where the rest of the players are. The season opens soon, and then we’ll be traveling all over the circuit—mostly in the Middle West.” “Then we won’t see much of you, Joe,” and his sister spoke regretfully. “Well, I’ll have to be pretty much on the jump, Sis. But I’ll get home whenever I can. And if ever you get near where the Pittston club is playing—that’s my team, you know—” and Joe pretended to swell up with pride—“why, just take a run in, and I’ll get you box seats.” “I’m afraid I don’t care much for baseball,” sighed Mrs. Matson. “I do!” cried Clara with enthusiasm. “Oh, we’ve had some dandy games here this Spring, Joe, though the best games are yet to come. The Silver Stars are doing fine!” “Are they really?” Joe asked. “And since they lost my invaluable services as a twirler? How thoughtless of them, Sis!” Clara laughed. “Well, they miss you a lot,” she pouted, “and often speak of you. Maybe, if you’re going to be home a few days, you could pitch a game for them.” “I wouldn’t dare do it, Clara.” [8] “Why not, I’d like to know,” and her eyes showed her surprise. “Because I’m a professional now, and I can’t play in amateur contests—that is, it wouldn’t be regular.” “Oh, I guess no one here would mind, Joe. Will you have some of these canned peaches?” “Just a nibble, Sis—just a nibble. I’ve made out pretty well. You can make as good bread as ever, Momsey!” “I’m glad you like it, Joe. Your father thinks there’s nothing like home-made bread.” “That’s where dad shows his good judgment. Quite discriminating on dad’s part, I’m sure. Yes, indeed!” “Oh, Joe, you’re so—so different!” said Clara, looking at her brother sharply. “In what way, Sis?” “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, slowly. “I suppose it’s—the college influence.” “Well, a fellow can’t live at Yale, even for a short time, without absorbing something different from the usual life. It’s an education in itself just to go there if you never opened a book. It’s a different world.” “And I wish you had stayed there!” burst out Mrs. Matson, with sudden energy. “Oh, I don’t like you to be a professional ball player! It’s no profession at all!” [9] “Well, call it a business then, if you like,” said Joe good-naturedly. “Say it isn’t a profession, though it is called one. As a business proposition, Mother, it’s one of the biggest in the world to-day. The players make more money than lots of professional men, and they don’t have to work half so hard—not that I mind that.” “Joe Matson! Do you mean to tell me a ball player—even one who tosses the ball for the other man to hit at—does he make more than—than a minister?” demanded his mother. “I should say so, Mother! Why, there are very few ministers who make as much as even an ordinary player in a minor league. And as for the major leaguers—why, they could equal half a dozen preachers. Mind, I’m not talking against the ministry, or any of the learned professions. I only wish I had the brains and ability to enter one. “But I haven’t, and there’s no use pretending I have. And, though I do say it myself, there’s no use spoiling a good pitcher to make a poor minister. I’m sorry, Mother, that I couldn’t keep on at Yale—sorry on your account, not on mine. But I just couldn’t.” “How—how much do you suppose you’ll get a year for pitching in this Central League?” asked Mrs. Matson, hesitatingly. “Well, they’re going to start me on fifteen[10] hundred dollars a year,” said Joe rather proudly, “and of course I can work up from that.” “Fifteen hundred dollars!” cried Mrs. Matson. “Why, that’s more than a hundred dollars a month!” “A good deal more, when you figure that I don’t have to do anything in the Winter months, Mother.” “Fifteen hundred dollars!” murmured Clara. “Why, that’s more than father earned when he got married, Mother. I’ve heard you say so—lots of times.” “Yes, Clara. But then fifteen hundred dollars went further in those days than it does now. But, Joe, I didn’t think you’d get so much as that.” “There’s my contract, Mother,” and he pulled it from his pocket with a flourish. “Well, of course, Joe—Oh! I did want you to be a minister, or a lawyer, or a doctor; but since you feel you can’t—well, perhaps it’s all for the best, Joe,” and she sighed softly. “Maybe it’s for the best.” “You’ll see that it will be, Mother. And now I’m going down street and see some of the boys. I suppose Tom Davis is around somewhere. Then I’ll stroll in on dad. I want to have a talk with him.” “Shall I unpack your valise?” asked Clara. “Yes. I guess I’ll be home for a few days before[11] starting in at the training camp. I’ll be back to supper, anyhow,” and, with a laugh he went out and down the main street of Riverside, where the Matsons made their home. As Baseball Joe walked along the thoroughfare he was greeted by many acquaintances—old and young. They were all glad to see him, for the fame of the pitcher who had won the victory for Yale was shared, in a measure, by his home town. In the case of baseball players, at least, they are not “prophets without honor save in their own country.” Joe inquired for his old chum, Tom Davis, but no one seemed to have noticed him that day, and, making up his mind he would locate him later, the young pitcher turned his footsteps in the direction of the Royal Harvester Works, where his father was employed. To reach the plant Joe had to cross the railroad, and in doing this he noticed a man staggering along the tracks. The man was not a prepossessing specimen. His clothes were ragged and dirty—in short “tramp” was written all over him. “And he acts as though he were drugged, or had taken too much whiskey,” said Joe. “Too bad! Maybe he’s had a lot of trouble. You can’t always tell. “But I’m sure of one thing, and that is he’d[12] better get off the track. He doesn’t seem able to take care of himself. “Look out there!” cried the young pitcher, with sudden energy. “Look out for that freight, old man! You’re walking right into danger!” A train of freight cars was backing down the rails, right upon the man who was staggering along, unheeding. The engineer blew his whistle shrilly—insistently; but still the ragged man did not get off the track. Joe sprinted at his best pace, and in an instant had grasped the man by the arm. The tramp looked up with bleary, blood-shot eyes—uncomprehending—almost unseeing. “Wha—wha’s matter?” he asked, thickly. “Matter—matter enough when you get sense enough to realize it!” said Joe sharply, as he pulled him to one side, and only just in time, for a second later the freight train thundered past at hardly slackened speed in spite of the fact that the brakes had been clapped on. The man staggered at Joe’s sudden energy, and would have toppled over against a switch had not the young pitcher held him. <hr class="chap" /> [13] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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