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Baseball Joe in the Central League

<h2>CHAPTER IV IN TRAINING</h2> 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 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.[31] 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.[32] “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. [33] “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[34] 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. [35] 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.” [36] “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 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[37] 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[38] 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[39] 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. [40] “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. <hr class="chap" /> [41] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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