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Baseball Joe in the Central League

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<h2>CHAPTER XVII OLD POP AGAIN</h2> Dr. Birch remained for some little time at the Matson home, going over in detail with Joe just what the nature of his father’s injuries were. In brief, while experimenting on a certain new method of chilling steel, for use in a corn sheller, Mr. Matson mixed some acids together. Unknown to him a workman had, accidentally, substituted one very strong acid for a weak one. When the mixture was put into an iron pot there was an explosion. Some of the acid, and splinters of iron, flew up into the face of the inventor. “And until I can tell whether the acid, or a piece of steel, injured his eyes, Joe, I can’t say for sure what we shall have to do,” concluded the doctor. “You mean about an operation?” “Yes. If we have to perform one it will be a very delicate one, and it will cost a lot of money; there are only a few men in this country capable of doing it, and their fees, naturally, are high. But we won’t think of that now. I think I will go[137] in and see how he is. If he is well enough I want you to see him. It will do him good.” “And me, too,” added Joe, who was under a great strain, though he did not show it. Mr. Matson was feeling better after his rest, and Joe was allowed to come into the darkened room. He braced himself for the ordeal. “How are you, Son,” said the inventor weakly. “Fine, Dad. But I’m sorry to see you laid up this way.” “Well, Joe, it couldn’t be helped. I should have been more careful. But I guess I’ll pull through. How is baseball?” “Couldn’t be better, Dad! We’re at the top of the heap! I just helped to win the deciding game before I came on.” “Yes, I heard your mother talking about the telephone message. I’m glad you didn’t come away without playing. Have you the pennant yet?” “Oh, no. That won’t be decided for a couple of months. But we’re going to win it!” “That’s what I like to hear!” Dr. Birch did not permit his patient to talk long, and soon Joe had to leave the room. The physician said later that he thought there was a slight improvement in Mr. Matson’s condition, though of course the matter of saving his eyesight could not yet be decided. [138] “But if we do have to have an operation,” said Mrs. Matson. “I don’t see where the money is coming from. Your father’s investments are turning out so badly——” “Don’t worry about that, Mother,” broke in Joe. “But I have to, Joe. If an operation is needed we’ll have to get the money. And from where is more than I know,” she added, hopelessly. “I’ll get the money!” exclaimed the young pitcher in energetic tones. “How?” asked his mother. “I’m sure you can’t make enough at ball playing.” “No, perhaps not at ordinary ball playing, Mother, but at the end of the season, when the deciding games for the pennant are played off, they always draw big crowds, and the players on the winning team come in for a good share of the receipts. I’ll use mine for the operation.” “But your team may not win the pennant, Joe,” said Clara. “We’re going to win!” cried the young pitcher. “I feel it in my bones! Don’t worry, Mother.” But, naturally, Mrs. Matson could not help it, in spite of Joe’s brave words. Clara, though, was cheered up. “There’s more to baseball than I thought,” she said. “There’s more in it than I’ll ever learn,” admitted[139] Joe, frankly. “Of course our pennant-deciding games aren’t like the world series, but I understand they bring in a lot of money.” Mr. Matson was quite improved the next day, but Dr. Birch, and another physician, who was called in consultation, could not settle the matter about the eyes. “It will be fully a month before we can decide about the operation,” said the expert. “In the meanwhile he is in no danger, and the delay will give him a chance to get back his strength. We shall have to wait.” As nothing could be gained by Joe’s staying home, and as his baseball money was very much needed at this trying time, it was decided that he had better rejoin his team. He bade his parents and sister good-bye, and arranged to have word sent to him every day as to his father’s condition. “And don’t you worry about that money, Mother,” he said as he kissed her. “I’ll be here with it when it’s needed.” “Oh, Joe!” was all she said, but she looked happier. Joe went back to join the team at Delamont, where they were scheduled to play four games, and then they would return to their home town of Pittston. From the newspapers Joe learned that his team[140] had taken three of the four contests in Newkirk, and might have had the fourth but for bad pitching on the part of Collin. “Maybe he won’t be so bitter against me now,” thought Joe. “He isn’t such a wonder himself.” Joe was glancing over the paper as the train sped on toward Delamont. He was looking over other baseball news, and at the scores of the big leagues. “I wonder when I’ll break into them?” mused Joe, as he glanced rather enviously at several large pictures of celebrated players in action. “I’m going to do it as soon as I can.” Then the thought came to him of how hard it was for a young and promising player to get away from the club that controlled him. “The only way would be to slump in form,” said Joe to himself, “and then even if he did get his release no other team would want him. It’s a queer game, and not altogether fair, but I suppose it has to be played that way. Well, no use worrying about the big leagues until I get a call from one. There’ll be time enough then to wonder about my release.” As Joe was about to lay aside the paper he was aware of a controversy going on a few seats ahead of him. The conductor had stopped beside an elderly man and was saying: [141] “You’ll have to get off, that’s all there is to it. You deliberately rode past your station, and you’re only trying to see how far you can go without being caught. You get off at the next station, or if you don’t I’ll stop the train when I get to you and put you off, even if it’s in the middle of a trestle. You’re trying to beat your way, and you know it! You had a ticket only to Clearville, and you didn’t get off.” “Oh, can’t you pass me on to Delamont?” pleaded the man. “I admit I was trying to beat you. But I’ve got to get to Delamont. I’ve the promise of work there, and God knows I need it. I’ll pay the company back when I earn it.” “Huh!” sneered the conductor, “that’s too thin. I’ve heard that yarn before. No, sir; you get off at the next station, or I’ll have the brakeman run you off. Understand that! No more monkey business. Either you give me money or a ticket, or off you go.” “All right,” was the short answer. “I reckon I’ll have to do it.” The man turned and at the sight of his face Joe started. “Pop Dutton!” exclaimed the young pitcher, hardly aware that he had spoken aloud. “That’s me,” was the answer. “Oh—why—it’s Joe!” he added, and his face lighted up. Then a look of despair came over it. Joe decided quickly.[142] No matter what Gregory and the others said he had determined to help this broken-down old ball player. “What’s the fare to Delamont?” Joe asked the conductor. “One-fifty, from the last station.” “I’ll pay it,” went on Joe, handing over a bill. The ticket-puncher looked at him curiously, and then, without a word, made the change, and gave Joe the little excess slip which was good for ten cents, to be collected at any ticket office. “Say, Joe Matson, that’s mighty good of you!” exclaimed Old Pop Dutton, as Joe came to sit beside him. “Mighty good!” “That’s all right,” spoke Joe easily. “What are you going to do in Delamont?” “I’ve got a chance to be assistant ground-keeper at the ball park. I—I’m trying to—trying to get back to a decent life, Joe, but—but it’s hard work.” “Then I’m going to help you!” exclaimed the young pitcher, impulsively. “I’m going to ask Gregory if he can’t give you something to do. Do you think you could play ball again?” “I don’t know, Joe,” was the doubtful answer. “They say when they get—get like me—that they can’t come back. I couldn’t pitch, that’s sure. I’ve got something the matter with my arm. Doctor said a slight operation would cure me, and[143] I might be better than ever, but I haven’t any money for operations. But I could be a fair fielder, I think, and maybe I could fatten up my batting average.” “Would you like to try?” asked Joe. “Would I?” The man’s tone was answer enough. “Then I’m going to get you the chance,” declared Joe. “But you’ll have to take care of yourself, and—get in better shape.” “I know it, Joe. I’m ashamed of myself—that’s what I am. I’ve gone pretty far down, but I believe I can come back. I’ve quit drinking, and I’ve cut my old acquaintances.” Joe looked carefully at Pop Dutton. The marks of the life he had led of late were to be seen in his trembling hands, and in his blood-shot eyes. But there was a fine frame and a good physique to build on. Joe had great hopes. “You come on to Delamont with me,” said the young pitcher, “and I’ll look after you until you get straightened out. Then we’ll see what the doctor says, and Gregory, too. I believe he’ll give you the chance.” “Joe! I don’t know how to thank you!” said the man earnestly. “If I can ever do something for you—but I don’t believe I ever can.” Pop Dutton little realized how soon the time was to come when he could do Joe a great favor. <hr class="chap" /> [144] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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