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Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars

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<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> <h3>THE FIGHT</h3> There was a moment of silence following Joe’s remark about being made regular pitcher. Then Clara laughed and it was almost a laugh of relief, for she had been under quite a strain since she came in and heard the bad news. “Oh, you silly boy!” cried Clara. “Just as if your being made pitcher was going to help. I suppose you’ll turn all your salary in to help out now; won’t you?” but there was no sting intended in her words and, fearing there might have been just the touch of it, she crossed the room and tried to slip her arm up around Joe’s neck. “No, you don’t!” he cried as gaily as possible under the circumstances, “fen on kissing. But say, dad, is it as bad as all that? Have Benjamin and his crowd beaten you?” “I’m afraid so, son. At least they’ve won the first skirmish in the battle. Now it’s up to the courts, and it may take a year or more to settle the question of whether or not I have any rights in the inventions I originated. But don’t let that[222] worry you,” he went on more cheerfully. “We’ll make out somehow. I’m glad you got the place you wanted. How was the game?” “Pretty good. It was so tight we had to play ten innings. But can’t I do something to help you, dad?” “We can’t do anything right away,” rejoined Mr. Matson. “We can only wait. I shall have to see a lawyer, and have him look after my interests. I never thought that Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Holdney would treat me this way. “But don’t worry. Perhaps we shall come out all right, and in the end this may be a good thing. It will teach me a lesson never again to trust any one where patents are concerned. I should have had a written contract and not taken their mere word that they would treat me right.” “And you are out of the harvester works?” asked Joe. “Out completely,” and Mr. Matson smiled. “I have a holiday, Joe, and I’m coming to see you pitch some day.” “But—but,” ventured Clara, “if you haven’t any work, dad, you won’t get any money and——” “Oh, so that’s what is worrying you!” cried her father with a laugh as he placed his arm around her. “Well, have no fears. There are[223] still a few shots in the locker, and we’re not going to the poorhouse right away. Now, Joe, tell us all about the ball game.” Which the young pitcher did with great enthusiasm. “But won’t this Sam Morton be angry with you?” asked Mrs. Matson, who was a gentle woman, always in fear of violence. “Oh, I don’t suppose he’ll be very friendly toward me,” replied Joe. “Then he may do you some injury.” “Well, I guess I can take care of myself. I’m not afraid of him, mother, and if it comes to a fight——” “Oh, you horrid boys—always thinking about fighting!” interrupted Clara. “Don’t you fight, Joe!” “I won’t if I can help it, sis.” Next morning, Joe was in two states of mind. He was delighted at being the regular pitcher for the Stars, but he was downcast when he thought that to go to the boarding school was now out of the question. And that it would be impossible for him to think of it under the present financial state of the family was made plain to him when he spoke of the matter to his mother. [224] “I’m sorry, Joe,” she said, “but you’ll have to give up the idea.” “All right,” he answered, as cheerfully as he could, but he went out of the house quickly for there was a suspicious moisture in his eyes, and a lump in his throat that would not seem to go down, no matter how hard he swallowed. “Oh, I’m a chump!” he finally exclaimed. “I shouldn’t want to go to an expensive boarding school when dad is in such trouble. And yet—and yet—Oh! I do want to get on a big team and pitch!” In the days that followed Joe saw little of his father, for Mr. Matson was out of town trying to get matters in shape for the court proceedings. But Joe was kept busy at practice with the Stars, and in playing games. The season was in full swing and the Silver Stars seemed to have struck a streak of winning luck. Some said it was Joe’s pitching, for really he was doing very well. Others laid it just to luck and talked darkly of a “slump.” “There won’t be any slump if you fellows keep your eyes open, and hit and run,” said the manager. The county league season was drawing to a close, and as it stood now the championship practically[225] lay between the Stars and their old enemies the Resolutes. There was some talk of playing off a tie, if it should come to that, but when Darrell mentioned this to the Resolute manager he was told that the latter team had all dates filled to the end of the season. “We can’t give you a game,” he announced. “It’s too bad,” said Darrell, “for we ought to decide which is the best team.” “Oh, ours is, of course. Didn’t we wallop you once?” “Well, you can’t do it again,” was the quick retort. It was several days after this when Joe was coming home from afternoon practice in preparation for a game Saturday with the Red Stockings. As he took a short cut over the fields to get home more quickly, he was aware of a figure coming toward him. When too late to turn back he saw it was Sam Morton. Sam saw Joe and came to a halt. “Well,” asked Sam with a sneer, “how is the high-and-mighty pitcher? I suppose you’ve been doing nothing else but handing out no-hit and no-run games?” “Not quite as good as that,” admitted Joe with what he meant for a friendly smile. [226] “Who you laughing at?” demanded Sam fiercely. “I wasn’t laughing,” replied Joe. “Yes, you were! You were laughing at me and I won’t stand it. You worked and schemed to get me out of the nine so you could go in, and now you’re making fun of me, I won’t stand it, I tell you. You think you’re a pitcher! Well you’re not, and you’ll never be. I won’t be made fun of!” All the pent-up anger—unreasoning as it was,—all the hate that had been accumulating for weeks in Sam, burst out at once. He made a spring for Joe, but the pitcher stepped back. Not in time, however, for he received a blow on the chest. Now I am not defending Joe for what he did. I am only telling of what happened. Joe was a manly lad yet he had all the instincts and passions that normal lads have. When he was hit his first instinct was to hit back, and he did it in this case. His left fist shot forward and clipped Sam on the chin. The blow was a staggering one and for a moment the former pitcher reeled. Then with a roar of rage he came back at Joe, and the pair were at it hammer and tongs. “I’ll show you that you can’t come sneaking[227] around here and steal my place!” blubbered Sam, as he aimed a blow at Joe’s face. “I didn’t sneak!” retorted Joe, as he dodged the blow and got a right-hander near Sam’s solar plexus. Both lads were evenly matched and the fight might have gone on for some time but for Sam’s rage which made him reckless. He left unguarded openings of which Joe took quick advantage, and finally, with a straight left, he sent Sam to the grass. “I—I’ll fix you for that!” yelled the former pitcher as he rushed at Joe. It was easy to step aside and avoid the clumsy blow, and once more Sam went down. This time he did not get up so quickly, and there was a dazed look on his face. “See here!” cried Joe, stepping over to him. “This has gone far enough. I didn’t want to fight, but you made me. I can beat you and you know it. If you don’t stop now I’ll knock you down every time you get up until you’ve had enough.” It was brutal talk, perhaps, but it was well meant. For a moment Sam looked up at his antagonist. Then he murmured: “I’ve had enough—for the present.” <hr class="cb" /> [228] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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