CHAPTER XII
THE QUARRELING MAN
Quite a little family party it was the St. Louis players composed asthey traveled South in their private car, for they enjoyed thatdistinction. This was something new for Joe, as the Pittston team wasnot blessed with a wealthy owner, and an ordinary Pullman had sufficedwhen Joe made his former trip. Now it was travel "de luxe."
The more Joe saw of Rad Chase the more he liked the fellow, and the twosoon became good friends, being much in each other's company, sharingthe upper and lower berths by turns in their section, eating at the sametable, and fraternizing generally.
Some of the older players were accompanied by their wives, and after thefirst few hours of travel everyone seemed to know everyone else, andthere was much talk and laughter.
"Can't you fellows supply me with some dope?" asked a voice in the aislebeside the seats occupied by Joe and Rad. "I've gotten off all thedeparture stuff, and I want something for a lead for to-morrow. Shootme some new dope; will you?"
"Oh, hello, Jim!" greeted Rad, and then, as Joe showed that he did notrecognize the speaker, the other player went on: "This is the_Dispatch-Times's_ staff correspondent, Jim Dalrymple. You want to benice to him, Joe, and he'll put your name and picture in the paper. Gotanything you can give him for a story?"
"I'm afraid not," laughed Joe.
"Oh, anything will do, as long as I can hang a lead on it," saidDalrymple hopefully. "If you've never tried to get up new stuff everyday at a training camp of a ball team, you've no idea what a littlething it takes to make news. Now you don't either of you happen to havea romance about you; do you?" he inquired, pulling out a fold of copypaper. (Your real reporter never carries a note book. A bunch of paper,or the back of an envelope will do to jot down a few facts. The rest iswritten later from memory. Only stage reporters carry note books, and,of late they are getting "wise" and abstaining from it.)
"A romance?" repeated Joe. "Far be it from me to conceal such a thingabout my person."
"But you _have_ had rather a rapid rise in baseball; haven't you, Joe?"insinuated Rad. "You didn't have to wait long for promotion. Why notmake up a yarn about that?" went on Rad, nodding at the reporter.
"Sure I'll do it. Give me a few facts. Not too many," the newspaper mansaid with a whimsical smile. "I don't want to be tied down too hard. Ilike to let my fancy have free play."
"He's all right," whispered Rad in an aside to Joe. "One of the bestreporters going, and he always gives you a fair show. If you make anerror he'll debit you with it, but when you play well he'll feature you.He's been South with the team a lot of times, I hear."
"But I don't like to talk about myself," objected Joe.
"Don't let that worry you!" laughed Rad. "Notoriety is what keepsbaseball where it is to-day, and if it wasn't for the free advertisingwe get in the newspapers there would not be the attendance that bringsin the dollars, and lets us travel in a private car. Don't be afraid ofboosting yourself. The reporters will help you, and be glad to. Theyhave to get the stuff, and often enough it's hard to do, especially atthe training camp."
In some way or other, Joe never knew exactly how, Dalrymple managed toget a story out of him, about how Joe had been drafted, how he had begunplaying ball as a boy on the "sand lots," how he had pitched Yale tovictory against Princeton, and a few other details, with which myreaders are already familiar.
"Say, this'll do first rate!" exulted the reporter, as he went to asecluded corner to write his story, which would be telegraphed back tohis daily newspaper. "I'm glad I met you!" he laughed.
Dalrymple was impartial, which is the great secret of a newspaperreporter's success. Though he gave Joe a good "show," he also "playedup" some of the other members of the team. So that when copies of thepaper were received later, they contained an account of Joe's progress,sandwiched in between a "yarn" of how the catcher had once worked in aboiler factory, where he learned to catch red-hot rivets, and how one ofthe outfielders had inherited a fortune, which he had dissipated, andthen, reforming, had become a star player. So Joe had little chance toget a "swelled head," which is a bad thing for any of us.
The first part of the journey South was made in record time, but afterthe private car was transferred to one of the smaller railroad linesthere were delays that fretted the players.
"What's the matter?" asked Manager Watson of the conductor as thatofficial came through after a long stop at a water tank station, "won'tthe cow get off the track?" and he winked at the players gathered abouthim.
"That joke's a hundred years old," retorted the ticket-taker. "Think upa new one! There's a freight wreck ahead of us, and we have to go slow."
"Well, as long as we get there some time this week, it will be allright, I reckon," drawled the manager.
Reedville was reached toward evening of the second day, and thetravel-weary ball-tossers piled out of their coach to find themselves atthe station of a typical Southern town.
Laziness and restfulness were in the air, which was warm with the heatof the slowly setting sun. There was the odor of flowers. Colored menwere all about, shuffling here and there, driving their slowly-amblinghorses attached to rickety vehicles, or backing them up at the platformto get some of the passengers.
"Majestic Hotel right this yeah way, suh! Right over yeah!" voiced thedriver of a yellow stage. "Goin' right up, suh!"
"That's our place, boys," announced the manager. "Pile in, and let mehave your checks. I'll have the baggage sent up."
Joe and the others took their place in the side-seated stage. A littlelater, the manager having arranged for the transportation of thetrunks, they were driven toward the hotel that was to be theirheadquarters while in the South.
They were registering at the hotel desk, and making arrangements aboutwho was to room with who, when Joe heard the hotel clerk call Mr. Watsonaside.
"He says he's with your party, suh," the clerk spoke. "He arrivedyesterday, and wanted to be put on the same floor with your players.Says he's going to be a member of the team."
"Huh! I guess someone is bluffing you!" exclaimed the manager. "I've gotall my team with me. Who is the fellow, anyhow?"
"That's his signature," went on the clerk, pointing to it on the hotelregister.
"Hum! Wessel; eh?" said Mr. Watson. "Never heard of him. Where is he?"
"There he stands, over by the cigar counter."
Joe, who had heard the talk, looked, and, to his surprise, he beheld thesame individual who had tried to pick a quarrel with him the night ofthe sleigh ride.