CHAPTER IV
IN TRAINING
For a moment Joe stood glaring at the modish young man who had accusedhim. The latter returned the look steadily. There were superciliousness,contempt and an abiding sense of his own superiority in the look, andJoe resented these too-well displayed feelings fully as much as he didthe accusation.
Then a calmer mood came over the young pitcher; he recalled thetraining at Yale--the training that had come when he had been introublesome situations--and Joe laughed. It was that laugh which formeda safety-valve for him.
"I don't see what there is to laugh at," sneered the young man. "Myvalise 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 adetective or a police officer!"
Joe glanced from the youth to the bag in question. It was a peculiarsatchel, made of some odd leather, and evidently constructed for heavyuse. 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 whenI'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 theonly 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 thebetter of him. "Nothing is 'up to me,' as you call it. I didn't touchyour valise. I didn't even know I sat near it until you called myattention to it. And if it was opened, and something taken out, I beg toassure 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. "And I'd advise you to bemore careful after this, in making accusations."
He spoke rather loudly--in fact so did "R. V.," and it was but naturalthat several of the delayed passengers should gather outside thestation, attracted by the voices.
Some of them looked in through the opened windows and doors, and, seeingnothing more than what seemed to be an ordinary dispute, strolled on.
"But this won't do," insisted "R. V.," which expression seemed to be afavorite with him. "This won't do at all, you know, my good fellow. Mywatch 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 tohear 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 hislittle 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 hisbaggage."
The agent looked at the modish youth.
"Is that the only reason you accuse him--because he sat near yoursatchel?" 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 anythingabout 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 yoursatchel 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 withJoe.
"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 toa search," said Joe, the red blood mantling to his cheeks as he thoughtof the needless indignity. "I can refer to several well-known personswho will vouch for me, but if you feel----"
"All aboard!" suddenly called the conductor of the stalled train, cominginto the depot. "We just got word that we can proceed. If we can reachthe next junction before the fast mail, we can go ahead of her and getaround the wreck. Lively now! All aboard!"
There was a scramble in which Joe and "R. V." took a part. All of thepassengers were anxious to proceed, and if haste meant that they couldavoid further delay they were willing to hasten. The engineer whistledimpatiently, and men and women scrambled into the coaches they had left.
"R. V." caught up his peculiar bag and without another look at Joe, gotaboard. For a moment the young pitcher had an idea of insisting onhaving the unpleasant matter settled, but he, too, wanted to go on. Atany rate no one he knew or cared about had heard the unjust accusationmade, 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 proveanything to him--he'd say it 'wouldn't do,'" thought Joe. "He'saltogether too positive."
And so, leaving the matter of the missing articles unsettled, Joesprinted for the train.
Joe saw his accuser enter the rear coach, while the young ball playertook 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," musedJoe, as the train pulled out of the way-station.
But the matter was not reopened, and when the junction was reached ourhero saw "R. V." hurrying off to make other connections. As he turnedaway, however, he favored Joe with a look that was not altogetherpleasant.
The remainder of our hero's trip to Montville was uneventful, save thatit was rather monotonous, and, the further South he went the worse therailroad service became, until he found that he was going to be nearlyhalf a day late.
But he was not expected at any special time, and he knew that he haddone the best possible. Arriving in Montville, which he found to be atypical small Southern town, Joe put up at the hotel where he had beentold by "Jimmie" Mack to take quarters.
"Are any of the Pittston players around--is Mr. Gregory here?" asked Joeof the clerk, after registering. It was shortly after two o'clock.
"They're all out practicing, I believe," was the answer. "Mr. Gregorywas 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 aretoo well known to need imitating.
"Well, I suppose I am, but I've only just joined," answered Joe, with asmile. "I'm one of the new pitchers."
"Glad to know you. We enjoy having you ball players here. It sort oflivens things up. I believe your team is going to cross bats with ourhome team Saturday."
"That's good!" exclaimed Joe, who was just "aching" to get into a gameagain.
He ate a light luncheon and then, inquiring his way, went out to theball field.
He was rather disappointed at first. It was not as good as the one wherethe Silver Stars played--not as well laid out or kept up, and thegrandstand was only about half as large.
"But of course it's only a practice field," reasoned Joe, as he lookedabout for a sight of "Jimmie" Mack, whom alone he knew. "The home fieldat Pittston will probably be all right. Still, I've got to remember thatI'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 forthe next year or so--perhaps longer. The members of the team werethrowing and catching--some were batting flies, and laying downgrounders 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 bigmitts.
Seve
ral small and worshipping boys were on hand, as always is the case,gathering up the discarded bats, running after passed balls andbringing water to their heroes.
"Well, I'm here, anyhow," thought Joe. "Now to see what sort of a stab Ican 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 himwhen he left home, Joe was grievously disappointed.
But I do not believe Joe Matson looked for anything of the sort. In factI know he did not, for Joe was a sensible lad. He realized that howevergood a college player he might be he was now entering the ranks of menwho made their living at ball playing. And there is a great deal ofdifference between doing a thing for fun, and doing it to get your breadand butter--a heap of difference.
Joe stood on the edge of the diamond looking at the players. They seemedto be a clean-cut set of young fellows. One or two looked to be veteransat the game, and here and there Joe could pick out one whose hair wasturning the least little bit gray. He wondered if they had slid down thescale, and, finding their powers waning, had gotten out of the bigleagues to take it a little easier in one of the "bush" variety.
"But it's baseball--it's a start--it's just what I want!" thought Joe,as he drew a deep breath, the odors of crushed green grass, the dry dustand the whiff of leather mingling under the hot rays of the Southernsun.
"It's baseball, and that's enough!" exulted Joe.
"Well, I see you got here!" exclaimed a voice behind him, and Joe turnedto 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 onJimmie. "They think something is going to happen. Did you bring auniform?"
Joe indicated his valise, into which he had hastily stuffed, at thehotel, one of his old suits.
"Well, slip it on--take any dressing room that's vacant there," andJimmie motioned to the grandstand. "Then come out and I'll have you meetthe boys. We're only doing light practice as yet, but we'll soon have tohump ourselves, for the season will shortly open."
"Is Mr. Gregory here?" asked Joe, feeling that he ought to meet themanager of the team.
"He'll be here before the day is over. Oh, Harrison!" he called to apassing player, "come over and meet Joe Matson, one of our new pitchers.Harrison tries to play centre," explained the assistant manager with asmile.
"Quit your kiddin'!" exclaimed the centre fielder as he shook hands withJoe. "Glad to meet you, son. You mustn't mind Jimmie," he went on. "Everplayed 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 goingout in the field. See you there," and Harrison passed on.
Joe lost no time in changing into his playing togs. The dressing roomsin the Montville grandstand were only apologies compared with what Joewas used to.
But he knew that this was only a training camp, and that they would notbe here long.
He walked out on the field, feeling a little nervous and ratherlonesome--"like a cat in a strange garret," as he wrote home to hisfolks. 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 himwarmly, he felt more at home.
Then he went out in the field, and began catching flies with theothers.
"But I wish they'd put me at pitching," mused Joe. "That's what I wantto do."
He was to learn that to make haste slowly is a motto more or lessfollowed by professional ball players. There would be time enough to puton speed before the season closed.