Father and son talked at some length, and then, as Mr. Matson had about finished work for the day, the two set out for home together. On the way Joe met his old chum, Tom Davis, and they went over again the many good times in which they had taken part.
Joe liked his home--he liked his home town, and his old chums, but still he wished to get into the new life that had called him.
He was not sorry, therefore, when, a few days later he received a telegram from Mr. Mack, telling him to report at once at Montville.
"Oh, Joe!" exclaimed his mother. "Do you really have to go so soon?"
"I'm afraid so, Momsey," he answered. "You see the league season will soon open and I want to begin at the beginning. This is my life work, and I can't lose any time."
"Pitching ball a life work!" sighed Mrs. Matson. "Oh, Joe! if it was only preaching--or something like that."
"Let the boy alone, Mother," said Mr. Matson, with a good-humored twinkle in his eye. "We can't all be ministers, and I'd rather have a world series winner in my family than a poor lawyer or doctor. He'll do more good in society, too. Good luck to you, Joe."
But Joe was not to get away to the South as quietly as he hoped. He was importuned by his old baseball chums to pitch an exhibition game for them, but he did not think it wise, under the circumstances, so declined.
But they wanted to do him honor, and, learning through Tom Davis--who, I may say in passing, got the secret from Clara--when Joe's train was to leave, many of the old members of the Silver Stars gathered to wish their hero Godspeed.
"What's the matter with Baseball Joe?" was the cry outside the station, whither Joe had gone with his sister and mother, his father having bidden him good-bye earlier.
"What's the matter with Joe Matson?"
"_He's--all--right!_" came the staccato reply.
Again the demand:
"Who's all right?"
"_Baseball Joe!_"
"Why--what--what does it mean?" asked Mrs. Matson in bewilderment as she sat near her son in the station, and heard the cries.
"Oh, it's just the boys," said Joe, easily.
"They're giving Joe a send-off," explained Clara.
Quite a crowd gathered as the members of the amateur nine cheered Joe again and again. Many other boys joined in, and the scene about the railroad depot was one of excitement.
"What's going on?" asked a stranger.
"Joe Matson's going off," was the answer.
"Who's Joe Matson?"
"Don't you know?" The lad looked at the man in half-contempt. "Why, he pitched a winning game for Yale against Princeton, and now he's going to the Pittstons of the Central League."
"Oh, I see. Hum. Is that he?" and the man pointed to the figure of our hero, surrounded by his friends.
"That's him! Say, I wish he was me!" and the lad looked enviously at Joe.
"I--I never knew baseball was so--so popular," said Mrs. Matson to Clara, as the shouting and cheers grew, while Joe resisted an attempt on the part of the lads to carry him on their shoulders.
"I guess it's as much Joe as it is the game," answered Clara, proudly.
"Three cheers for Joe!" were called for, and given with a will.
Again came the question as to who was all right, and the usual answer followed. Joe was shaking hands with two lads at once, and trying to respond to a dozen requests for letters, or passes to the league games.
Then came the whistle of the train, more hurried good-byes, a last kiss for his mother and sister--final cheers--shouts--calls for good wishes--and Joe was on his way to the Southern baseball camp.
CHAPTER III
AN ACCUSATION
"Whew!" exclaimed Joe, as he sank into a car seat and placed his valise beside him. "Some doings--those!"
Several passengers looked at him, smiling and appreciative. They had seen and heard the parting ovation tendered to our hero, and they understood what it meant.
Joe waved his hand out of the window as the train sped on, and then settled back to collect his thoughts which, truth to tell, were running riot.
Pulling from his pocket some books on baseball, one of which contained statistics regarding the Central League, Joe began poring over them. He wanted to learn all he could about the organization with which he had cast his fortunes.
And a few words of explanation concerning the Central League may not be unappreciated by my readers.
In the first place let me be perfectly frank, and state that the Central League was not one of the big ones. I have not masqueraded a major league under that title. Some day I hope to tell you some stories concerning one of the larger leagues, but not in this volume.
And in the second place Joe realized that he was not going to astonish the world by his performances in this small league. He knew it was but a "bush league," in a sense, yet he had read enough of it to know that it was composed of clean-cut clubs and players, and that it bore a good reputation. Many a major league player had graduated from this same Central, and Joe--well, to put it modestly--had great hopes.
The Central League was of the Middle West. It played its eight clubs over a circuit composed of eight well-known cities, which for the purposes of this story I have seen fit to designate as follows: Clevefield, Pittston (to which club Joe had been signed), Delamont, Washburg, Buffington, Loston, Manhattan and Newkirk. Perhaps, as the story progresses, you may recognize, more or less successfully, certain players and certain localities. With that I have nothing to do.
The train sped on, stopping at various stations, but Joe took little interest in the passing scenery, or in what took place in his coach.
He was busy over his baseball "dope," by which I mean the statistics regarding players, their averages, and so forth.
"And my name will soon be among 'em!" exulted Joe.
As the train was pulling out of a small station, Joe looked out of the window, and, to his surprise, saw, sitting on a baggage truck, the same tramp he had saved from the freight train some days before.
"Hum!" mused Joe. "If he's beating his way on the railroad he hasn't gotten very far," for this was not many miles from Riverside. "I guess he's a sure-enough hobo, all right. Too bad!"
Others beside Joe seemed to have noticed the tramp, who, however, had not looked at our hero. One of two men in the seat back of Joe spoke, and said:
"I say, Reynolds, see that tramp sitting there?"
"You mean the one on the truck?"
"Yes. Do you recognize him?"