But, even with that, he made some surprisingly good put-outs when runners took chances and got too long a lead. So that throughout the circuit the warning began to be whispered:
"Look out for Matson when you're on first!"
Joe realized that a good pitcher has not only to play the game from the mound. He must field his position as well, and the failure of many an otherwise good pitcher is due to the fact that they forget this.
Much of Joe's success, at this time, was due to the coaching and advice he received from Pop Dutton. The veteran could instruct if he could not pitch yet, and Joe profited by his experience.
No reference was made by Joe to the night Pop had gone to the lodging house, nor did the old pitcher say anything to his young friend. In fact he did not know Joe had had any hand in the matter. Pop Dutton went on his reformed way. He played the game, when he got a chance, and was increasingly good at it.
"Joe!" he cried one day, when he had played a full game, "we're getting there! I hope I'll soon be pitching."
"So do I!" added Joe, earnestly. True, the game Pop had played at centre for the full nine innings was with the near-tailenders of the Central League, but it showed that the veteran had "come back" sufficiently to last through the hard work.
"How is your arm?" asked Joe.
"Not good enough to use on the mound yet, I'm sorry to say," was Pop's answer. "I guess I'll have to have that operation, after all. But I don't see how I can manage it. I'm trying to pay back some of my old debts----"
"Don't let that part worry you," spoke Joe, quickly. "If things turn out right I may be able to help you."
"But you've done a lot already, Joe."
"I'll do more--if I can. Just wait until the close of the season, when we have the pennant."
What Joe meant was that he would have the money for an operation on the pitcher's arm if the cash was not needed to put Mr. Matson's eyes in shape through the attention of a surgeon.
And this matter was still undecided, much to the worriment of Joe, his mother and sister, to say nothing of his father. But it is necessary, in such matters, to proceed slowly, and not to take any chances.
Joe felt the strain. His regular salary was much needed at home, and he was saving all he could to provide for his father's possible operation.
That cost would not be light.
Then there was Pop Dutton to think of. Joe wanted very much to see the old player fully on his feet again. He did not know what to do, though, should all the money he might get from the pennant series be required for Mr. Matson.
"Well, I'll do the best I can," thought Joe. "Maybe if Gregory and the others see how well Pop is doing they'll take up a collection and pay for the operation. It oughtn't to cost such an awful lot."
Joe shook his head in a puzzled way. Really it was a little too much for him to carry on his young shoulders, but he had the fire of youth in his veins, and youth will dare much--which is as it should be, perhaps.
Then, too, Joe had to be on edge all the time in order to pitch winning ball. No pitcher is, or can be, at top notch all the while. He can hardly serve in two big games in quick succession, and yet Joe did this several times, making an enviable record for himself.
The rivalry between him and Collin grew, though Joe did nothing to inflame the other's dislike. But Collin was very bitter, and Pop gave Joe some warning hints.
"Oh, I don't believe he'd do anything under-handed," said Joe, not taking it seriously.
"Well, be on the lookout," advised the veteran. "I don't like Collin, and never did."
There came a series of rainy days, preventing the playing of games, and everyone fretted. The players, even Joe, grew stale, though Gregory tried to keep them in form by sending them off on little trips when the grounds were too wet even for practise.
Then came fine bracing weather, and Pittston began to stride ahead wonderfully. It was now only a question of whether Joe's team or Clevefield would win pennant honors, and, in any event, there would have to be several games played between the two nines to decide the matter.
This was due to the fact that the league schedule called for a certain number of games to be played by each club with every other club, and a number of rainy days, and inability to run off double headers, had caused a congestion.
Pittston kept on playing in good form, and Joe was doing finely. So much so that on one occasion when a big league scout was known to be in attendance, Gregory said in a way that showed he meant it:
"Joe, they're going to draft you, sure."
The larger or major league clubs, those rated as AA, have, as is well known, the right to select any player they choose from a minor league, paying, of course a certain price. Thus the big leagues are controllers in a way of the players themselves, for the latter cannot go to any club they choose, whereas any big league club can pick whom it chooses from the little or "bush" leagues. If two or more of the big clubs pick the same player there is a drawing to decide who gets him.
"Well, I'm not worrying," returned Joe, with a smile.
After a most successful game, in Washburg, which team had been playing good ball--the contest having been won by Pittston--Joe was walking across the diamond with Pop Dutton, when the young pitcher saw approaching them the same tramp with whom his protege had entered the lodging house that night.
"Hello, Pop!" greeted the shabby man. "I want t' see you." He leered familiarly. Pop Dutton stopped and gazed with half-frightened eyes at Joe.
CHAPTER XXIV
ON THE TRACK
"Well, are you comin'?" demanded the tramp, as Dutton did not answer. "I said I want to see you, an' I'm dead broke! Took all I had t' git a seat on th' bleachers t' see de bloomin' game."
"Well, you saw a good game--I'll say that," commented the old player, though his voice was a bit husky. He seemed to be laboring under some nervous strain.
"Huh! I didn't come to see th' game. I want t' see you. Are you comin'?"
Pop did not answer at once. About him and Joe, who still stood at his side, surged the other players and a section of the crowd. Some of the members of the team looked curiously at Pop and the ragged individual who had accosted him. Collin, the pitcher, sneered openly, and laughed in Joe's face.
"Who's your swell friend?" he asked, nodding toward the tramp. Joe flushed, but did not answer.
"Well, I'm waitin' fer youse," spoke the tramp, and his tone was surly.
"Come on, I ain't got all day."
"Nothing doing," said Pop, shortly. "I'm not coming with you, Hogan."
"You're not!"
There was the hint of a threat in the husky tones, and the glance from the blood-shot eyes was anything but genial.
"No, I'm not coming," went on Pop, easily. He seemed to have recovered his nerve now, and glanced more composedly at Joe.
"Huh! Well, I like that!" sneered the tramp. "You're gettin' mighty high-toned, all of a sudden! It didn't used to be this way."
"I've changed--you might as well know that, Hogan," went on Pop. There were not so many about them now. All the other players had passed on.
"Well, then, if you won't come with me, come across with some coin!"
demanded the other. "I need money."
"You'll not get any out of me."