"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 on Jimmie. "They think something is going to happen. Did you bring a uniform?"
Joe indicated his valise, into which he had hastily stuffed, at the hotel, one of his old suits.
"Well, slip it on--take any dressing room that's vacant there," and Jimmie motioned to the grandstand. "Then come out and I'll have you meet the boys. We're only doing light practice as yet, but we'll soon have to hump ourselves, for the season will shortly open."
"Is Mr. Gregory here?" asked Joe, feeling that he ought to meet the manager of the team.
"He'll be here before the day is over. Oh, Harrison!" he called to a passing player, "come over and meet Joe Matson, one of our new pitchers.
Harrison tries to play centre," explained the assistant manager with a smile.
"Quit your kiddin'!" exclaimed the centre fielder as he shook hands with Joe. "Glad to meet you, son. You mustn't mind Jimmie," he went on. "Ever played 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 going out in the field. See you there," and Harrison passed on.
Joe lost no time in changing into his playing togs. The dressing rooms in the Montville grandstand were only apologies compared with what Joe was used to.
But he knew that this was only a training camp, and that they would not be here long.
He walked out on the field, feeling a little nervous and rather lonesome--"like a cat in a strange garret," as he wrote home to his folks. 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 him warmly, he felt more at home.
Then he went out in the field, and began catching flies with the others.
"But I wish they'd put me at pitching," mused Joe. "That's what I want to do."
He was to learn that to make haste slowly is a motto more or less followed by professional ball players. There would be time enough to put on speed before the season closed.
CHAPTER V
THE CLASH
"That's the way! Line 'em out, now!"
"Put some speed into that!"
"Look out for a high one!"
"Oh, get farther back! I'm going to knock the cover off this time!"
These were only a few of the cries and calls that echoed over the ball field at Montville. The occasion was the daily practice of the Pittston nine, and orders had come from the manager and trainer to start in on more lively work. It was Joe's third day with the professionals.
He had made the acquaintance of all the players, but as yet had neither admitted, nor been admitted to, a real friendship with any of them. It was too early.
Joe held back because he was naturally a bit diffident. Then, too, most of the men were older than he, and with one exception they had been in the professional ranks for several seasons. That one exception was Charlie Hall, who played short. He, like Joe, had been taken that Spring from the amateur ranks. Hall had played on a Western college team, and had been picked out by one of the ever-present professional scouts.
With Charlie, Joe felt more at home than with any of the others and yet he felt that soon he would have good friends among the older men.
On their part they did not become friendly with Joe at once simply for the reason that they wanted to "size him up," or "get his number," as Jimmie Mack put it in speaking of the matter.
"But they'll cotton to you after a bit, Joe," said the assistant manager, "and you'll like them, too. Don't get discouraged."
"I won't," was the answer.
There was one man on the team, though, with whom Joe felt that he would never be on friendly terms, and this was Jake Collin, one of the pitchers--the chief pitcher and mainstay of the nine on the mound, from what Joe picked up by hearing the other men talk. And Collin himself was not at all modest about his ability. That he had ability Joe was ready to concede. And Collin wanted everyone else to know it, too. He was always talking about his record, and his batting average, which, to do him credit, was good.
Collin was not much older than Joe, but a rather fast life and hard living counted for more than years. Joe heard whispers that Collin could not last much longer.
Perhaps it was a realization of this that made Collin rather resent the arrival of our hero on the Pittston nine. For he gave Joe but a cold greeting, and, as he moved off to practice, the young pitcher could hear him saying something about "college dudes thinking they can play professional ball."
Joe's faced flushed, but he said nothing. It was something that called more for deeds than words.
"Everybody lively now! I want some snappy work!" called Jimmie Mack as the practice progressed. "If we're going to play the Montville team Saturday we want to snow them under. A win by a few runs won't be the thing at all, and, let me tell you, those boys can play ball.
"So step lively, everybody. Run bases as if you meant to get back home some time this week. Slug the ball until the cover comes off. And you, Collin, get a little more speed on your delivery. Is your arm sore?"
"Arm sore? I guess not! I'm all right!" and the man's eyes snapped angrily.
"Well, then, show it. Let's see what you've got up your sleeve, anyhow.
Here comes Gregory now--he'll catch a few for you, and then we'll do some batting."
The manager, whom Joe had met and liked, came out to join in the practice. He nodded to our hero, and then took Collin off to one side, to give him some instructions.
Joe under the direction of Jimmie Mack was allowed to do some pitching now. With Terry Hanson the left fielder, to back him up, Joe began throwing in the balls on a space in front of the grandstand.
Joe noticed that Collin regarded him sharply in the intervals of his own practice, but he was prepared for a little professional jealousy, and knew how to take it. He had seen it manifested often enough at school and college, though there the spirit of the university was paramount to personal triumph--every player was willing to sacrifice himself that the team might win. And, in a large measure, of course, this is so in professional baseball. But human nature is human nature, whether one is playing for money or for glory, and in perhaps no other sport where money counts for as much as it does in baseball, will you find more of the spirit of the school than in the ranks of the diamond professionals.
"Take it easy, Joe; take it easy," advised Terry, with a good-natured smile, as the lad stung in the balls. "You've got speed, and I'm willing to admit it without having you split my mitt. But save yourself for a game. You're not trying to pitch anyone out now, you know, and there's no one looking at you."
"I guess I forgot this was just practice," admitted Joe with a laugh.
"I'll throw in some easy ones."
He did, and saw an admiring look on Terry's face.
"They seem to have the punch--that's a nice little drop you've got. But don't work it too much. Vary your delivery."
From time to time as the practice proceeded Terry gave Joe good advice.
Occasionally this would be supplemented by something Mack or Gregory would say and Joe took it all in, resolving to profit by it.