The Summer vacation came, and Joe had pa.s.sed his examinations. Not brilliantly, but sufficiently well to enable him to enter the Soph.o.m.ore cla.s.s.

"And if I don't make the 'varsity next Spring, it will be my own fault!"

he cried, as he said good-bye to his chums and packed up for home.

The Summer pa.s.sed pleasantly enough. Joe's family took a cottage at a lake resort, and of course Joe organized a ball team among the temporary residents of the resort. A number of games were played, Joe pitching in fine style. One day a manager of one of the minor leagues attended a contest where Joe pitched, and when word of this was carried to our hero he had a nervous fit. But he pulled himself together, twirled magnificently, and was pleased to see the "magnate" nod approvingly.

Though later, when someone offered to introduce Joe to him, the lad declined.

"I'll wait until I've made a better reputation," he declared. "I want the Yale Y before I go looking for other honors;" and he stuck to that.

"Joe seems to care more for college than you thought he would, father,"

said Mrs. Matson, when it came time for her son to go back as a Soph.o.m.ore for the next Fall term. "I think he'll finish yet, and make us all proud of him."

"Joe will never do anything that would not make us proud of him," said his father. "But I rather fancy the reason he is so willing to go back to Yale is that he didn't make the 'varsity baseball nine last season.

There's a rule against Freshmen, you know."

"Oh dear!" lamented Mrs. Matson. "I did hope he would like college for its own sake, and not for baseball."

"It's hard to separate baseball and football from college likings, I guess," conceded her husband.

And so Joe went back. It was quite different from entering New Haven as a Freshman, and even in the old elms he seemed to have a proprietary interest. He took his old room, because he liked it, and a number of his other Soph.o.m.ore friends did likewise, though some Freshmen held forth there as usual.

Then came the football season, and, though Joe took an interest in this, and even consented to try for the scrub, he was not cut out for that sort of work, and soon gave it up.

Yale made her usual success on the gridiron, though the far-famed game with Princeton resulted in a tie, which made the baseball nine all the more anxious to win the championship.

The Winter seemed endless, but soon there was the beginning of baseball talk, as before, and this was regarded as a sign of Spring. There was no question now but what Joe was eligible for the 'varsity, though that was far from saying that he would be picked for it. All his old friends had returned to the university, and there was little change in the baseball situation as regards new names. Most of the old ones kept their same places.

Nothing definite had been learned about the red paint episode, and though it was mentioned occasionally, and often in a censorious manner as against the perpetrator of it, the latter was not discovered.

Then there began to gather at Yale the oldtime players, who acted as coaches. Mr. Hasbrook, who from long familiarity with the game, and from his intense love of it, and for his _alma mater_, was again named as head coach.

"Well, we've got a pretty good nine, I think," said Weston one day, after hard practice against the Freshmen. How Joe did thank his stars that he was not in the latter team, though he was first pitcher on the Soph.o.m.ore team.

"Yes, we have," admitted several. "It looks as if we could trim Princeton this time." Joe had pitched for the 'varsity in some informal practice games, though Weston was regarded still as first choice. And Joe was fearful that his cherished ambition was yet far from being realized.

"We're playing good ball," said Weston. "I don't say that because I'm pitching," he added quickly, as he saw some looking at him curiously, "but because we have got a good team--mostly old players, too," and he glanced meaningly at Joe, as though he resented his entrance as an aspirant for the mound.

"One thing--we've got to tighten up considerably," declared Captain Hatfield. "We'll play our first match game with Amherst in two weeks, and we want to swamp 'em."

"Oh, we will," said Weston easily.

"Not unless you pitch better--and we all play better," was the grim answer.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. You've got to strike more men out, and play a livelier game."

"Well, I guess I can," answered the pitcher, sullenly.

There was only light practice the next day, and Joe was told to perfect himself in signals with the cla.s.s captain. Then came another hard practice contest, and, somewhat to Joe's surprise, he was not called on to pitch, as he fully expected. But he resigned himself cheerfully when Avondale went to the mound. Had our hero but known it, Mr. Hasbrook had deliberately omitted to start Joe, wishing to discipline him, not, however, because of anything Joe had done.

"I think there's championship material for one of the big leagues in that lad," mused the head coach, to justify himself, "and he's got a hard row ahead of him unless he learns to take disappointment. I'll start him on the right track, though I would like to pitch him steadily."

And so Joe sat on the bench, while his rival pitched. Whether it was on this account, or because the 'varsity had tightened, was not at once apparent, but the fact was that the first team began to pound out runs, and the scrub did not.

"That's the way!" exclaimed the enthusiastic a.s.sistant coaches. "Eat 'em up, 'varsity!"

Mr. Hasbrook smiled, but said nothing. At the end of the seventh inning Joe was sent in to pitch, but it was too late for the scrubs to save the game for themselves, since the 'varsity had it by six runs. Nor did Joe escape hitless, though from the time he went in no runs were made by his opponents.

"Joe, you're a better pitcher than I am," declared Avondale, frankly. "I can see where I've made mistakes."

"Well, it isn't too late to fix 'em."

"Yes, I'm afraid it is," and, as it developed, it was, for from then on Joe did most of the pitching for the scrub. Occasionally, when his arm was a bit lame, Avondale was sent in, or one of the other pitching candidates, but the result was nearly always disastrous for the scrub.

Not that Joe always made good. He had his off days, when his curves did not seem to break right, and when his control was poor. But he was trying to carry out Mr. Hasbrook's instructions to get into more plays, and this handicapped him a bit at the start.

The head coach saw this, and made allowances, keeping Joe on the mound when the a.s.sistants would have subst.i.tuted someone else.

"Wait," advised the head coach. "I know what I'm doing."

The season was beginning to open. Schedules were being arranged, and soon Yale would begin to meet her opponents. The practice grew harder and more exacting. The voices of the coaches were more stern and sharp.

No errors were excused, and the scrub was worked doubly hard to make the 'varsity that much better.

Ford Weston had improved considerably and then one day he went to pieces in the box, when playing a particularly close and hard game with the scrub.

There was surprise and consternation, and a hasty conference of the coaches. An attempt was made to stem the tide by putting in McAnish, the southpaw, and he did some excellent work, but the scrub seemed to have struck a winning streak and took everything that came their way. Joe was pitching, and held the first team well down.

There was gloom in Yale that night, for the game with Amherst was not far off, and the Amherst lads were reported to be a fast and snappy lot.

There was a day of rest, and then came the final practice against the scrub. There was a consultation among the coaches in which the first and second captains partic.i.p.ated before the contest. Then Mr. Hasbrook separated himself from the others.

"Matson!" he called sharply. "You and Kendall warm up a bit, and get a line on each other's signals. Matson, you're going to pitch for the 'varsity to-day!"

CHAPTER XVIII

PLOTTING

Joe Matson was trembling when he went to his place, even after some lively warming-up practice with the catcher. The very thing he most wanted had come to him very unexpectedly. And yet he was sensible enough to realize that this was only a trial, and that it did not mean he would pitch against Amherst. But he had great hopes.

"Come!" he exclaimed to himself, as he got ready for the opening of the game. "I've got to pull myself together or I'll go all to pieces. Brace up!"

The sight of Weston glaring at him helped, in a measure, to restore Joe to himself.