Joe and Tom formed the battery, and they seemed an effective combination as they warmed up outside the diamond. Then the Resolutes arrived and they, too, began their practice.

"We're going to have a big crowd," remarked Joe, as he saw the stands filling, for Riverside boasted of a fairly good field, where the semi-professional team held forth in the Summer. But the season was about over now.

"It's like old times," remarked Tom. "Come on, now some hot ones to finish up with, and then it'll be most time to call the game."

The details were arranged, the umpire chosen, the batting orders submitted, and the teams came in off the field. The Silver Stars were to bat last, and as Joe walked out to the mound to do the twirling, he was greeted by many friends and acquaintances who had not seen him since the Summer vacation had started. Some news of his prospective leaving for Yale must have gotten around, for he was observed with curious, and sometimes envious eyes.

"Joe's getting to be quite a boy," remarked Mr. Jacob Anderson, one of Riverside's enthusiastic baseball supporters, to his friend, Mr. James Blake.

"Yes, he's a wonderful pitcher, I hear. Seems sort of queer how the boys grow up. Why, only a few years ago he was a small chap, playing around the vacant lots."

"Yes, time does manage to scoot along," spoke the other. "Well, I guess we'll see a good game."

As Joe and Tom paused for a brief consultation before opening the performance, the catcher, glancing toward the grandstand, uttered a surprised exclamation.

"What's the matter?" asked Joe.

"That fellow with my sister--I meant to tell you about him. He was over to your house the other night, when he and sis, and Charlie Masterford called on your sister."

"Oh, ho! So it was Charlie that Clara was fixing up for!" exclaimed Joe.

"I'll have some fun with her. I guess she's at the game to-day. But what about the fellow with your sister?"

"He's a Yale man."

"A Yale man--you mean a graduate?"

"No, he goes there now--Soph.o.m.ore I heard sis say. She was boasting about him, but I didn't pay much attention. I meant to tell you, but I forgot it."

"A Yale man," mused Joe.

"Yes, that's him, with the flower in his coat. Sort of a sport I guess.

Sis said he was on the nine, but I don't know where he plays. Like to meet him? I don't know him myself, but I can get sis to present us. She met him at some dance this Summer, and found he had relatives here he intended to visit. She asked him to call--say, isn't it great how the girls do that?--and he did--the other night. Then he must have made a date with her. Like to meet him? Name's--let's see now--I did have it.

Oh, I remember, it's Weston--Ford Weston. Want to meet him after the game?"

"No--I--I don't believe I do," said Joe slowly. "He may think I am sort of currying favor. I'll wait until I get to Yale, and then, if I get the chance, I'll meet him. He looks like a decent chap."

"Yes, Mabel is crazy about him," said Tom; "but all girls are that way I guess. None for mine! Well, shall we start?"

The batter was impatiently tapping his stick on the home plate.

"Play ball!" called the umpire, and, as Joe walked to his place he gave a glance toward where Mabel Davis sat with a tall, good-looking chap.

"A Yale man," mused Joe, "and on the nine. I wonder what he'll think of my pitching?" and, somehow, our hero felt a bit nervous, and he wished he had not known of the presence of the collegian. As he began winding up to deliver the ball he fancied he detected an amused smile on the face of Ford Weston.

CHAPTER IV

A SNEERING LAUGH

"Come on now, Art! Line one out!"

"A home run, old man! You can do it!"

"Slam one over the fence!"

"Poke it to the icehouse and come walking!"

"We've got the pitcher's goat already! Don't mind him, even if he is going to college!"

These were only a few of the good-natured cries that greeted Art Church as he stood at the home plate, waiting for Joe Matson to deliver the ball. And, in like manner, Joe was gently gibed by his opponents, some of whom had not faced him in some time. To others he was an unknown quant.i.ty.

But even those newest members of the Resolutes had heard of Joe's reputation, and there was not a little of the feeling in the visiting nine that they were doomed to defeat through the opposing pitcher.

"Come on now, Art, it's up to you."

"Give him a fair chance, Joe, and he'll knock the cover off!"

"Play ball!" snapped the umpire, and Joe, who had been exchanging the regulation practice b.a.l.l.s with the catcher signalled that he was ready to deliver the first one of the game. The catcher called for a slow out, but Joe shook his head. He knew Art Church of old, and remembered that this player fairly "ate 'em up." Joe gave the signal to Tom that he would send a swift in-shoot, and his chum nodded comprehendingly.

"Ball one!" yelled the umpire, and Joe could not restrain a start of surprise. True, Art had not swung at the horsehide, but it had easily clipped the plate, and, Joe thought, should have been called a strike.

But he said nothing, and, delivering the same sort of a ball the next time, he had the satisfaction of deceiving the batter, who swung viciously at it.

"He's only trying you out!" was shouted at Joe. "He'll wallop the next one!"

But Art Church did not, and waiting in vain for what he considered a good ball, he struck at the next and missed, while the third strike was called on him without his getting a chance to move his bat.

"Oh, I guess the umpire isn't against us after all," thought Joe, as he threw the ball over to first while the next batter was coming up.

"How's that?" yelled Tom in delight. "Guess there aren't going to be any home runs for you Resolutes."

"Oh, it's early yet," answered the visiting captain.

But the Resolutes were destined to get no runs in that half-inning. One man popped up a little fly, which was easily taken care of, and the next man Joe struck out cleanly.

He was beginning to feel that he was getting in form again. All that Spring he had pitched fine games at Excelsior Hall, but, during the Summer vacation, at the close of the boarding school, he had gone a bit stale. He could feel it himself. His muscles were stiff from lack of use, and he had not the control of the ball, which was one of his strong points. Neither could he get up the speed which had always been part of his a.s.sets, and which, in after years, made him such a power in the big league.

Still Joe felt that he was doing fairly well, and he knew that, as the game went on, and he warmed up, he would do better.

"We ought to win," he told Tom Davis, as they walked to the bench. "That is if we get any kind of support, and if our fellows can hit their pitcher. What sort of a chap is he?"

"Don't know much about him. He's been at it all Summer though, and ought to be in pretty good practice. We'll soon tell. Len Oswald is first up."

But that was all Len did--get up. He soon sat down again, not having hit the ball.

"Oh, I guess we've got some pitcher!" yelled the Resolutes.