You're to wait for an answer. Go on your wheel. It's only a few miles to Moorville, and a straight road, so your father says."

"I know where it is," answered Joe. "Tom Davis has relatives there. He pointed out the road to me one day. I'll go right away. Here, catch hold of my books, mother, and I'll get my wheel out of the barn," for a barn went with the house Mr. Matson had rented.

A little later the lad was speeding down the country road that pleasant spring afternoon. Joe was a good rider and was using considerable strength on the pedals when suddenly, as he turned a sharp curve, he saw coming toward him another cyclist. He had barely time to note that it was Sam Morton, the pitcher of the Silver Stars, and to utter a warning shout when he crashed full into the other lad.

In a moment there was a mix-up of wheels, legs and arms, while a cloud of dust momentarily hid everything from sight. At first Joe did not know whether or not he was hurt, or whether Sam was injured. Fortunately Joe had instinctively put on the brake with all his strength, and he supposed the other lad had done likewise.

Then, as the dust cleared away, and Joe began to pull his arms and legs out of the tangle, and arise, he saw that Sam was doing the same thing.

"Hope you're not hurt much!" was Joe's first greeting.

"Humph! It isn't your fault if I'm not," was the ungracious answer, as Sam felt of his pitching arm. "What do you mean by crashing into a fellow that way for, anyhow?"

"I didn't mean to. I didn't know that curve was so sharp. I'd never ridden on this road before."

"Well, why didn't you blow your horn or ring your bell or--or something?"

"Why didn't you?" demanded Joe with equal right.

"Never mind. Don't give me any of your talk. You're one of the fresh juniors at school, aren't you?"

"I don't know that I'm 'fresh,'" replied Joe quietly, "but I am a junior. I'm sorry if I hurt you, but I couldn't help it."

"Yes you could, if you knew anything about riding a wheel."

"I tell you I couldn't," and Joe spoke a bit sharply. "I was into you before I knew it. And besides, you ran into me as much as I did into you."

"I did not. If you don't know enough to ride a wheel, keep off the roads!" snarled the pitcher. "If I'm stiff for Sat.u.r.day's game it will be your fault."

"I hope you won't be stiff," spoke Joe, and he said it sincerely.

"And if my wheel is broken you'll have to pay for it," went on Sam.

"I don't think that's right," said Joe firmly. "It was as much your fault as mine, and my wheel may be broken too. I'm going to look," he added as he lifted his bicycle from where it was entangled with Sam's.

A bent pedal, which would not interfere with its use, was all the damage Joe's wheel had sustained and beyond a few bent spokes and a punctured tire Sam's seemed to have suffered no great harm.

"I'll help you straighten those spokes," said Joe cheerfully. "It won't take but a minute. I can have my father straighten my pedal at the factory. And I'll help you mend and pump up your tire. I'm sorry----"

"Look here!" burst out Sam in a rage, "I don't want any of your help.

You're too fresh. You come banging into a fellow, knocking him all over and then you think you can square things by offering to help him. I don't want any of your help!"

"Oh, very well," replied Joe quietly. "Then I'll be going on. I've got an errand to do. But I'd like to help you."

"Mind your own business!" snapped Sam, still rubbing his pitching arm.

He made no motion to pick up his wheel.

Joe was half minded to make an angry retort but he thought better of it.

He wheeled his bicycle to the hard side-path of the road, and, ascertaining that his letter was safe, prepared to mount and ride away.

"And mind you, if my arm is stiff, and I can't pitch Sat.u.r.day it will be your fault, and I'll tell the fellows so," called Sam as he leaned over to pick up his wheel.

"All right, only you know it isn't so," replied Joe quietly.

As he pedaled on he looked back and saw Sam straightening some of the bent spokes. The pitcher scowled at him.

"Hum," mused Joe as he speeded up. "Not a very good beginning for getting on the nine--a run-in with the pitcher. Well, I guess I wouldn't be in it anyhow. I guess they think I'm not in their cla.s.s. But I will be--some day!" and with a grim tightening of his lips Joe Matson rode on.

CHAPTER V

JOE HELPS THE MANAGER

"Well now, I'm real sorry," said Mrs. Holdney when, a little later, Joe dismounted at her door, and held out the letter for her husband. "Rufus isn't home. You can leave the letter for him, though."

"No, I have to have an answer," replied Joe. "I think perhaps I'd better wait."

"Well, maybe you had, though I don't know when Rufus will be back. Is it anything of importance?"

"I guess it must be," spoke the lad, for, though he did not know the contents of his father's letter, he reasoned that it would be on no unimportant errand that he would be sent to Moorville.

"Hum," mused Mrs. Holdney. "Well, if you want to wait all right, though as I said I don't know when my husband will be back."

"Do you know where he's gone? Could I go after him?" asked Joe eagerly.

He was anxious to deliver the letter, get an answer, and return home before dark.

"Well, now, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Mrs. Holdney. "Of course you might do that. Rufus has gone down town, and most likely you'll find him in the hardware store of Mr. Jackson. He said he had some business to transact with him, and he'll likely be there for some time."

"Then I'll ride down there on my wheel. I guess I can find the place. Is it on the main street?"

"Yes, turn off this road when you get to the big granite horse-drinking trough and swing in to your right. Then turn to your left when you get to the post-office and that's Main Street. Mr. Jackson's store is about a block in."

The lad repeated the woman's directions over in his mind as he rode along, and he had no difficulty in picking out the hardware store. He was wondering how he would know Mr. Holdney, but concluded that one of the clerks could point him out.

"Yes, Mr. Holdney is here," said a man behind the counter to whom Joe applied. "He's in the office with Mr. Jackson."

"I wonder if I could send a letter in to him," ventured the lad, for he did not want to wait any longer than he had to.

"I'm afraid not," answered the clerk. "Mr. Jackson is very strict about being disturbed when he's talking business."

"Then I guess I'll have to wait," said Joe with a sigh. "I wonder if he'll be in there long?"

"I wouldn't want to say for sure," spoke the clerk, leaning over the counter in a confidential manner and speaking in a whisper. "I wouldn't even dare to guess," he went on with a look toward the private office whence came the murmur of voices, "but I'll venture to state that it will be some time. Mr. Jackson never does anything in a hurry."

"Does Mr. Holdney?"