"Well, I'll be getting on," remarked Darrell, after a pause. "Come and see me sometime. I'll see you at school to-morrow, and if there's anything doing I'll let you know."

The two boys' hands met in a friendly clasp and then the manager, getting into his carriage, drove off. A little later, his heart filled with hope, Joe, having put back his lantern and tool bag pedaled toward home.

"This was a lucky day for me, even if it did look bad after that crash with Sam Morton," he said to himself. "I'm going to play ball, after all!"

There was rather a grave look on Mr. Matson's face when Joe handed him the reply from Mr. Holdney, and told of his interview.

"So he can't help me--Oh, well, never mind," and Mr. Matson turned aside and went into the room where he kept a desk. Mrs. Matson followed, closing the door after her, and for some time the voices of the two could be heard in low but earnest conversation.

"What's the matter; nothing wrong I hope?" asked Clara.

"Oh, I guess not," answered Joe, though he was vaguely uneasy himself.

Then came the thought of his talk with the baseball manager and his heart was light again.

Supper was rather a quiet affair that night, and Mr. Matson spoke but little, quite in contrast to his usual cheerful flow of conversation.

Mrs. Matson, too, seemed preoccupied.

"I think I'm going to get on the Stars!" exclaimed Joe, when he got a chance to tell of his experiences that day.

"That's good," said Mr. Matson heartily. "There's no game like baseball."

"But it doesn't fit a boy for anything," complained Mrs. Matson. "It doesn't help in any of the professions."

"It's a profession in itself!" declared Joe stoutly.

"I hope you don't intend to adopt it," spoke his sister.

"Oh, I don't know. I might do worse. Look at some of those big New York players getting thousands of dollars a year."

"But look how long it takes them to get to that place," objected Clara, who liked to argue.

"Oh, well, I'm young yet," laughed Joe.

In his room that night, while preparing for bed Joe got to thinking of the possibility mentioned by Darrell Blackney.

"I'm going to play my head off in centre field," said Joe, "and I'm going to practice batting, too. Stick work counts. I'm going to practice pitching, also. Who knows, maybe I'll get a chance in the box if Sam ever slumps.

"Wow! If I ever do!" and standing before an imaginary batter Joe flung out his arm as if delivering a swift curve. With a crash his fist hit a picture on the wall and brought it clattering down to the floor.

"What's that?" called Clara sharply from the next room.

"Oh, I was just practicing pitching," answered Joe sheepishly, as he picked up the picture, the gla.s.s of which had fortunately not broken.

"Well, you'd better practice going to sleep," responded his sister with a laugh.

Joe smiled. He had great hopes for the future.

CHAPTER VII

LAUGHED AT

"What's that in your pocket, Joe?"

"Which pocket?"

"Your coat. I declare, you've got something in both pockets," and Clara approached her brother as if with the intention of making a personal inspection of two big bulges on either side of his coat. "What are they?" she persisted, as Joe backed away. Brother and sister had just gotten up from the breakfast table, and were about to start to school.

"Oh, never mind!" exclaimed Joe hastily, as he looked for his cap. "Got your lessons, Clara?"

"Of course I have. But I'm curious to know what makes your pockets bulge out so. Don't you know it will spoil your coat?"

"I don't care," and Joe made another hasty move to get out of reach of Clara's outstretched hand. But he was not successful, and, with a laugh, his sister caught hold of the bulging pocket on his left side.

"A ball!" she declared. "A baseball upon my word! Two of them! Oh, Joe, are you really going to play on the nine Sat.u.r.day?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll get a chance if Jed McGraw leaves in time. But I'm taking a couple of old b.a.l.l.s to practice throwing this afternoon when I come from school."

"You're starting in early," commented Clara. "I hope you don't sleep with a baseball under your pillow the way we girls do with pieces of wedding cake," and she laughed merrily.

"I'd be willing to sleep with a ball and a bat under my pillow if I thought I'd get in the game by it," admitted Joe frankly. "But I'm not hoping too much. Well, I'm going. Good-bye momsey," and he stopped to kiss his mother before he hastened away to school. He looked at her closely to discover whether there was any trace of worry, but she smiled at him.

"I may not be home early," he told her. "I'm going down to the fairgrounds."

"What for?" she asked quickly. "There isn't a show there, is there?"

"No, but I want to do a little baseball practicing, and that place is well out of the way."

"Baseball practice on the fairgrounds. How----"

But she did not wait to finish her question for she exclaimed:

"My cake is burning in the oven. Good-bye, Joe!" and she ran to the kitchen.

"I wonder what Sam Morton will say?" Joe reflected as he walked along.

"I certainly hope his arm isn't lame, even if it was as much his fault as mine. I don't want him to tell the fellows I'm to blame for him losing a game--if he should."

Fearing that the same thing might happen to him as when Clara laughed at him for having the two baseb.a.l.l.s in his pockets, Joe slipped to his desk as soon as he reached the school, and hid the b.a.l.l.s away back among his books. The b.a.l.l.s were two old ones he had used when on the Bentville nine, and they were still in fair condition.

"I'm not going to let the fellows get on to the fact that I'm practicing, until there's more of a chance for me than there is now,"

thought our hero, as he went out on the school grounds to watch the lads at play.

An impromptu game was going on, but Joe did not join. Darrell Blackney pa.s.sed him, and in answer to Joe's nod of greeting asked:

"Did you get home all right?"