Chapter 12

THE QUARRELING MAN

Quite a little family party it was the St. Louis players composed as they traveled South in their private car, for they enjoyed that distinction. This was something new for Joe, as the Pittston team was not blessed with a wealthy owner, and an ordinary Pullman had sufficed when Joe made his former trip. Now it was travel "de luxe."

The more Joe saw of Rad Chase the more he liked the fellow, and the two soon became good friends, being much in each other's company, sharing the upper and lower berths by turns in their section, eating at the same table, and fraternizing generally.

Some of the older players were accompanied by their wives, and after the first few hours of travel everyone seemed to know everyone else, and there was much talk and laughter.

"Can't you fellows supply me with some dope?" asked a voice in the aisle beside the seats occupied by Joe and Rad. "I've gotten off all the departure stuff, and I want something for a lead for to-morrow. Shoot me some new dope; will you?"

"Oh, hello, Jim!" greeted Rad, and then, as Joe showed that he did not recognize the speaker, the other player went on: "This is the _Dispatch-Times's_ staff correspondent, Jim Dalrymple. You want to be nice to him, Joe, and he'll put your name and picture in the paper. Got anything you can give him for a story?"

"I'm afraid not," laughed Joe.

"Oh, anything will do, as long as I can hang a lead on it," said Dalrymple hopefully. "If you've never tried to get up new stuff every day at a training camp of a ball team, you've no idea what a little thing it takes to make news. Now you don't either of you happen to have a romance about you; do you?" he inquired, pulling out a fold of copy paper. (Your real reporter never carries a note book. A bunch of paper, or the back of an envelope will do to jot down a few facts. The rest is written later from memory. Only stage reporters carry note books, and, of late they are getting "wise" and abstaining from it.)

"A romance?" repeated Joe. "Far be it from me to conceal such a thing about my person."

"But you _have_ had rather a rapid rise in baseball; haven't you, Joe?" insinuated Rad. "You didn't have to wait long for promotion. Why not make up a yarn about that?" went on Rad, nodding at the reporter.

"Sure I'll do it. Give me a few facts. Not too many," the newspaper man said with a whimsical smile. "I don't want to be tied down too hard. I like to let my fancy have free play."

"He's all right," whispered Rad in an aside to Joe. "One of the best reporters going, and he always gives you a fair show. If you make an error he'll debit you with it, but when you play well he'll feature you. He's been South with the team a lot of times, I hear."

"But I don't like to talk about myself," objected Joe.

"Don't let that worry you!" laughed Rad. "Notoriety is what keeps baseball where it is to-day, and if it wasn't for the free advertising we get in the newspapers there would not be the attendance that brings in the dollars, and lets us travel in a private car. Don't be afraid of boosting yourself. The reporters will help you, and be glad to. They have to get the stuff, and often enough it's hard to do, especially at the training camp."

In some way or other, Joe never knew exactly how, Dalrymple managed to get a story out of him, about how Joe had been drafted, how he had begun playing ball as a boy on the "sand lots," how he had pitched Yale to victory against Princeton, and a few other details, with which my readers are already familiar.

"Say, this'll do first rate!" exulted the reporter, as he went to a secluded corner to write his story, which would be telegraphed back to his daily newspaper. "I'm glad I met you!" he laughed.

Dalrymple was impartial, which is the great secret of a newspaper reporter's success. Though he gave Joe a good "show," he also "played up" some of the other members of the team. So that when copies of the paper were received later, they contained an account of Joe's progress, sandwiched in between a "yarn" of how the catcher had once worked in a boiler factory, where he learned to catch red-hot rivets, and how one of the outfielders had inherited a fortune, which he had dissipated, and then, reforming, had become a star player. So Joe had little chance to get a "swelled head," which is a bad thing for any of us.

The first part of the journey South was made in record time, but after the private car was transferred to one of the smaller railroad lines there were delays that fretted the players.

"What's the matter?" asked Manager Watson of the conductor as that official came through after a long stop at a water tank station, "won't the cow get off the track?" and he winked at the players gathered about him.

"That joke's a hundred years old," retorted the ticket-taker. "Think up a new one! There's a freight wreck ahead of us, and we have to go slow."

"Well, as long as we get there some time this week, it will be all right, I reckon," drawled the manager.

Reedville was reached toward evening of the second day, and the travel-weary ball-tossers piled out of their coach to find themselves at the station of a typical Southern town.

Laziness and restfulness were in the air, which was warm with the heat of the slowly setting sun. There was the odor of flowers. Colored men were all about, shuffling here and there, driving their slowly-ambling horses attached to rickety vehicles, or backing them up at the platform to get some of the passengers.

"Majestic Hotel right this yeah way, suh! Right over yeah!" voiced the driver of a yellow stage. "Goin' right up, suh!"

"That's our place, boys," announced the manager. "Pile in, and let me have your checks. I'll have the baggage sent up."

Joe and the others took their place in the side-seated stage. A little later, the manager having arranged for the transportation of the trunks, they were driven toward the hotel that was to be their headquarters while in the South.

They were registering at the hotel desk, and making arrangements about who was to room with who, when Joe heard the hotel clerk call Mr. Watson aside.

"He says he's with your party, suh," the clerk spoke. "He arrived yesterday, and wanted to be put on the same floor with your players. Says he's going to be a member of the team."

"Huh! I guess someone is bluffing you!" exclaimed the manager. "I've got all my team with me. Who is the fellow, anyhow?"

"That's his signature," went on the clerk, pointing to it on the hotel register.

"Hum! Wessel; eh?" said Mr. Watson. "Never heard of him. Where is he?"

"There he stands, over by the cigar counter."

Joe, who had heard the talk, looked, and, to his surprise, he beheld the same individual who had tried to pick a quarrel with him the night of the sleigh ride.