Chapter 13

UNDER SUNNY SKIES

"That man!" exclaimed Mr. Watson, as he gave the stranger a quick glance. "No, I don't know him, and he certainly isn't a member of my team. He isn't going to be, either; as far as I know. I'm expecting some other recruits, but no one named Wessel."

Joe said nothing. He was wondering if the man would recognize him, and, perhaps, renew that strange, baseless quarrel. And, to his surprise, the man did recognize him, but merely to bow. And then, to Joe's further surprise, the individual strolled over to where the manager and some of the players were standing, and began:

"Is this Mr. Watson?"

"That's my name--yes," but there was no cordiality in the tone.

"Well, I'm Isaac Wessel. I used to play short on the Rockpoint team in the Independent League. My contract has expired and I was wondering whether you couldn't sign me up."

"Nothing doing," replied Mr. Watson, tersely. "I have all the material I need."

"I spoke to Mr. Johnson about it," naming one of the owners of the St. Louis team, "and he said to see you."

"Did he tell you to tell me to put you on?"

"No, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," was the hesitating reply.

"And did he say I was to give you a try-out?"

"Well, he--er--said you could if you wanted to."

"Well, I _don't_ want to," declared the manager with decision. "And I want to say that you went too far when you told the clerk here you belonged to my party. I don't know you, and I don't want anything to do with a man who acts that way," and Mr. Watson turned aside.

"Well, I didn't mean any harm," whined Wessel. "The--er--I--er--the clerk must have misunderstood me."

"All right. Let it go at that," was all the answer he received.

"Then you won't give me a chance?"

"No."

The man evidently realized that this was the end, for he, too, turned aside. As he did so he looked sneeringly at Joe, and mumbled:

"I suppose you think you're the whole pitching staff now?"

Joe did not take the trouble to answer. But, though he ignored the man, he could not help wondering what his plan was in coming to the training camp. Could there be a hidden object in it, partly covered by the fellow's plea that he wanted to get on the team?

"Do you often have cases like that, Mr. Watson?" Joe asked the manager when he had a chance.

"Like what, Matson?"

"Like that Wessel."

"Oh, occasionally. But they don't often get as fresh as he did. The idea of a bush-leaguer thinking he could break into the majors like that. He sure had nerve! Well, now I hope we're all settled, and can get to work. We've struck good weather, anyhow."

And indeed the change from winter to summer was little short of marvelous. They had come from the land of ice and snow to the warm beauty of sunny skies. There was a feeling of spring in the air, and the blood of every player tingled with life.

"Say, it sure will be great to get out on the diamond and slam the ball about; won't it?" cried Joe to Rad Chase, as the two were unpacking in their hotel room.

"That's what! How are you on stick work?"

"Oh, no better than the average pitcher," replied Joe, modestly. "I had a record of .172 last season."

"That's not so worse," observed Rad.

"What's yours?" asked Joe.

"Oh, it runs around .250."

"Good!" cried Joe. "I hope you get it up to .300 this year."

"Not much chance of that. I was picked because I'm pretty good with the stick--a sort of pinch hitter. But then that's not being a star pitcher," he added, lest Joe feel badly at the contrast in their batting averages.

"Oh, I'm far from being a star, but I'd like to be in that class. There's my best bat," and he held out his stick.

"Oh, you like that kind; eh?" spoke Rad. "Well, I'll show you what I favor," and then the two plunged into a talk that lasted until meal time.

The arrival of the St. Louis team in the comparatively small town of Reedville was an event of importance. There was quite a crowd about the hotel, made up mostly of small boys, who wanted a chance to see the players about whom they had read so much.

After the meal, as Joe, Rad and some of the others strolled out for a walk about the place, our hero caught murmurs from the crowd of lads about the entrance.

"There's 'Toe' Barter," one lad whispered, nodding toward a veteran pitcher.

"Yes, and that fellow walking with him is 'Slim' Cooney. He pitched a no-hit, no-run game last year."

"Sure, I know it. And that fellow with the pipe in his mouth is 'Dots' McCann, the shortstop. He's a peach!"

And so it went on. Joe's name was not mentioned by the admiring throng.

"Our turn will come later," said Rad, with a smile.

"I guess so," agreed his chum, somewhat dubiously.

Reedville was a thriving community, and boasted of a good nine, with whom the St. Louis team expected to cross bats a number of times during the training season. Then, too, in nearby towns, were other teams, some of them semi-professional, who would be called on to sacrifice themselves that the Cardinals might have something to bring out their own strong and weak points.

"Let's go over to the grounds," suggested Joe.

"I'm with you," agreed Rad.

"Say, you fellows won't be so anxious to head for the diamond a little later in the season," remarked "Doc" Mullin, one of the outfielders. "You'll be only too glad to give it the pass-up; won't they?" he appealed to Roger Boswell, the trainer and assistant manager.

"Well, I like to see young fellows enthusiastic," said Boswell, who had been a star catcher in his day. But age, and an increasing deposit of fat, had put him out of the game. Now he coached the youngsters, and when "Muggins," as Mr. Watson was playfully called, was not on hand he managed the games from the bench. He was a star at that sort of thing.

"Go to it, boys," he advised Joe and Rad, with a friendly nod. "You can't get too much baseball when you're young."

The diamond at Reedville was nothing to boast of, but it would serve well enough for practice. And the grandstand was only a frail, wooden affair, nothing like the big one at Robison Field, in St. Louis.

Joe and Rad walked about the field, and longed for the time when they would be out on it in uniform.

"Which will be about to-morrow," spoke Rad, as Joe mentioned his desire. "We'll start in at light work, batting fungo and the like, limbering up our legs, and then we'll do hard work."

"I guess so," agreed Joe.

The weather could not have been better. The sun shone warmly from a blue sky, and there was a balmy spiciness to the southern wind.

Rad and Joe walked about town, made a few purchases, and were turning back to the hotel when they saw "Cosey" Campbell, the third baseman, standing in front of a men's furnishing store.

"I say, fellows, come here," he called to the two. They came. "Do you think that necktie is too bright for a fellow?" went on Campbell, pointing to a decidedly gaudy one in the show window.

"Well, it depends on who's going to wear it," replied Rad, cautiously.

"Why, I am, of course," was the surprised answer. "Who'd you s'pose?"

"I didn't know but what you were buying it to use for a foul line flag," chuckled Rad, for Campbell's weakness for scarfs was well known. He bought one or two new ones every day, and, often enough, grew dissatisfied with his purchase before he had worn it. Then he tried to sell it to some other member of the team, usually without success.

"Huh! Foul flag!" grunted Campbell. "Guess you don't know a swell tie when you see it. I'm going to get it," he added rather desperately, as though afraid he would change his mind.

"Go ahead. We'll go in and see fair play," suggested Joe, with a smile.

The tie was purchased, and the clerk, after selling the bright scarf, seeing that Campbell had a package in his hand, inquired:

"Shall I wrap them both up together for you?"

"If you don't mind," replied the third baseman. And, in tying up the bundle, the one Campbell had been carrying came open, disclosing three neckties more gaudy, if possible, than the one he had just purchased.

"For the love of strikes!" cried Rad. "What are you going to do; start a store?"

"Oh, I just took a fancy to these in a window down street," replied Campbell easily. "Rather neat; don't you think?" and he held up a red and green one.

"Neat! Say, they look like the danger signals in the New York subway!" cried Rad. "Shade your eyes, Joe, or you won't be able to see the ball to-morrow!"

"That shows how much taste you fellows have," snapped Campbell. "Those are swell ties."

But the next day Joe heard Campbell trying to dispose of some of the newly purchased scarfs to "Dots" McCann.

"Go ahead, 'Dots,' take one," pleaded the baseman. "You need a new tie, and I've got more than I want. This red and green one, now; it's real swell."

"Go on!" cried the other player. "Why I'd hate to look at myself in a glass with that around my neck! And you'd better not wear it, either--at least, not around town."

"Why not?" was the wondering answer.

"Because you might scare some of the mules, and there'd be a runaway. Tie a stone around it, Campbell, and drown it. It makes so much noise I can't sleep," and with that McCann walked off, leaving behind him a very indignant teammate.

That night notice was given that all the players would assemble at the baseball diamond in uniform next morning.

"That's the idea!" cried Joe. "Now for some real work."