Chapter 14

HARD WORK

The rooms of the ball players were all in one part of the hotel, along the same hall. Joe and Rad were together, near the stairway going down.

That night, their first in the training camp, there was considerable visiting to and fro among the members of the team, and some little horse-play, for, after all, the players were like big boys, in many respects.

Rad, who had been in calling on some of his fellow players, came back to the room laughing.

"What's up?" asked Joe, who was writing a letter.

"Oh, Campbell is still trying to get rid of that hideous tie we helped him purchase. He wanted to wish it on to me."

"And of course you took it," said Joe, with a smile.

"Of course I did _not_. Well, I guess I'll turn in. We'll have plenty to do to-morrow."

"That's right. I'll be with you as soon as I finish this letter."

But Rad was sound asleep when Joe had finished his correspondence, and slipped downstairs to leave it at the desk for the early mail. Joe looked around the now almost deserted lobby, half expecting to see the strange man, Wessel, standing about. But he was not in sight.

"I wonder what his game is, after all?" mused Joe. "I seem to have been running into two or three queer things lately. There's Shalleg, who bears me a grudge, though I don't see why he should, just because I couldn't lend him money, and then there's this fellow--I only hope the two of them don't go into partnership against me. I guess that's hardly likely to happen, though."

But Joe little realized what was in store for him, and what danger he was to run from these same two men.

Joe awakened suddenly, about midnight, by hearing someone moving around the room. He raised himself softly on his elbow, and peered about the apartment, for a dim light showed over the transom from the hall outside. To Joe's surprise the door, which he had locked from the inside before going to bed, now stood ajar.

"I wonder if Rad can be sick, and have gone out?" Joe thought. "Maybe he walks in his sleep."

He looked over toward his chum's bed, but could not make out whether or not Rad was under the covers. Then, as he heard someone moving about the apartment he called out:

"That you, Rad?"

Instantly the noise ceased, to be resumed a moment later, and Joe felt sure that someone, or something, went past the foot of his bed and out into the hall.

"That you, Rad?" he called again.

"What's that? Who? No, I'm here," answered the voice of his chum. "What's the matter?"

Joe sprang out of bed, and in one bound reached the corridor. By means of the one dim electric lamp he saw, going down the stairs, carrying a grip with him, the mysterious man who had tried to quarrel with him. He was evidently taking "French leave," going out in the middle of the night to "jump" his hotel bill.

"What's up?" asked Rad, as he, too, left his bed. "What is it, Joe?"

The young pitcher came back into the room, and switched on a light. A quick glance about showed that neither his baggage, nor Rad's, had been taken.

"It must have been his own grip he had," said Joe.

"His? Who do you mean--what's up?" demanded Rad.

"It was Wessel. He's sneaking out," remarked Joe in a low voice. "Shall we give the alarm?"

"No, I guess not. We don't want to be mixed up in a row. And maybe he's going to take a midnight train. You can't tell."

"I think he was in this room," went on Joe.

"He was? Anything missing?"

"Doesn't seem to be."

"Well, then, don't make a row. Maybe he made a mistake."

"He'd hardly unlock our door by mistake," declared Joe.

"No, that's so. Did you see him in here?"

"No, but I heard someone."

"Well, it wouldn't be safe to make any cracks. Better not make a row, as long as nothing is gone."

Joe decided to accept this advice, and went back to bed, after taking the precaution to put a chair-back under the knob, as well as locking it. It was some time before he got to sleep, however. But Rad was evidently not worried, for he was soon in peaceful slumber.

Rad's theory that Wessel had gone out in the middle of the night to get a train was not borne out by the facts, for it became known in the morning that he had, as Joe suspected, "jumped" his board bill.

"And he called himself a ball player!" exclaimed Mr. Watson in disgust. "I'd like to meet with him again!"

"Maybe you will," ventured Joe, but he did not know how soon his prediction was to come to pass.

"Well, boys, we'll see how we shape up," said the manager, a little later that morning when the members of the team, with their uniforms on, had assembled at the ball park. "Get out there and warm up. Riordan, bat some fungoes for the boys. McCann, knock the grounders. Boswell, you catch for--let's see--I guess I'll wish you on to Matson. We'll see what sort of an arm he's got."

Joe smiled, and his heart beat a trifle faster. It was his first trial with the big league, an unofficial and not very important trial, to be sure, but none the less momentous to him.

Soon was heard the crack of balls as they bounded off the bats, to be followed by the thuds as they landed in the gloves of the players. The training work was under way.

"What sort of ball do you pitch?" asked the old player pleasantly of Joe, as they moved off to a space by themselves for practice.

"Well, I've got an in, an out, a fadeaway and a spitter."

"Quite a collection. How about a cross-fire?"

"I can work it a little."

"That's good. Now let's see what you can do. But take it easy at first. You don't want to throw out any of your elbow tendons so early in the season."

"I guess not," laughed Joe.

Then he began to throw, bearing in mind the advice of the veteran assistant manager. The work was slow at first, and Joe found himself much stiffer than he expected. But the warm air, and the swinging of his arm, limbered him up a bit, and soon he was sending in some swift ones.

"Go slow, son," warned Boswell. "You're not trying to win a game, you know. You're getting a little wild."

Joe felt a bit chagrined, but he knew it was for his own good that the advice was given.

Besides the pitching and batting practice, there was some running around the bases. But Manager Watson knew better than to keep the boys at it too long, and soon called the work off for the day.

"We'll give it a little harder whack to-morrow," he said. And then Joe, as he went to the dressing rooms, overheard the manager ask Boswell:

"What do you think of Matson?"

"Oh, he's not such a wonder," was the not very encouraging reply. "But I've seen lots worse. He'll do to keep on your string, but he's got a lot to learn. It's a question of what he'll do when he faces the big teams, and hears the crowd yelling: 'He's rotten! Take him out!' That's what's going to tell."

"Yes, I suppose so. But I heard good reports of him--that gameness was one of his qualities."

"Well, he'll need it all right," declared the veteran player.

Then Joe passed on, not wanting to listen to any more. Truth to tell, he rather wished he had not heard that much. His pride was a little hurt. To give him credit, Joe had nothing like a "swelled head." He knew he had done good work in the Central League, and there, perhaps, he had been made more of than was actually good for him. Here he was to find that, relatively, he counted for little.

A big team must have a number of pitchers, and not all of them can be "first string" men. Some must be kept to work against weak teams, to spare the stars for tight places. Joe realized this.

"But if hard work will get me anywhere I'm going to arrive!" he said to himself, grimly, as the crowd of players went back to the hotel.

The days that followed were given up to hard and constant practice. Each day brought a little more hard work, for the time was approaching when practice games must be played with the local teams, and it was necessary that the Cardinals make a good showing.

Life in the training camp of a major league team was different than Joe had found it with the Pittstons. There was a more business-like tone to it, and more snap.

The newspaper men found plenty of copy at first, in chronicling the doings of the big fellows, telling how this one was working up his pitching speed, or how that one was improving his batting. Then, too, the funny little incidents and happenings about the diamond and hotel were made as much of as possible.

The various reporters had their own papers sent on to them, and soon, in some of these, notably the St. Louis publications, Joe began to find himself mentioned occasionally. These clippings he sent home to the folks. He wanted to send some to Mabel, but he was afraid she might think he was attaching too much importance to himself, so he refrained.

Some of the reporters did not speak very highly of Joe's abilities, and others complimented him slightly. All of them intimated that some day he might amount to something, and then, again, he might not. Occasionally he was spoken of as a "promising youngster."

It was rather faint praise, but it was better than none. And Joe steeled himself to go on in his own way, taking the well-intentioned advice of the other baseball players, Boswell in particular.

Joe had other things besides hard work to contend against. This was the petty jealousy that always crops up in a high-tensioned ball team. There were three other chief pitchers on the nine, Toe Barter, Sam Willard and Slim Cooney. Slim and Toe were veterans, and the mainstays of the team, and Sam Willard was one of those chaps so often seen in baseball, a brilliant but erratic performer.

Sometimes he would do excellently, and again he would "fall down" lamentably. And, for some reason, Sam became jealous of Joe. Perhaps he would have been jealous of any young pitcher who he thought might, in time, displace him. But he seemed to be particularly vindictive against Joe. It started one day in a little practice game, when Sam, after some particularly wild work, was replaced by our hero.

"Huh! Now we'll see some real pitching," Sam sneered as he sulked away to the bench.

Joe turned red, and was nervous as he took his place.

Perhaps if Joe had made a fizzle of it Willard might have forgiven him, but Joe, after a few rather poor balls, tightened up and struck out several men neatly, though they were not star batters.

"The Boy Wonder!" sneered Willard after the game. "Better order a cap a couple of sizes larger for him after this, Roger," he went on to the coach.

"Oh, dry up!" retorted Boswell, who had little liking for Willard.

And so the hard work went on. The men, whitened by the indoor life of the winter, were beginning to take on a bronze tan. Muscles hardened and become more springy. Running legs improved. The pitchers were sending in swifter balls, Joe included. The fungo batters were sending up better flies. The training work was telling.