Chapter 15

ANOTHER THREAT

"Play ball!"

"Batter up!"

"Clang! Clang!"

The old familiar cries, and the resonant sound of the starting gong, were heard at the Reedville diamond. It was the first real game of the season, and it was awaited anxiously, not only by the players, but by Manager Watson, the coach, and by the owners back home. For it would give a "line" on what St. Louis could do.

Of course it was not a league contest, and the work, good, bad or indifferent, would not count in the averages. Joe hoped he would get a chance to pitch, at least part of the game, but he was not likely to, Boswell frankly told him, as it was desired to let Barter and Cooney have a fairly hard work-out on this occasion.

"But your turn will come, son," said the coach, kindly. "Don't you fret. I think you're improving, and, to be frank with you, there's lots of room for it. But you've got grit, and that's what I like to see."

Reedville was a good baseball town, which was one of the reasons why Manager Watson had selected it as his training camp. The townspeople were ardent supporters of the home team, and they welcomed the advent of the big leaguers. In the vicinity were also other teams that played good ball.

The bleachers and grandstand were well filled when the umpire gave his echoing cry of:

"Play ball!"

The ball-tossers had been warming up, both the Cardinals and the home team, which proved to be a husky aggregation of lads, with tremendous hitting abilities, provided they could connect with the ball. And that was just what the St. Louis pitchers hoped to prevent.

"Willard, you can lead off," was the unexpected announcement of Mr. Watson, as he scanned his batting order. "McCann will catch for you. Now let's see what you can do."

"I'll show 'em!" exclaimed the "grouchy" pitcher as he unbuttoned his glove from his belt. He had been warming up, and had come to the bench, donning a sweater, with no hope of being put in the game at the start off. But, unexpectedly, he had been called on.

"Play ball!" cried the umpire again.

Joe wished, with all his heart, that he was going in, but it was not to be.

In order to give the home team every possible advantage, they were to go to bat last. And there was some little wonder when the first St. Louis player faced the local pitcher. There were cries of encouragement from the crowd, for Robert Lee Randolph--the pitcher in question--had aspirations to the big league. He was a tall, lanky youth, and, as the Cardinal players soon discovered, had not much except speed in his box. But he certainly had speed, and that, with his ability, or inability, to throw wildly, made him a player to be feared as much as he was admired.

He hit three players during the course of the game, and hit them hard.

"If they can't beat us any other way they're going to cripple us," said Rad grimly to Joe, as they sat on the bench.

"It does look that way; doesn't it?" agreed our hero.

The game went on, and, as might have been expected, the St. Louis team did about as they pleased. No, that is hardly correct. Even a country aggregation of players can sometimes make the finest nine of professionals stand on its mettle. And, in this case, for a time, the contest was comparatively close.

For Mr. Watson did not send in all his best players, and, from the fact that his men had not been in a game since the former season closed, whereas the Reedville team had been at the game for two months or more, the disadvantage was not as great as it might have seemed.

But there was one surprise. When Willard first went in he pitched brilliantly, and struck out the local players in good order, allowing only a few scattering hits.

Then he suddenly went to pieces, and was severely pounded. Only excellent fielding saved him, for he was well backed-up by his fellow players.

"Rexter will bat for you, Willard," said Manager Watson, when the inning was over. "Cooney, you go out and warm up."

"What's the matter. Ain't I pitching all right?" angrily demanded the deposed one.

"I'm sorry to say you're not. I'm not afraid of losing the game, but I don't want any more of this sort of stuff going back home," replied the manager, as he nodded over to where the newspaper reporters were chuckling among themselves over the comparatively poor exhibition the St. Louis Cardinals had so far put up.

So Willard went to the bench, while crafty Cooney, with his left-hand delivery, went to warm up. And how Joe did wish _he_ would get a chance!

But he did not, and the game ended, as might have been expected, with the Cardinals snowing under their country opponents.

Hard practice followed that first exhibition game, and there were some shifts among the players, for unexpected weakness, as well as strength had by this time developed in certain quarters.

"I wonder when I'll get a chance to show what I can do?" spoke Joe to Rad, as they were on their way back to the hotel, after a second contest with Reedville, in which our hero had still stuck to the bench.

"Oh, it's bound to come," his chum told him. Personally, he was joyful, for he had been given a try-out, and had won the applause of the crowd by making a difficult play.

"Well, it seems a long time," grumbled Joe, with a sigh.

The practice became harder, as the opening of the season drew nearer. Some recruits joined the Cardinals at their training camp, and further shifts were made.

Joe was finally given a chance to pitch against a team from Bottom Flats--a team, by the way, not as strong as the Reedville nine. And that Joe made good was little to his credit, as he himself knew.

"I could have fanned them without any curves," he told Rad afterward.

"Well, it's good you didn't take any chances," his chum said. "You never can tell."

Again came a contest with Reedville, but Joe was not called on. Toe Barter, who had gained his nickname from the queer habit he had of digging a hole for his left foot, before delivering the ball, opened the contest, and did so well that he was kept in until the game was "in the refrigerator." Then Joe was given his chance, but there was little incentive to try, with the Cardinals so far ahead.

Nevertheless, our hero did his best, and to his delight, he knocked a two-bagger, sliding to second amid a cloud of dust, to be decided safe by the umpire, though there was a howl of protest from the "fans."

The Cardinals won handily, and as Joe was walking to the club house with Rad, eagerly talking about the game, he saw, just ahead of him in the crowd of spectators a figure, at the sight of which he started.

"That looks like Shalleg," he said, half aloud.

"What's that?" asked Rad.

"Oh, nothing. I just thought I saw someone I knew. That is, I don't exactly know him, but----"

At that moment the man at whose back Joe had been looking turned suddenly, and, to our hero's surprise, it was Shalleg. The man, with an impudent grin on his face, spoke to a companion loudly enough for Joe to hear.

"There's the fellow who wouldn't help me out!" Shalleg exclaimed. "He turned me down cold. Look at him."

The other turned, and Joe's surprise was heightened when he saw Wessel, the man who had tried to quarrel with him, and who had "jumped" his bill at the hotel.

"Oh, I know him all right," Wessel responded to Shalleg. "I've seen him before."

Joe and Rad, with the two men, were comparatively alone now. The attitude and words of the fellows were so insulting that Joe almost made up his mind to defy them. But before he had a chance to do so Shalleg snapped out:

"You want to look out for yourself, young man. I'll get you yet, and I'll get even with you for having me turned down. You want to look out. Bill Shalleg is a bad man to have for an enemy. Come on, Ike," and with that they turned away and were soon lost in the throng.