Chapter 16

JOE'S TRIUMPH

"Well, what do you know about that?" cried Rad, with a queer look at Joe.

"I don't know what to think about it, and that's the truth," was the simple but puzzled answer.

"But who are they--what do they mean? The idea of them threatening you that way! Why, that's against the law!"

"Maybe it is," agreed Joe. "As for who those men are, you know Wessel, of course."

"Yes. The fellow who jumped his board bill at the hotel. Say, I guess the proprietor would like to see him. He has nerve coming back to this town. I've a good notion to tell the hotel clerk he's here. Mr. Watson would be glad to know it, too, for he takes it as a reflection on the team that Wessel should claim to be one of us, and then cheat the way he did."

"Maybe it would be a good plan to tell on him," agreed Joe.

"And who's the other chap, and why did he threaten you?" his chum asked.

"That's another queer thing," the young pitcher went on. "He's angry at me, as near as I can tell, because I had to refuse him a loan," and he detailed the circumstances of his meeting with Shalleg.

"But it's odd that he and Wessel should be chumming together. I've said little about it, but I've been wondering for a long time why Wessel quarreled with me. I begin to see a light now. It must have been that Shalleg put him up to it."

"A queer game," admitted Rad. "Well, I think I'll put the hotel proprietor wise to the fact that he can collect that board bill from Ike Wessel."

But Joe and Rad found their plans unexpectedly changed when they went to put them into effect. They were a little late getting back to the hotel from the grounds, as Joe had some purchases to make. And, as the two chums entered the lobby, they saw standing by the desk the two men in question. Mr. Watson was addressing Shalleg in no uncertain tones.

"No, I tell you!" he exclaimed. "I won't have you on the team, and this is the last time I'll tell you. And I don't want you hanging around, either. You don't do us any good."

"Is that your last word?" asked Shalleg, angrily.

"Yes, my last word. I want you to clear out and leave us alone."

"Huh! I guess you can't keep me away from games!" sneered Shalleg. "This is a free country."

"Well, you keep away from my club," warned Mr. Watson, with great firmness. "I wouldn't have you as a bat-tender."

The flushed and ill-favored face of Shalleg grew more red, if that were possible, and he growled:

"Oh, don't let that worry you. Some day you may be glad to send for me to help pull your old club out of the cellar. Someone has been talking about me, that's the trouble; and if I find out who it is I'll make 'em sweat for it!" and he glared at Joe, who was too amazed at the strange turn of affairs to speak.

Then the two cronies turned and started out of the hotel lobby. But Rad was not going to be foiled so easily. He slipped over to the clerk and whispered:

"Say, that's the fellow who jumped his board bill, you know," and he nodded at Wessel.

"Yes, I know," the clerk replied. "He just came in to settle. He apologized, and said he had to leave in a hurry," and the clerk winked his eye to show how much belief he placed in the story.

"Hum!" mused Rad. "That's rather queer. He must have wanted to square matters up so he could come back to town safely."

"Looks so," returned the clerk.

Joe talked the matter over with his roommate, as to whether or not it would be advisable to tell Mr. Watson how Shalleg had threatened the young pitcher, and also whether to speak about the queer actions of Wessel.

"But I think, on the whole," concluded Joe, "that I won't say anything; at least not yet a while. The boss has troubles enough as it is."

"I guess you're right," agreed Rad.

"But what about him being in our room that night?" asked Joe. "I wonder if I hadn't better speak of that?"

"Oh, I don't know as I would," replied his chum. "In the first place, we can't be absolutely sure that it was he, though I guess you're pretty certain. Then, again, we didn't miss anything, and he could easily claim it was all a mistake--that he went in by accident--and we'd be laughed at for making such a charge."

"Probably," agreed Joe. "As you say, I can't be dead sure, though I'm morally certain."

"One of the porters might have opened our door by mistake," went on Rad. "You know the hotel workers have pass-keys. Better let it drop." And they did. Joe, however, often wondered, in case Wessel had entered his room, what his object could have been. But it was not until some time later that he learned.

Shalleg and his crony were not seen around the hotel again, nor, for that matter, at the ball grounds, either--at least during the next week.

Practice went on as usual, only it grew harder and more exacting. Joe was made to pitch longer and longer each day, and, though he did not get a chance to play in many games, and then only unimportant ones, still he was not discouraged.

There were many shifts among the out and infield staff, the manager trying different players in order to get the best results. The pitching staff remained unchanged, however. Some more recruits were received, some of them remaining after a gruelling try-out, and others "falling by the wayside."

In addition to pitching balls for Boswell to catch, and doing some stick work, Joe was required to practice with the other catchers of the team.

"I want you to get used to all of them, Matson," said the manager. "There's no telling, in this business, when I may have to call on my youngsters. I want you to be always ready."

"I'll try," promised Joe, with a smile.

"You're coming on," observed Boswell, after a day of hard pitching, which had made Joe's arm ache. "You're coming on, youngster. I guess you're beginning to feel that working in a big league is different than in a minor; eh?"

"It sure is!" admitted Joe, rubbing his aching muscles.

"Well, you're getting more speed and better control," went on the veteran. "And you don't mind taking advice; that's what I like about you."

"Indeed I'd be glad of any tips you could give me," responded Joe, earnestly.

He did indeed realize that there was a hard road ahead of him, and he was a little apprehensive of the time when he might be called on to pitch against such a redoubtable team as the Giants.

"Most folks think," went on Boswell, "that the chief advantage a pitcher has over a batter is his speed or his curves. Well, that isn't exactly so. The thing of it is that the batter has to guess whether the ball that's coming toward him is a swift straight one, or a comparatively slow curve. You see, he's got to make up his mind mighty quickly as to the speed of the horsehide, and he can't always do it.

"Now, if a batter knew in advance just what the pitcher was going to deliver--whether a curve or a straight one, why that batter would have a cinch, so to speak. You may be the best twirler in the league, but you couldn't win your games if the batters knew what you were going to hand them--that is, knew in advance, I mean."

"But that's what signals are for," exclaimed Joe. "I watch the catcher's signals, and if I think he's got the right idea I sign that I'll heave in what he's signalled for. If not, I'll make a switch."

"Exactly," said the old player, "and that's what I'm coming to. If your signals are found out, where are you? Up in the air, so to speak. So you want to have several sets of signals, in order to change them in the middle of an inning if you find you're being double-crossed. There's lots of coaches who are fiends at getting next to the battery signs, and tipping them off to their batters. Then the batters know whether to step out to get a curve, or lay back to wallop a straight one. The signal business is more important than most players think."

Joe believed this, and, at his suggestion, and on the advice of Boswell, a little later, a new signal system was devised between the pitchers and catchers. Joe worked hard to master it, for it was rather complicated. He wrote the system out, and studied it in his room nights.

"Well, boys, a few weeks more and we'll be going home for the opening of the season," said Mr. Watson in the hotel lobby one day. "I see the Boston Braves are about through training, the Phillies are said to be all primed, and the Giants are ready to eat up all the rest of us."

"Whom do we open with?" asked Joe.

"The Cincinnati Reds," answered the manager. "The exact date isn't set yet, but it will be around the last of April. We've got some hard games here yet. I'm going to play some exhibitions on the way up North, to break you in gradually."

More hard work and practice, and the playing of several games with the Reedville and other local nines soon brought the time of departure nearer.

"This is our last week," Mr. Watson finally announced. "And I'm going to put you boys up against a good stiff proposition. We'll play the Nipper team Saturday, and I want to warn you that there are some former big leaguers on it, who can still hit and run and pitch, though they're not qualified for the big circuit. So don't go to the grounds with the idea that it'll be a cinch. Play your best. Of course I know you will, and win; but don't fall down!"

Joe hoped he would be called on to pitch, but when the game started, before the biggest crowd that had yet assembled at the Reedville grounds, the umpire announced the Cardinal battery as Slim Cooney and Rob Russell.

"Play ball!" came the signal, and the game was under way.

To make the contest a little more even the St. Louis team were to bat first, giving the visitors the advantage of coming up last in the ninth inning.

"Doolin up!" called the score keeper, and the lanky left-handed hitter strolled up to the plate, while Riordan, who was on deck, took up a couple of bats, swinging them about nervously to limber his arms.

"Strike one!" bawled the umpire, at the first delivery of the visiting pitcher.

Doolin turned with a look of disgust and stared at the arbiter, but said nothing. There was an exchange of signals between catcher and pitcher, and Joe watched to see if he could read them. But he could not.

"Ball," was the next decision, and this time the pitcher looked pained.

It got to be three and two, and the St. Louis team became rather interested.

Doolin swung at the next with vicious force--and missed.

"Strike three--batter's out!" announced the umpire, as the ball landed with a thud in the deep pit of the catcher's mitt.

Doolin threw down his bat hard.

"What's he got?" whispered Riordan, as he went forward.

"Aw, nothing so much! This light bothers me, or I'd have hit for a three-sacker, believe me!"

Riordan smiled, but he did little better. He hit, but the next man flied out. Rad was up next and hit a twisting grounder that just managed to evade the shortstop, putting Rad on first and advancing Riordan.

But that was the end. The next man was neatly struck out, and a goose-egg went up in St. Louis's frame.

"Got to get 'em, boys," announced the manager grimly, as the team went to the field.

Cooney did not allow a hit that inning, but he was pounded for two when he was on the mound again, St. Louis in the meanwhile managing to get a run, through an error.

"Say, this is some little team," declared Boswell admiringly.

"I told you they were," replied the manager. "I want to see our boys work."

And work they had to.

The best pitcher in the world has his off days, and the best pitcher in the world may occasionally be pounded, as Slim Cooney was hit that day. How it happened no one could say, but the Nippers began to slide ahead, chiefly through hard hitting and excellent pitching.

"This won't do," said Manager Watson as the sixth inning saw the score tied. "Matson, go out and warm up. I'm going to see what you can do. I'm taking a chance, maybe; but I'll risk it."

Joe's heart beat fast. Here was his chance. Willard, who sat near him on the bench, muttered angrily under his breath.

"If I can only do something!" thought Joe, anxiously.