CHAPTER XXI

A DANGER SIGNAL

"Boys, we're on the right road again!" exclaimed the enthusiastic manager at the conclusion of the game, when the team was in the dressing room. "Another like this to-morrow, and one the next day, if it doesn't rain, and we'll be near the top."

"Say, you don't want much," remarked Jimmie Mack, half sarcastically, but with a laugh. "What do you think we are anyhow; wonders?"

"We'll have to be if we're going to bring home the pennant," retorted Gregory.

"And we're going to do it!" declared Joe, grimly.

Collin went to pieces in more ways than one that day. Probably his failure in the game, added to Joe's triumph, made him reckless, for he went back to his old habit of gambling, staying up nearly all night, and was in no condition to report for the second game of the series.

"He makes me tired!" declared Gregory. "I'd write his release in a minute," he went on, speaking to Jimmie Mack, "only I'm up to my neck in expenses now, and I can't afford to buy another pitcher. I need all I've got, and Collin is good when he wants to be."

"Yes, it's only his pig-headedness about Joe that sets him off. But I think we've got a great find in Matson."

"So do I. There was a time when I was rather blue about Joe, but he seems to have come back wonderfully."

"Yes," agreed Jimmie Mack, "that fade-away of his is a wonder, thanks to Pop Dutton."

"Pop himself is the greatest wonder of all," went on Gregory. "I never believed it possible. I've seen the contrary happen so many times that I guess I've grown skeptical."

"He and Joe sure do make a queer team," commented the assistant manager. "Joe watches over him like a hen with one chicken."

"Well, I guess he has to. A man like Pop who has been off the right road always finds lots of temptation ready and waiting to call him back. But Joe can keep him straight.

"Now come over here. I want to talk to you, and plan out the rest of the season. We're in a bad way, not only financially, but for the sake of our reputations."

If Joe could have heard this he would have worried, especially about the financial end. For he counted very much on his baseball money--in fact, his family needed it greatly.

Mr. Matson's savings were tied up in investments that had turned out badly, or were likely to, and his expenses were heavy on account of the doctor's and other bills. Joe's salary was a big help. He also earned something extra by doing some newspaper work that was paid for generously.

But Joe counted most on the final games of the series, which would decide the pennant. These were always money-makers, and, in addition, the winning team always played one or more exhibition games with some big league nine, and these receipts were large.

"But will we win the pennant?" queried Joe of himself. "We've got to--if dad is going to have his operation. We've just got to!"

The news from home had been uncertain. At one time Dr. Birch had decided that an operation must be performed at once, and then had come a change when it had to be delayed. But it seemed certain that, sooner or later, it would have to be undertaken, if the inventor's eyesight was to be saved.

"So you see we've just got to win," said Joe to Charlie Hall.

"I see," was the answer. "Well, I'll do my share toward it, old man," and the two clasped hands warmly. Joe was liking Charlie more and more every day. He was more like a college chum than a mate on a professional team.

But Pittston was not to have a victory in the second game with Clevefield. The latter sent in a new pitcher who "played tag," to use a slang expression, with Joe and his mates, and they lost the contest by a four to one score. This in spite of the fact that Joe did some good work at pitching, and "Old Pop," as he was beginning to be called, knocked a three-bagger. Dutton was one of those rare birds, a good pitcher and a good man with the stick. That is, he had been, and now he was beginning to come back to himself.

There was a shadow of gloom over Pittston when they lost the second game, after having won the first against such odds, and there was much speculation as to how the other two contests would go.

Gregory revised his batting order for the third game, and sent in his latest purchase, one of the south-paws, to do the twirling. But he soon made a change in pitchers, and called on Tooley, who also was a left-hander.

"I may need you later, Joe," he said as he arranged to send in a "pinch" hitter at a critical moment. "Don't think that I'm slighting you, boy."

"I don't. I understand."

"How's your fade-away?"

"All right, I guess."

"Good. You'll probably have to use it."

And Joe did. He was sent in at the seventh, when the Clevefield nine was three runs ahead, and Joe stopped the slump. Then, whether it was this encouragement, or whether the other team went to pieces, did not develop, but the game ended with Pittston a winner by two runs.

The crowd went wild, for there had been a most unexpected ending, and so sure had some of the "fans" been that the top-notchers would come out ahead, that they had started to leave.

But the unexpected happens in baseball as often as in football, and it did in this case.

Pittston thus had two out of the four games, and the even break had increased her percentage to a pleasing point. If they could have taken the fourth they would have fine hopes of the pennant, but it was not to be. An even break, though there was a close finish in the last game, was the best they could get.

However, this was better than for some time, and Gregory and his associates were well pleased.

Then came a series of games in the different league cities, and matters were practically unchanged. In turn Buffington, Loston and Manhattan were visited, the Pittston nine doing well, but nothing remarkable.

Joe seemed firmly established in the place he most desired, and his fine delivery was increasing in effectiveness each day. His fade-away remained a puzzle to many, though some fathomed it and profited thereby. But Joe did not use it too often.

The secret of good pitching lies in the "cross-fire," and in varying the delivery. No pitcher can continue to send in the same kind of balls in regular order to each batter. He must study his man and use his brains.

Joe knew this. He also knew that he was not alone a pitcher, but a ball player, and that he must attend to his portion of the diamond. Too many twirlers forget this, and Joe frequently got in on sensational plays that earned him almost as much applause as his box-work did.

Joe was always glad to get back to Pittston to play games. He was beginning to feel that it was a sort of "home town," though he had few friends there. He made many acquaintances and he was beginning to build up a reputation for himself. He was frequently applauded when he came out to play, and this means much to a baseball man.

Then, too, Joe was always interested in Pop Dutton. He was so anxious that the former fine pitcher should have his chance to "come back." Often when scouts from bigger leagues than the Central stopped off to more or less secretly watch the Pittstons play, Joe would have a talk with them. Sometimes he spoke of Pop, but the scouts did not seem interested. They pretended that they had no special object in view, or, if they did, they hinted that it was some other player than Dutton.

To whisper a secret I might say that it was Joe himself who was under observation on many of these occasions, for his fame was spreading. But he was a modest youth.

Joe was not inquisitive, but he learned, in a casual way, that Pop Dutton was seemingly on the right road to success and prosperity. It was somewhat of a shock to the young pitcher, then, one evening, as he was strolling down town in Pittston, to see his protegé in company with a shabbily dressed man.

"I hope he hasn't taken to going with those tramps again," mused Joe. "That would be too bad."

Resolving to make sure of his suspicions, and, if necessary, hold out a helping hand, the young pitcher quickened his pace until he was close behind the twain.

He could not help but hear part of the conversation.

"Oh, come on!" he caught, coming from Dutton's companion. "What's the harm?"

"No, I'll not. You don't know how hard it is to refuse, but I--I can't--really I can't."

"You mean you won't?"

"Put it that way if you like."

"Well, then, I do like, an' I don't like it! I'll say that much. I don't like it. You're throwin' me down, an' you're throwin' the rest of us down. I don't like it for a cent!"

"I can't help that," replied Dutton, doggedly.

"Well, maybe _we_ can help it, then. You're leaving us in the lurch just when we need you most. Come on, now, be a sport, Pop!"

"No, I've been too much of a sport in the past--that's the trouble."

"So you won't join us?"

"No."

"Will you come out and tell the boys so? They maybe won't believe me."

"Oh, well, I can't see any harm in that."

"Come on, then, they'll be glad to see you again."

Joe wondered what was afoot. It was as though he saw a danger signal ahead of Pop Dutton.