Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV. A ROW WITH SAM. What are you thinking about, Joe? It was his sister Clara who asked the question, and she had noticed that her brother was rather dreaming over his books than studying. It was the Monday night after the Saturday when the memorable game with the Resolutes
had taken place. Oh, nothing much, and Joe roused himself from a reverie and began to pour over his books. Well, for nothing much, I should say that it was a pretty deep subject went on Clara with a laugh as she finished doing her examples. It isn't one of the girls here, is it, Joe?
There are a lot of pretty ones in our class. Oh, bother, exclaimed Joe, let a fellow alone, can't you, when he's studying? You have some pretty stiff work, I tell you. And he ruffled up his hair as if it would make his lessons come easier. It's a heap worse than it was back in Bentville.
I think so too, but I like it, Joe. We have a real nice teacher, and I've met a lot of pleasant girls. Do you know any of the boys? Whew, I guess you want me to give you an introduction to them, exclaimed Joe. No more than you do to the girls I know, retorted his sister, so there.
Now now, gently remonstrated Mrs. Matson, looking up from her sewing, you young folks keep on with your lessons. Your father can't go on reading his paper if you dispute so. Involuntarily, Joe and his sister glanced to where Mr. Matson sat in his easy chair. But he did not seem to be reading, though he held the paper up in front of him.
Joe fancied he saw a look of worryment on his father's face, and he wondered if he was vexed over some problem in inventive work, or whether he was troubled over business matters concerning his new position. Then there came to the lad's mind a memory of his mother's anxiety the night he had come in from the game.
And he wondered if the two had any connection. But he knew it would not do to ask, for his father seldom talked over business matters at home. Finally, seeming to feel Joe's look, Mr. Matson, after a quick glance at his son, began to scan the paper.
Go on with your studying, Joe, and Clara commanded Mrs. Matson with a smile. Don't dispute any more. I was only asking Joe if he knew any nice boys, spoke Clara in vindication. He was so fond, he was, of playing baseball back in Bentville, and I was wondering if he was going to play here.
Guess I haven't much chance, murmured Joe half gloomily, as he drew idle circles on the back blank leaf of his book. Why not? asked Clara quickly. The girls say the boys have a good nine here, even if they were beaten last Saturday.
There's going to be another game this Saturday, and Helen Rutherford is going to take me. Oh, yes, there's a good enough team here, admitted Joe. In fact, the Silver Stars are all right, but every position is filled. I would like to play. I'd like to pitch.
I want to get all the practice I can on these small teams, so when I go to boarding school I'll have something to talk about. And you're still set on going to boarding school? asked Mrs. Matson, sighing gently as she looked at her son. I certainly am, if it can be managed, replied Joe quickly.
Mr. Matson started so suddenly that the paper rattled loudly, and his wife asked, What's the matter, John? Did something in the news startle you? Oh, no, he said slowly. I, I guess I'm a bit nervous.
I've been working rather hard lately on an improvement in a corn-reaper and binder. It doesn't seem to come just right. I believe I'll go to bed. I'm tired. And with good nights that were not as cheerful as usual, he left the room.
Mrs. Matson sighed, but said nothing, and Joe wondered more than ever if any trouble was brewing. He hoped not. As for Clara, she was again bent over her lessons. The Silver Star Nine was variously made up.
A number of lads worked in different town industries, one even being employed in the harvester works where Mr. Matson was employed. Others attended school. Joe Matson had attended the Academy in the town of Bentville once they moved to Riverside, and on arriving in the latter place had at once sought admission to the high school.
He was given a brief examination and placed in the junior class, though in some of the studies the pupils there were a little ahead of him. Consequently, he had to do some hard studying. The ambition to attend a boarding school had been in Joe's mind for a long while, and as his father was in moderate circumstances and soon hoped to make considerable from his patents,
Joe reasoned that his parents could then afford to send him. Among others on the Nine who attended the high school were Daryl Blackney and Sam Morton, who were in the senior class, and Tom Davis, whose acquaintance Joe had made soon after coming to Riverside. There was a school nine, but it was made up of the smaller boys, and Joe had no desire
to join this. In fact, none of the lads who were on the Silver Stars belonged to the school team. Well, I'm through, thank goodness, finally exclaimed Clara as she closed her books, and I am too, added Joe, a moment later. Hope I don't flunk tomorrow.
Are you going to the game Saturday? asked Clara. Oh, I guess so. Wish I was going in it, but that's too much to hope for. Don't you know anyone on the Nine?
Yes, Tom Davis. He's the boy back of us, isn't he? His sister Mabel is in my class. Yes, assented Joe, but Tom is only a substitute. Maybe you could be that at first and then get a regular place, suggested Clara.
Um, murmured Joe. He didn't have a very high opinion of girls' knowledge of baseball, even his sister's. When Joe reached home from school the following afternoon, he saw his mother standing on the front steps with a letter in her hand. Oh, Joe, she exclaimed.
I was just waiting for you. Your father. Is there anything the matter with father? Lad gasped, his thoughts going with a rush to one or two little scenes that had alarmed him lately.
No, nothing at all, answered his mother with a smile. But he just hurried home from the factory with this note and he wanted you, as soon as you came home, to take it to Moorville. It's for Mr. Rufus Holdney there. The address is on it and I guess you can find him all right.
You're to wait for an answer. Go with your wheel. It's only a few miles to Moorville and a straight road, so your father says. I know where it is, answered Joe. Tom Davis has relatives there.
He pointed out the road to me one day. I'll go right away. Here, catch hold of my books, mother, and I'll get my wheel out of the barn, for a barn went with the house Mr. Mattson had rented. A little later the lad was speeding down the country road that pleasant spring afternoon.
Joe was a good rider and was using considerable strength on the pedals when suddenly, as he turned a sharp curve, he saw coming toward him another cyclist. He had barely time to note that it was Sam Morton, the pitcher of the Silver Stars, and he began to utter a warning shout when he crashed full into the other lad. In a moment there was a mix-up of wheels, legs, and arms, while a cloud of dust momentarily
hit everything from sight. At first Joe did not know whether or not he was hurt or whether Sam was injured. Fortunately Joe had instinctively put on the brake with all his strength and he supposed that the other lad had done likewise. Then as the dust cleared away and Joe began to pull his arms and legs out of the tangle
in her eyes, he saw that Sam was doing the same thing. Hope you're not hurt much, was Joe's first greeting. Hmph, it isn't your fault if I'm not, was the ungracious answer, as Sam felt of his pitching arm. What do you mean by crashing into a fellow that way for, anyhow?
I didn't mean to. I didn't know that curve was so sharp. I'd never ridden on this road before. Well, why didn't you blow your horn or ring your bell or something? Why didn't you?
demanded Joe with equal right. Never mind, don't give me any of your talk. You're one of the fresh juniors at school, aren't you? I don't know that I'm fresh, replied Joe quietly, but I am a junior. I'm sorry if I hurt you, but I couldn't help it.
Yes you could, if you knew anything about riding a wheel. I tell you I couldn't, and Joe spoke a bit sharply. I was into you before I knew it, and besides, you ran into me as much as I did into you. I did not. If you don't know enough to ride a wheel, keep off the road, snarled the pitcher.
If I'm stiff for Saturday's game, it will be your fault. I hope you won't be stiff, spoke Joe, and he said it sincerely. And if my wheel is broken, you'll have to pay for it, went on Sam. I don't think that's right, said Joe firmly. It was as much your fault as mine, and my wheel may be broken too.
I'm going to look, he added, as he lifted his bicycle from where it was entangled with A bent pedal, which would not interfere with its use, was all the damage Joe's wheel had sustained, and beyond a few bent spokes and a punctured tire, Sam's seemed to have suffered no great harm. I'll help you straighten those spokes, said Joe cheerfully.
It won't take but a minute. I can have my father straighten my pedal at the factory, and I'll help you mend and pump up your tire. I'm sorry. Look here, burst out Sam in a rage.
I don't want any of your help. You're too fresh. You come banging into a fellow, knocking him all over, and then you think you can square things by offering to help him. I don't want any of your help.
Oh, very well, replied Joe quietly. Then I'll be going on. I've got an errand to do, but I'd like to help you. Mind your own business, snapped Sam, still rubbing his pitching arm. He made no motion to pick up his wheel.
Joe was half-minded to make an angry retort, but he thought better of it. He wheeled his bicycle to the hard side path of the road, and, ascertaining that his letter was safe, prepared to mount and ride away. And mind you, if my arm is stiff and I can't pitch Saturday, it will be your fault, and I'll tell the fellow so, called Sam as he leaned over to pick up his wheel.
All right, only you know it isn't so, replied Joe quietly. As he pedaled on, he looked back and saw Sam straightening some of the bent spokes. The pitcher scowled at him. Hmm, mused Joe as he speeded up. Not a very good beginning for getting on the nine, a run in with the pitcher.
Well, I guess I wouldn't be in it anyhow. I guess they think I'm not in their class. But I will be, some day. And with a grim tightening of his lips, Joe Matson rode on. End of chapter 4.
Recording by Donald Cummings, Monroe, Connecticut.
