CHAPTER XIV
HARD WORK
The rooms of the ball players were all in one part of the hotel, alongthe same hall. Joe and Rad were together, near the stairway going down.
That night, their first in the training camp, there was considerablevisiting to and fro among the members of the team, and some littlehorse-play, for, after all, the players were like big boys, in manyrespects.
Rad, who had been in calling on some of his fellow players, came back tothe 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 helpedhim 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 todo 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, andslipped downstairs to leave it at the desk for the early mail. Joelooked around the now almost deserted lobby, half expecting to see thestrange man, Wessel, standing about. But he was not in sight.
"I wonder what his game is, after all?" mused Joe. "I seem to have beenrunning into two or three queer things lately. There's Shalleg, whobears me a grudge, though I don't see why he should, just because Icouldn't lend him money, and then there's this fellow--I only hope thetwo of them don't go into partnership against me. I guess that's hardlylikely to happen, though."
But Joe little realized what was in store for him, and what danger hewas to run from these same two men.
Joe awakened suddenly, about midnight, by hearing someone moving aroundthe room. He raised himself softly on his elbow, and peered about theapartment, for a dim light showed over the transom from the halloutside. To Joe's surprise the door, which he had locked from the insidebefore going to bed, now stood ajar.
"I wonder if Rad can be sick, and have gone out?" Joe thought. "Maybe hewalks in his sleep."
He looked over toward his chum's bed, but could not make out whether ornot Rad was under the covers. Then, as he heard someone moving aboutthe apartment he called out:
"That you, Rad?"
Instantly the noise ceased, to be resumed a moment later, and Joe feltsure that someone, or something, went past the foot of his bed and outinto 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 meansof the one dim electric lamp he saw, going down the stairs, carrying agrip with him, the mysterious man who had tried to quarrel with him. Hewas evidently taking "French leave," going out in the middle of thenight 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. Aquick glance about showed that neither his baggage, nor Rad's, had beentaken.
"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. "Shallwe give the alarm?"
"No, I guess not. We don't want to be mixed up in a row. And maybe he'sgoing 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, aslong as nothing is gone."
Joe decided to accept this advice, and went back to bed, after takingthe precaution to put a chair-back under the knob, as well as lockingit. It was some time before he got to sleep, however. But Rad wasevidently not worried, for he was soon in peaceful slumber.
Rad's theory that Wessel had gone out in the middle of the night to geta train was not borne out by the facts, for it became known in themorning 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 hisprediction was to come to pass.
"Well, boys, we'll see how we shape up," said the manager, a littlelater 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, batsome fungoes for the boys. McCann, knock the grounders. Boswell, youcatch for--let's see--I guess I'll wish you on to Matson. We'll see whatsort of an arm he's got."
Joe smiled, and his heart beat a trifle faster. It was his first trialwith the big league, an unofficial and not very important trial, to besure, but none the less momentous to him.
Soon was heard the crack of balls as they bounded off the bats, to befollowed by the thuds as they landed in the gloves of the players. Thetraining work was under way.
"What sort of ball do you pitch?" asked the old player pleasantly ofJoe, 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 theseason."
"I guess not," laughed Joe.
Then he began to throw, bearing in mind the advice of the veteranassistant manager. The work was slow at first, and Joe found himselfmuch stiffer than he expected. But the warm air, and the swinging of hisarm, 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, youknow. You're getting a little wild."
Joe felt a bit chagrined, but he knew it was for his own good that theadvice was given.
Besides the pitching and batting practice, there was some running aroundthe bases. But Manager Watson knew better than to keep the boys at ittoo 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. "ButI've seen lots worse. He'll do to keep on your string, but he's got alot to learn. It's a question of what he'll do when he faces the bigteams, and hears the crowd yelling: 'He's rotten! Take him out!' That'swhat's going to tell."
"Yes, I suppose so. But I heard good reports of him--that gameness wasone 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, herather 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 hehad done good work in the Central League, and there, perhaps, he hadbeen made more of than was actually good for him. Here he was to findthat, 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, tospare the stars for tight places. Joe realized this.
"But if hard work will get me anywhere I'm going to arrive!" he said tohimself, grimly, as the crowd of players went back to the hotel.
The days that followed were given up to hard and constant practice. Eachday brought a little more hard work, for the time was approaching whenpractice games must be played with the local teams, and it was necessarythat the Cardinals make a good showing.
Life in the training camp of a major league team was different than Jo
ehad found it with the Pittstons. There was a more business-like tone toit, and more snap.
The newspaper men found plenty of copy at first, in chronicling thedoings of the big fellows, telling how this one was working up hispitching speed, or how that one was improving his batting. Then, too,the funny little incidents and happenings about the diamond and hotelwere made as much of as possible.
The various reporters had their own papers sent on to them, and soon, insome of these, notably the St. Louis publications, Joe began to findhimself mentioned occasionally. These clippings he sent home to thefolks. He wanted to send some to Mabel, but he was afraid she mightthink he was attaching too much importance to himself, so he refrained.
Some of the reporters did not speak very highly of Joe's abilities, andothers complimented him slightly. All of them intimated that some day hemight amount to something, and then, again, he might not. Occasionallyhe was spoken of as a "promising youngster."
It was rather faint praise, but it was better than none. And Joesteeled himself to go on in his own way, taking the well-intentionedadvice of the other baseball players, Boswell in particular.
Joe had other things besides hard work to contend against. This was thepetty jealousy that always crops up in a high-tensioned ball team. Therewere three other chief pitchers on the nine, Toe Barter, Sam Willard andSlim 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, abrilliant 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 hewould have been jealous of any young pitcher who he thought might, intime, displace him. But he seemed to be particularly vindictive againstJoe. It started one day in a little practice game, when Sam, after someparticularly wild work, was replaced by our hero.
"Huh! Now we'll see some real pitching," Sam sneered as he sulked awayto 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 outseveral men neatly, though they were not star batters.
"The Boy Wonder!" sneered Willard after the game. "Better order a cap acouple of sizes larger for him after this, Roger," he went on to thecoach.
"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 ofthe winter, were beginning to take on a bronze tan. Muscles hardened andbecome more springy. Running legs improved. The pitchers were sending inswifter balls, Joe included. The fungo batters were sending up betterflies. The training work was telling.
Baseball Joe in the Big League; or, A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles Page 14