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Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars

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<h1> Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars</h1> OR The Rivals of Riverside By LESTER CHADWICK <hr class="tb" /> <h2>CHAPTER I</h2> <h3>A HOT GAME</h3> “Come on, Sam, get a move on. I thought you’d be out on the diamond long ago. What’s the matter?” “Oh, I had to help dad put in some fence posts. I’m through now, Darrell, and I’ll be right with you.” “Setting fence posts; eh?” and Darrell Blackney, the young manager of the Silver Star baseball nine of Riverside looked critically at Sam Morton, the team’s pitcher. “Well, Sam, I hope it didn’t make you stiff so that you can’t put some good balls over the plate. It’s going to be a hot game all right.” “Oh, forget it!” cried Sam, as he finished buttoning his jacket while he joined his chum. “We’ll beat ’em to a frazzle all right. I’m going to pitch my head off to-day.” [2] “You may—if you don’t go to pieces the way you once did.” “Say, what you talking about?” demanded Sam, with some warmth. “I can pitch all right, and don’t you forget it.” He seemed unnecessarily aroused. “Oh, I know you can pitch,” spoke Darrell easily, “only I don’t want you to be too sure about it. You know the Resolutes of Rocky Ford have a strong team this season, and their pitcher is——” “Oh, I know what Hen Littell is as well as you,” broke in Sam. “He thinks he’s a whole lot, but you wait. I’ve got a new drop ball, and——” “Well, then, you’d ought to have been out on the diamond this morning, practicing with Bart Ferguson. He’s got a new catching glove, and if you and he can connect on the curves we may do some good work. But I wish you’d had some practice this morning.” “So do I, but dad made me help him, and I couldn’t very well get off. I tried to sneak away, but he got on to my game and put a stop to it.” “Oh, well, of course if you had to help your father that’s different,” spoke Darrell, who was a manly young chap, somewhat in contrast to Sam, who was not as upright as he might have been.[3] Sam had a boastful and confident air that caused many to dislike him, but as he was the best pitcher the Silver Stars had had in some seasons his short-comings were overlooked. And certainly Sam had been pitching pretty good ball thus far. True, at times, he “went up in the air,” but all pitchers are likely to do this on occasions. Sam had great belief in his own ability. There was considerable baseball feeling in the little town of Riverside, located on the Appelby River, in one of our New England States. Though the nine was an amateur one, and composed of lads ranging from fourteen to nineteen years of age, yet many fast games had been seen on the village diamond, which was kept in good shape by volunteers. A small admission sum was charged to view the contests and from this the boys were able to buy their uniforms, balls, bats, and other things. With some of the money the grounds were renovated from time to time, and the fences, bleachers and grandstand kept in order. There was a sort of informal county league existing among several nines in the towns surrounding Riverside, and perhaps the bitterest rivals of the Silver Stars were the Resolutes of Rocky Ford, a place about five miles farther up the stream than Riverside. To-day one of the[4] games in the series was to take place, and the occasion, being Saturday, was a gala one in the home town of the Silver Stars, on whose grounds the contest was to take place. “Well, you’ll have a little time for practice before the game begins,” remarked Darrell as he and Sam walked toward the diamond. “We’ve got about an hour yet.” “Are the Resolutes here?” “They hadn’t come when I passed the grounds a little while ago on my way to see you. I couldn’t imagine what kept you.” “Well, it was all dad’s fault. Hang it all——” “Never mind,” broke in Darrell quickly. “Dads are all right as a rule.” He had lost his own father not long since, and his heart was still sore. He could not bear to have any one speak disrespectfully of parents. “I guess we’ll make out all right,” he added. “Oh, sure we will!” exclaimed Sam, full of confidence. “They won’t have a look in.” “Well, hurry up and get in some practice with Bart,” advised the manager. “Who’s going to cover first to-day?” inquired Sam, as they hurried along the streets, which were already beginning to fill with the crowds making their way to the game. [5] “I think I am for most of the time,” answered Darrell. “George Rankin and I talked it over and decided that would be a good way to lead off. Later, if I find I’m needed on the coaching line, I’ll let Tom Davis take my place.” “Tom isn’t much good.” “Oh, I think he is.” “Didn’t he miss two hot throws to first base in the game last Saturday?” “That was because you put them over his head. You want to be careful, Sam, when there are two on the bags, how you throw to first. Lots of times I have to jump for your throws, and if I wasn’t pretty quick at it they’d get by me.” “Oh, well, you won’t have any complaint to-day. I’ll get ’em there all right. But you’d better stay in the whole game yourself.” “I’ll see. Hark, what’s that?” The inspiring notes of a coaching horn echoed down the village street. “Sounds like a tally-ho,” remarked Sam. Just then there swung into view a large stage, drawn by four horses, the vehicle filled with a cheering, shouting and laughing crowd of boys. “That’s the Resolute team,” said Darrell. “They’re coming in style all right.” Again there came the thrilling notes of the[6] bugle, blown by some one in the stage. Then followed another large vehicle, filled with a throng of cheering lads. “They’ve brought a crowd along,” commented Sam. “Yes, maybe they’re depending on rooters to help them win the game.” “Well, our fellows can root some too,” spoke the pitcher. “I’m glad there’s going to be a big crowd. I can pitch better then.” “Well, do your best,” urged the manager. “There’s Percy Parnell and Fred Newton over there. I thought they were out on the field long ago.” “Maybe they had to set fence posts too.” “Maybe,” assented Darrell with a laugh. “And here comes Tom Davis. Who’s that with him?” and the pitcher and manager glanced at a tall, well-formed lad who was walking beside the substitute first baseman. “Evidently a stranger in town,” went on Darrell. “Yes, I’ve seen him before,” remarked Sam. “He lives down on our street. The family just moved in. His name is Batson, or Hatson, or something like that. His father works in the harvester factory.” “Hum,” mused Darrell. “He looks like a[7] decent sort of chap,” and he gazed critically at the stranger. “Maybe he’d like to join our club,” for the ball team was a sort of adjunct to a boys’ athletic organization. “Oh, we’ve got enough fellows in now,” said Sam quickly. “Always room for one more,” commented the manager, who was ever on the lookout for good material for the nine. Perhaps Sam suspected something like this, for he glanced quickly at his companion. “Say, if you think I’m not good enough——” began the pitcher, who was noted for his quick temper. “Now, now, drop that kind of talk,” said Darrell soothingly. “You know we’re all satisfied with your pitching. Don’t get on your ear.” “Well, I won’t then,” and Sam smiled frankly. By this time Percy Parnell, the second baseman, and Fred Newton, the plucky little shortstop, had joined the pitcher and the manager, and greetings were exchanged. “Are we going to wallop ’em?” asked Fred. “Sure thing,” assented Sam. “It’s going to be a hot game all right,” was Percy’s opinion. “All the better,” commented Darrell. “Say[8] the people are turning out in great shape, though. I’m glad to see it. We need a little money in our treasury.” They turned in at the players’ gate. The Resolute team had preceded them, and already several of the members of that nine were in their uniforms and out on the diamond. They were lads of the same age as their rivals, and had about the same sort of an organization—strictly amateur, but with desires to do as nearly as possible as the college and professional teams did. But there was a great difference, of course, and mainly in the rather free-and-easy manner in which the rules were interpreted. While it is true that in the fundamentals they played baseball according to the general regulations, there were many points on which they were at variance, and a professional probably would have found much at which to laugh and be in despair. But what did it matter as long as the boys, and those who watched them, enjoyed it? Not a bit, in my opinion. As the Silver Star lads proceeded to the improvised dressing rooms under the grandstand, several more of the Resolute players hurried out, buttoning jackets as they ran. “Oh, we’ll get you fellows to-day all right!”[9] shouted Henry (otherwise known as Hen) Littell, pitcher and captain of the Resolutes. “All right, the game’s yours—if you can take it,” called back Darrell, with a laugh. The diamond soon presented an animated scene, with many players and a few substitutes pitching, catching or batting balls about. The crowds were beginning to arrive and occupy seats in the small grandstand or on the bleachers. Many preferred to stand along the first and third base lines, or seat themselves on the grass. Approaching the grounds about this time were the two lads of whom Sam and Darrell had spoken briefly. One was Tom Davis, the substitute first baseman and the other boy whom Sam had referred to as “Batson” or “Hatson.” Sam had it nearly right. The lad was Joe Matson, and as he is to figure largely in this story I will take just a moment to introduce him to you. Joe was the son of Mr. and Mrs. John Matson, and had lately moved to Riverside with his parents and his sister Clara, who was a year his junior. The family had come from the town of Bentville, about a hundred miles away. Mr. Matson had been employed in a machine works there, and had invented several useful appliances. Located in Riverside was the Royal Harvester[10] Works, a large concern. In some manner Mr. Isaac Benjamin, the manager, had heard of the appliances Mr. Matson had perfected, and, being in need of a capable machinist, he had made Mr. Matson an offer to come to Riverside. It had been accepted, and the family had moved in shortly before this story opens. Joe was a tall, well-built lad, with dark hair and brown eyes, and a way of walking and swinging his arms that showed he had some athletic training. He had made the acquaintance of Tom Davis, who lived in the house back of him, and Tom had asked Joe to go to the game that day. “For it’s going to be a good one,” said Tom proudly, since he was a member of the nine, even though only a substitute. “Who’s going to win?” asked Joe, as they approached the grounds. “We will, if——” and then Tom stopped suddenly, for there was a yell from inside the fence and a moment later a ball came sailing over it, straight toward the two lads. “Look out!” yelled Tom. “That’s a hot one! Duck, Joe, duck!” But Joe did not dodge. Instead, he spread his legs well apart and stood ready to catch the swiftly-moving horsehide in his bare hands. <hr class="cb" /> [11] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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