Baseball Joe In The Big League Part 16

"Huh! I guess someone is bluffing you!" exclaimed the manager. "I've got all my team with me. Who is the fellow, anyhow?"

"That's his signature," went on the clerk, pointing to it on the hotel register.

"Hum! Wessel; eh?" said Mr. Watson. "Never heard of him. Where is he?"

"There he stands, over by the cigar counter."

Joe, who had heard the talk, looked, and, to his surprise, he beheld the same individual who had tried to pick a quarrel with him the night of the sleigh ride.

CHAPTER XIII

UNDER SUNNY SKIES

"That man!" exclaimed Mr. Watson, as he gave the stranger a quick glance. "No, I don't know him, and he certainly isn't a member of my team. He isn't going to be, either; as far as I know. I'm expecting some other recruits, but no one named Wessel."

Joe said nothing. He was wondering if the man would recognize him, and, perhaps, renew that strange, baseless quarrel. And, to his surprise, the man did recognize him, but merely to bow. And then, to Joe's further surprise, the individual strolled over to where the manager and some of the players were standing, and began:

"Is this Mr. Watson?"

"That's my name--yes," but there was no cordiality in the tone.

"Well, I'm Isaac Wessel. I used to play short on the Rockpoint team in the Independent League. My contract has expired and I was wondering whether you couldn't sign me up."

"Nothing doing," replied Mr. Watson, tersely. "I have all the material I need."

"I spoke to Mr. Johnson about it," naming one of the owners of the St.

Louis team, "and he said to see you."

"Did he tell you to tell me to put you on?"

"No, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," was the hesitating reply.

"And did he say I was to give you a try-out?"

"Well, he--er--said you could if you wanted to."

"Well, I _don't_ want to," declared the manager with decision. "And I want to say that you went too far when you told the clerk here you belonged to my party. I don't know you, and I don't want anything to do with a man who acts that way," and Mr. Watson turned aside.

"Well, I didn't mean any harm," whined Wessel. "The--er--I--er--the clerk must have misunderstood me."

"All right. Let it go at that," was all the answer he received.

"Then you won't give me a chance?"

"No."

The man evidently realized that this was the end, for he, too, turned aside. As he did so he looked sneeringly at Joe, and mumbled:

"I suppose you think you're the whole pitching staff now?"

Joe did not take the trouble to answer. But, though he ignored the man, he could not help wondering what his plan was in coming to the training camp. Could there be a hidden object in it, partly covered by the fellow's plea that he wanted to get on the team?

"Do you often have cases like that, Mr. Watson?" Joe asked the manager when he had a chance.

"Like what, Matson?"

"Like that Wessel."

"Oh, occasionally. But they don't often get as fresh as he did. The idea of a bush-leaguer thinking he could break into the majors like that. He sure had nerve! Well, now I hope we're all settled, and can get to work.

We've struck good weather, anyhow."

And indeed the change from winter to summer was little short of marvelous. They had come from the land of ice and snow to the warm beauty of sunny skies. There was a feeling of spring in the air, and the blood of every player tingled with life.

"Say, it sure will be great to get out on the diamond and slam the ball about; won't it?" cried Joe to Rad Chase, as the two were unpacking in their hotel room.

"That's what! How are you on stick work?"

"Oh, no better than the average pitcher," replied Joe, modestly. "I had a record of .172 last season."

"That's not so worse," observed Rad.

"What's yours?" asked Joe.

"Oh, it runs around .250."

"Good!" cried Joe. "I hope you get it up to .300 this year."

"Not much chance of that. I was picked because I'm pretty good with the stick--a sort of pinch hitter. But then that's not being a star pitcher," he added, lest Joe feel badly at the contrast in their batting averages.

"Oh, I'm far from being a star, but I'd like to be in that cla.s.s.

There's my best bat," and he held out his stick.

"Oh, you like that kind; eh?" spoke Rad. "Well, I'll show you what I favor," and then the two plunged into a talk that lasted until meal time.

The arrival of the St. Louis team in the comparatively small town of Reedville was an event of importance. There was quite a crowd about the hotel, made up mostly of small boys, who wanted a chance to see the players about whom they had read so much.

After the meal, as Joe, Rad and some of the others strolled out for a walk about the place, our hero caught murmurs from the crowd of lads about the entrance.

"There's 'Toe' Barter," one lad whispered, nodding toward a veteran pitcher.

"Yes, and that fellow walking with him is 'Slim' c.o.o.ney. He pitched a no-hit, no-run game last year."

"Sure, I know it. And that fellow with the pipe in his mouth is 'Dots'

McCann, the shortstop. He's a peach!"