Part 12 (1/2)

”I don't think so either,” added Captain George Rankin. ”Just because Matson is a newcomer in town is no reason why he can't play with us.”

”Sure, that's right!” put in Seth Potter. ”You weren't born here yourself, Sam, and neither were lots of us. We moved here.”

”I've lived in Riverside nearly all my life,” snapped the pitcher, ”and I like to see a representative team. If we need a new member why not pick one who has been living here longer than a couple of weeks?”

”Look here!” exclaimed Darrell. ”I don't think this is fair to me.”

”How do you mean?” asked Sam, for the manager had spoken with some warmth.

”Just this much. You elected me manager and the captain and I were to select the players. Now, when we make our choice, there comes a kick. It isn't right. Rankin and I decided to give Matson a chance, and he gets it. That goes, too!” and the manager looked straight at Sam.

”Oh, well, if you put it that way I suppose I might as well keep still about it,” and Sam, shrugging his shoulders, turned away. He had not yet shaken hands with Joe.

”As for there being other players just as good and who have lived here longer, that may be true,” went on Darrell. ”I'm not saying Matson is the only fellow I could pick for centre field, and I'm not saying anything against any of the fellows on the scrub when I don't take them.

We want the best team we can get to represent the Silver Stars and Matson is my choice for the place. If you want to go over my head----”

”No! No!” came a chorus of objections. ”It's all right!”

”Then Matson plays Sat.u.r.day,” concluded the manager. ”All of you be out for practice to-morrow afternoon again. Matson, report in uniform.”

”All right,” and Joe's heart was fairly thumping under his coat. The chance he had longed for had come at last.

As Sam was walking away Joe resolved on a bold stroke, rather a grandstand play as he confessed to himself afterward, but he could not forego it. Striding up to the disgruntled pitcher Joe held out his hand and asked:

”Won't you shake?”

Sam turned and faced him. For several seconds he stood staring Joe straight in the eyes while the crowd of boys looked on. Then with a sneer, and ignoring the proffered hand, Sam said:

”I prefer to pick my own friends. I don't want them made for me.”

He turned on his heel and walked off.

There was another period of silence like that following his protest.

Then some one said:

”Well, I'm glad I haven't got _his_ disposition.”

”What's that?” cried Sam angrily, and turning back he seemed about to rush at the throng he faced.

”There now, that'll do!” exclaimed Darrell, who was anxious to avoid a scene. ”Forget it, fellows. Sam, you get your arm good and limber for Sat.u.r.day. We want to beat the Red Stockings by a big score to make up for what the Resolutes did to us last Sat.u.r.day. I'm going to arrange for another game with them soon, and maybe we can turn the tables.”

”Sure we can!” cried several.

”So limber up, Sam,” the manager went on, ”and have your arm in good shape.”

”It will be in bad shape if I get run down by any more amateur cyclists,” sneered Sam as he looked meaningly at Joe, but no one made any further reference to the recent collision.

At practice the next day Joe took his place with the regular Silver Star team, and he showed up well in the impromptu contest against the scrubs.

He made several good catches, and though his stick work might have been improved, still it was pretty good, for the scrub pitcher was not to be despised.