omfort and apprehension
coming back to him.

"Read this," replied Larry, handing him a paper opened at the sporting
page.

Joe read:

"All-Star League Calls Matson's Bluff. Produces Signed Contract.
Facsimile of Contract Shown Below."

And staring right out at him was the photographic reproduction of a
regulation baseball contract and at the bottom was written the name:
"Joseph Matson."

Joe stared at it as though he were in a dream. Here was the old blow at
his reputation, this time with redoubled force. Here was what claimed to
be the actual contract. But it was not the body of the contract that held
his attention. The thing that made him rage, that gave him a sense of
furious helplessness, that put his brain in a whirl, was this:

_He knew that that was his signature!_

No matter how it came there, it was his. A man's name can seldom be so
skilfully forged that it can deceive the man himself. It may get by the
cashier of the bank, but when it is referred back to the man who is
supposed to have written it, that man knows instinctively whether he ever
wrote it. Perhaps he cannot tell why he knows it, but he knows it just the
same.

So Joe _knew_ that it was his signature that was photographed on that
contract. But he also knew another thing just as certainly.

_He had never signed that contract!_

Both things contradictory. Yet both things true.

Larry and Denton were watching him closely. Joe looked up and met their
eyes. They were two of his oldest and warmest friends on the Giant team
and had always been ready to back him through thick and thin. Confidence
still was in their gaze, but with it was mixed bewilderment almost equal
to Joe's own.

Before anything further could be said, McRae and Robbie joined the group.

"Well, Joe, there's the contract," said McRae.

"It seems to be a contract all right," replied Joe. "I haven't had time to
read what it says, but that doesn't matter anyway. The only important
thing is that I never signed that contract."

"That seems to be a pretty good imitation of your signature at the bottom
there," chimed in Robbie.

"It's even better than that," said Joe, taking the bull by the horns. "It
isn't even an imitation. It's my own signature."

Both Robbie and McRae looked at him as if they thought he was crazy.

"I don't get you, Matson," said McRae, a little sternly. "And it seems to
me it's hardly a time for joking. There's the contract. You say you didn't
si