n 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 class.
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' Cooney. 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!"

And so it went on. Joe's name was not mentioned by the admiring throng.

"Our turn will come later," said Rad, with a smile.

"I guess so," agreed his chum, somewhat dubiously.

Reedville was a thriving community, and b