Then, as the car reached a certain corner, this man got up hurriedly.

"Let me past! I want to get off!" he exclaimed, in unnecessarily rough tones to Joe, at the same time pressing hard against him.

"Certainly," the young pitcher replied, removing his hands from the seat in front of him. At that moment the car stopped with a sudden jerk, and the fellow grabbed Joe by the right arm, twisting it so that the ball player cried out, involuntarily.

"'Scuse me!" muttered the fellow. "I didn't mean to grab youse so hard. I didn't know youse was so tender," he sneered.

"Seems to me you could have grabbed the seat," objected Joe, wincing with pain.

The other did not answer, but afterward Rad said he thought he saw him wink and grin maliciously.

"Hurt much?" asked Rad of Joe, as the fellow got off and the car went on again.

"It did for a minute. It's better now."

"It looked to me as though he did that on purpose," said Rad.

"He certainly was very clumsy," spoke one of the ladies to whom Joe and Rad had given their places. "He stepped on my foot, too."

Joe worked his arm up and down to limber the muscles, and then thought little more about the incident. That is, until the next morning. He awoke with a sudden sense of pain, and as he stretched out his pitching arm, he cried out.

"What's the matter?" asked Rad.

"My arm's sore and lame!" complained Joe. "Say, this is tough luck! And maybe I'll get a chance to pitch to-day."

Back to contents

CHAPTER XXIV

A TIGHT GAME

"Is it where that fellow pinched you, in getting off the car last night?"

"He didn't pinch me," said Joe, "it was a deliberate twist."

"Deliberate?" questioned Rad in surprise.

"It sure was!" exclaimed the young pitcher decidedly. "The more I think of it the more I'm certain that he did it deliberately."

"But why should he?" went on Rad. "You didn't prevent him from getting out of the car. There was plenty of room for him to pass. Why should he try to hurt you?"

"I don't know," answered Joe, "unless he was put up to it by——"

"By Jove! Shalleg! Yes!" cried Rad. "I believe you're right. Shalleg is jealous of you, and he wants to see you kept out of the game, just because he didn't make the nine. And I guess, too, he'd be glad to see the Cardinals lose just to make Manager Watson feel sore. That's it, Joe, as sure as you're a foot high!"

"Oh, I don't know as he thought the Cardinals would lose because I didn't pitch," said Joe, slowly, "but he may have been set on me by Shalleg, out of spite. Well, there's no use thinking about that now. I've got to do something about this arm. I think I'll send word that I won't be in shape to-day."

"No, don't you do it!" cried Rad. "Maybe we can fix up your arm. I know how to make a dandy liniment that my mother used on me when I was a small chap."

"Liniment sounds good," said Joe with a smile. "But I guess I'd better have Boswell look at it. He's got some of his own——"

"Yes, and then you'd have to admit that you're lame, and give the whole thing away!" interrupted Rad. "Don't do it. Leave it to me. There's some time before the game and I can give you a good rubbing, meanwhile. I'll send out to the drug store, get the stuff made up, and doctor you here.

"There'll be no need to tell 'em anything about it if I can get you into shape, and then, if you're called on, you can go in and pitch. If they think you're crippled they won't give you a chance."

"That's so," admitted Joe.

"Still, you wouldn't go in if you didn't think you could do good work," went on his chum.

"Certainly I would not," agreed Joe. "That would be too much like throwing the game. Well, see what you can do, Rad. I'd like to get a good whack at the fellow who did this, though," he went on, as he worked his arm slowly back and forth.

Rad rang for a messenger, and soon had in from a drug store a bottle of strong-smelling liniment, with which he proceeded to massage Joe's arm. He did it twice before the late breakfast to which they treated themselves, and once afterward, before it was time to report at the park for morning practice.

"Does it feel better?" asked Rad, as his chum began to do some pitching work.

"A whole lot, yes."

It was impossible to wholly keep the little secret from Boswell. He watched Joe for a moment and then asked suddenly:

"Arm stiff?"

"A bit, yes," the pitcher was reluctantly obliged to admit.

"You come in the clubhouse and have it attended to!" ordered the trainer. "I can't have you, or any of the boys, laid up."

Then, as he got out his bottle of liniment, and looked at Joe's arm, one of the ligaments of which had been strained by the cruel twist, Boswell said, sniffing the air suspiciously:

"You've been using some of your own stuff on that arm; haven't you?"

"Yes," admitted Joe.

"I thought so. Well, maybe it's good, but my stuff is better. I'll soon have you in shape."

He began a scientific massage of the sore arm, something of which, with all his good intentions, Rad was not capable. Joe felt the difference at once, and when he went back to practice he was almost himself again.

"How about you?" asked Rad, when he got the chance.

"I guess I'll last out—if I have to pitch," replied Joe. "But it's not certain that I shall go in."

"The Phillies are out to chew us up to-day," went on his chum. "It's going to be a tight game. Don't take any chances."

"I won't; you may depend on that."

There was a conference between Boswell and the manager.

"Who shall I put in the box?" asked the latter, for he often depended in a great measure on the old trainer.

"Let Barter open the ball, and see how he does. It's my notion that he won't stand the pace, for he's a little off his feed. But I want to take a little more care of Matson, and this will give him a couple of innings to catch up."

"Matson!" cried the manager. "Has he——"

"Just a little soreness," said Boswell quickly, for that was all he imagined it to be. He had not asked Joe how it happened, for which the young pitcher was glad. "It'll be all right with a little more rubbing." He knew Joe's hope, and wanted to do all he could to further it.

"All right. Announce Barter and Russell as the battery. And you look after Matson; will you?"

"I sure will. I think Joe can pitch his head off if he gets the chance."

"I hope he doesn't lose his head," commented the manager grimly. "It's going to be a hard game."

Which was the opinion of more than one that day.

Joe was taken in charge by Boswell, and in the clubhouse more attention was given to the sore arm.

"How does it feel now?" asked the trainer, anxiously.

"Fine!" replied Joe, and really the pain seemed all gone.

"Then come out and warm up with me. You'll be needed, if I am any judge."

To Joe's delight he found that he could send the ball in as swiftly as ever, and with good aim.

"You'll do!" chuckled Boswell. "And just in time, too. There goes a home run, and Barter's been hit so hard that we'll have to take him out."

It was the beginning of the third inning, and, sure enough, when it came the turn of the Cardinals to bat, a substitution was made, and the manager said:

"Get ready, Joe. You'll pitch the rest of the game."

Joe nodded, with a pleased smile, but, as he raised his arm to bend it back and forth, a sharp spasm of pain shot through it.

"Whew!" whistled Joe, under his breath. "I wonder if the effects of that liniment are wearing off? If they are, and that pain comes back, I'm done for, sure. What'll I do?"

There was little time to think; less to do anything. Joe would not bat that inning, that was certain. He took a ball, and, nodding to Rad, who was not playing, went out to the "bull-pen."

"What's up?" asked Rad, cautiously.

"I felt a little twinge. I just want to try the different balls, and find which I can deliver to best advantage to myself. You catch."

Rad nodded understandingly. To Joe's delight he found that in throwing his swift one, the spitter, and his curves he had no pain. But his celebrated fadeaway made him wince when he twisted his arm into the peculiar position necessary to get the desired effect.

"Wow!" mused Joe. "I can't deliver that, it's a sure thing. Well, I'm not going to back out now. I'll stay in as long as I can. But it's going to hurt!"

He shut his teeth, and, trying to keep away from his face the shadow of pain, threw his fadeaway to Rad again.

The pain shot through his arm like a sharp knife.

"But I'll do it!" thought Joe, grimly.

Back to contents

CHAPTER XXV

IN NEW YORK

Fortunately for him three of the weakest batters on the Phillies faced him that inning. Joe knew it, and so did the catcher, for he did not signal for the teasing fadeaway, for which Joe was very glad.

Joe tried a couple of practice balls, but he did not slam them in with his usual force, at which the man in the mask wondered. He had not heard of Joe's lame arm, and he reasoned that his partner was holding back for reasons best known to himself.

"Ball one!" yelled the umpire when Joe had made his first delivery to the batter. Joe winced, partly with pain, and partly because of the wasted effort that meant so much to him.

"The next one won't be a ball!" he muttered fiercely. He sent in a puzzling curve that enticed the batter.

"Strike one!"

"That's better!" yelled Boswell, from the coaching line. "Serve 'em some more like that, Joe."

And Joe did. No one but himself knew the effort it cost him, but he kept on when it was agony to deliver the ball. Perhaps he should not have done it, for he ran the chance of injuring himself for life, and also ran the chance of losing the game for his team.

But Joe was young—he did not think of those things. He just pitched—not for nothing had he been dubbed "Baseball Joe."

"You're out!" snapped the umpire to the first batter, who turned to the bench with a sickly grin.

Joe faced the next one. To his alarm the catcher signalled for a fadeaway. Joe shook his head. He thought he could get away with a straight, swift one.

But when the batter hit it Joe's heart was in his throat until he saw that it was a foul. By a desperate run Russell caught it. Joe pitched the next man out cleanly.

"That's the way to do it!"

"Joe, you're all right!"

"Now we'll begin to do something!"

Thus cried his teammates.

And from then on the Phillies were allowed but one more tally. This could not be helped, for Joe was weakening, and could not control the ball as well as at first. But the run came in as much through errors on the part of his fellow players as from his own weakness.

Meanwhile the Cardinals struck a batting streak, and made good, bunching their hits. The ending of the eighth inning saw the needed winning run go up in the frame of the Cardinals, and then it was Joe's task to hold the Phillies hitless in their half of the ninth.

How he did it he did not know afterward. His arm felt as though someone were jabbing it with a knife. He gritted his teeth harder and harder, and stuck it out. But oh! what a relief it was when the umpire, as the third batter finished at the plate, called:

"You're out!"

The Cardinals had won! Joe's work for the day was finished. But at what cost only he knew. Pure grit had pulled him through.

"Say, did you pitch with that arm?" asked Boswell in surprise as he saw Joe under the shower in the clubhouse later.

"Well, I made a bluff at it," said Joe, grimly and gamely.

"Well, I'll be Charlie-horsed!" exclaimed the trainer. "Say, you won't do any more pitching for a week! I've got to take you in hand."

Of course the story of Joe's grit got out, and the papers made much of how he had pitched through nearly a full game, winning it, too, which was more, with a badly hurt arm.

"But don't you take any such chances as that again!" cried Manager Watson, half fiercely, when he heard about it. "I can't have my pitchers running risks like that. Pitchers cost too much money!"

This was praise enough for Joe.

And so he had a much-needed rest. Under the care of Boswell the arm healed rapidly, though, for some time, Joe was not allowed to take part in any big games, for which he was sorry.

Whether it was the example of Joe's grit, or because they had improved of late was not made manifest, but the Cardinals took three of the four games with the Phillies, which made Manager Watson gleeful.

"They called us tail-enders!" he exulted, "but if we don't give the Giants a rub before the end of the season I'll miss my guess!"

The Cardinals were on the move again. They went from city to city, playing the scheduled games, winning some and losing enough to keep them about in fifth place. Joe saw much of life, of the good and bad sides. Many temptations came to him, as they do to all young fellows, whether in the baseball game, or other business or pleasure. But Joe "passed them up." Perhaps the memory of a certain girl helped him. Often it does.

The Cardinals came to New York, once more to do battle with the redoubtable Giants.

"But you won't get a game!" declared Manager McGraw to "Muggins" Watson.

"Won't we? I don't know about that. I'm going to spring my colt slab artist on you again."

"Who, Matson?"

"Um," said the manager of the Cardinals.

"Um," responded the manager of the Giants, laughing.

St. Louis did get one game of a double-header, and Joe, whose arm was in perfect trim again, pitched. It was while he was on the mound that a certain man, reputed to be a scout for the Giants, was observed to be taking a place where he could watch the young pitcher to advantage.

"Up to your old tricks; eh, Jack?" asked a man connected with the management of the Cardinals. "Who are you scouting for now?"

"Well, that little shortstop of yours looks pretty good to me," was the drawling answer. "What you s'pose you'll be asking for him."

"He's not for sale. Now if you mentioned the centre fielder, Jack——"

"Nothing doing. I've got one I'll sell you cheap."

"I don't suppose you want to make an offer for Matson; do you?" asked the Cardinal man with a slow wink.

"Oh, no, we've got all the pitchers we can use," the Giant scout responded quickly. It is thus that their kind endeavor to deceive one another.

But, as the game went on, it might have been observed that the Giant scout changed his position, where he could observe Joe in action from another angle.

"Didn't see anything of Shalleg since we struck Manhattan; did you, Joe?" asked Rad, as he and his chum, taking advantage of a rainy day in New York, were paying a visit to the Museum of Natural History.

"No," replied Joe, pausing in front of a glass case containing an immense walrus. "I don't want to see him, either. I'm sure he planned to do me some harm, and I'm almost positive that some of his tools had to do with my sore arm. But I can't prove it."

"That's the trouble," admitted Rad. "Well, come on, I want to see that model of the big whale. They say it's quite a sight."

The rain prevented games for three days, and the players were getting a bit "stale" with nothing to do. Then the sun came out, the grounds dried up and the series was resumed. But the Cardinals were not very lucky.

Philadelphia was the next stopping place, and there, once again, the Cardinals proved themselves the masters of the Quakers. They took three games straight, and sweetened up their average wonderfully, being only a game and a half behind the fourth club.

"If we can only keep up the pace!" said the manager, wistfully. "Joe, are you going to help us do it?"

"I sure am!" exclaimed the young pitcher.

There was one more game to play with the Phillies. The evening before it was scheduled, which would close their stay in the Quaker City, Joe left the hotel, and strolled down toward the Delaware River. He intended to take the ferry over to Camden, in New Jersey, for a friend of his mother lived there, and he had promised to call on her.

Joe did not notice that, as he left the hotel, he was closely followed by a man who walked and acted like Wessel. But the man wore a heavy beard, and Wessel, the young pitcher remembered was usually smooth-shaven.

But Joe did not notice. If he had perhaps he would have seen that the beard was false, though unusually well adjusted.

Joe turned his steps toward the river front. It was a dark night, for the sky was cloudy and it looked like rain.

Joe just missed one ferryboat, and, as there would be some little time before the other left, he strolled along the water front, looking at what few sights there were. Before he realized it, he had gone farther than he intended. He found himself in a rather lonely neighborhood, and, as he turned back a bearded man, who had been walking behind the young pitcher for some time, stepped close to him.

"I beg your pardon," the man began, speaking as though he had a heavy cold, "but could you direct me to the Reading Terminal?"

"Yes," said Joe, who had a good sense of direction, and had gotten the "lay of the land" pretty well fixed in his mind. "Let's see now—how I can best direct you?"

He thought for a moment. By going a little farther away from the ferry he could put the stranger on a thoroughfare that would be more direct than traveling back the way he had come.

"If you wouldn't mind walking along a little way," said the man eagerly. "I'm a stranger here, and——"

"Oh, I'll go with you," offered Joe, good-naturedly. "I'm not in any hurry."

Be careful, Joe! Be careful!

Back to contents

CHAPTER XXVI

ADRIFT

At that moment, as though it had been timing itself to the movements of the man who had followed Joe, there drove up a large ramshackle cab, and out of it jumped two men.

"Did you get him, Wes?" one asked eagerly.

"I sure did. Here, help me. He's gone off. Get him into the cab."

Poor Joe's senses had all but left him. He was an inert mass, but he could hear faintly, and he recognized the voice of Shalleg.

He tried to rouse himself, but it was as though he were in a heavy sleep, or stupor. He felt himself being lifted into a cab. The door slammed shut, and then he was rattled away over the cobbles.

"I wonder what they're going to do with me?" Joe thought. He had enough of his brain in working order to do that. Once more he tried to struggle.

"Better tie him up," suggested a voice he now recognized as that of the fellow who had twisted his arm on the street car.

"Yes, I guess we had," agreed Shalleg. "And then to the Delaware with him!"

Joe was too weak, and too much under the influence of the drug, to care greatly what they did with him—that is, in a sense, though a feeling of terror took possession of him at the words.

"The river!" gasped Wessel. "I thought you said there'd be no violence, Shalleg."

"And there won't!" promised the leader of the conspirators.

"But you said to tie him, and then to the river with him."

"You don't s'pose I'm going to chuck him in; do you?" was the angry question.

"I don't know."

"Well, I'm not! I'm just going to put him out of the way for a time. I told him I'd get even with him for not helping me out of a hole, and then for spreading reports about me, that kept me from getting a place on the Cardinals, as well as on any other team. I told him I'd fix him!"

So, this was the secret of Shalleg's animosity! He had a fancied grievance against Joe, and was taking this means of gratifying his passion for revenge. Joe, dimly hearing, understood now. He longed to be able to speak, to assure Shalleg that he was all wrong, but they had bound a rag about his mouth, and he could not utter a sound, even had not the chloroform held his speech in check.

"Pass over those ropes," directed Shalleg to his cronies in the cab, which lurched and swayed over the rough stones. The cab held four, on a pinch, and Joe was held and supported by one of the men. The gag in the young pitcher's mouth was made tighter, and ropes were passed about his arms and feet. He could not move.

"What's the game?" asked Wessel, as the trussing-up was finished.

"Well, I don't want to do him any real harm," growled Shalleg, "but I'm going to put him out of the game, just as I was kept out of it by his tattling tongue. I'm going to make him fail to show up to-morrow, and the next day, too, maybe. That'll put a crimp in his record, and in the Cardinals', too, for he's been doing good work for them. I'll say that about him, much as I hate him!"

Joe heard this plot against him, heard it dimly, through his half-numbed senses, and tried to struggle free from his bonds. But he could not.

On rattled the cab. Joe could not tell in which direction they were going, but he was sure it was along the lonely river front. The effects of the chloroform were wearing off, but the gag kept him silent, and the ropes bound his hands and feet.

"Have any trouble trailing him?" asked Shalleg of Wessel, who had disguised himself with a false beard.

"Not a bit," was the answer. "It was pie! I pretended I had lost my way."

The men laughed. Either they thought Joe was still incapable of hearing them, or they did not care if their identity and plans were known.

A multitude of thoughts rushed through Joe's head. He did not exactly understand what the men were going to do with him. They had spoken of taking him to the river. Perhaps they meant to keep him prisoner on a boat until his contract with the St. Louis team would be void, because of his non-appearance. And Joe knew how hard it would be to get back in the game after that.

True, he could explain how it had happened, and he felt sure he would not be blamed. But when would he get a chance to make explanations? And there was the game to-morrow! He knew he would be called on to pitch, for Mr. Watson had practically told him so. And Joe would not be on hand.

"Aren't we 'most there?" asked Wessel.

"Yes," answered Shalleg, shortly.

"What are we to do?" asked the other.

"You'll know soon enough," was the half-growled reply.

The cab rattled on. Then it came to a stop. Joe could smell the dampness of the river, and he realized that the next act in the episode was about to be played.

He felt himself being lifted out of the cab, and he had a glimpse of a street, but it was too dark to recognize where it was, and Joe was not well enough acquainted with Philadelphia to know the neighborhood. Then a handkerchief was bound over his eyes, and he was in total darkness.

He heard whispered words between Shalleg and the driver of the cab, but could not make out what they were. Then the vehicle rattled off.

"Catch hold of him now," directed Shalleg to his companions. "We'll carry him down to the river."

"To the river!" objected Wessel, and Joe felt a shiver go through him.

"Well, to the boat then!" snapped Shalleg. "Don't talk so much."

Joe felt himself being carried along, and, a little later, he was laid down on what he felt was the bottom of a boat. A moment later he could tell by the motion of the craft that he was adrift on the Delaware.

Back to contents

CHAPTER XXVII

THE RESCUE

The bandage was still over his eyes, and he tried, by wrinkling the skin of his forehead, to work it loose. But he could not succeed. He wished he could have some glimpse, even a faint one, in the darkness, of where he was, though perhaps it would have done him little good.

"Take the oars now," directed Shalleg, after a pause. "I guess it's safe to row out a bit. There aren't so many craft here now. But go easy."

"Hadn't we better show a light?" asked the man who had twisted Joe's arm. "We might be run down!"

"Light nothing!" exclaimed Shalleg, who now spoke somewhat above a whisper. "I don't want some police launch poking her nose up here. It's light enough for us to see to get out of the way if anything comes along. I'm not going to answer any hails."

"Oh, all right," was the answer.

Joe's head was beginning to clear itself from the fumes of the chloroform, and he could think more clearly. He wondered more and more what his fate was to be. Evidently the men were taking him somewhere in a rowboat. But whether he was to be taken wherever they were going, in this small craft, or whether it was being used to transport them to a larger boat, he could not, of course, determine.

The men rowed on for some time in silence.

"It's getting late," ventured Wessel at length.

"Not late enough, though," growled Shalleg.

Joe went over, in his mind, all the events that had been crowded into the last few hours. He had told Rad that he was going to see his mother's friend in Camden, but had given no address.

"They won't know but what I'm staying there all night," he reasoned. "And they won't start to search for me until some time to-morrow. When I don't show up at the game they'll think it's queer, and I suppose they'll fine me. I wouldn't mind that if they only come and find me. But how can they do it? There isn't a clue they could follow, as far as I know. Not one!"

He tried to think of some means by which he could be traced, and rescued by his friends, but he could imagine none. No one who knew him had seen him come down to the ferry, or walk through the deserted neighborhood. And, as far as he knew, no one had seen the bearded stranger accost him.

"I'll just have disappeared—that's all," mused poor Joe, lying on the hard and uncomfortable bottom of the boat.

For some time longer the three men, or rather two of them, rowed on, paying no attention to Joe. Then Shalleg spoke.

"I guess we're far enough down the river," he said. "We can go ashore now."

"And take him with us?" asked Wessel.

"Well, you don't think I'm going to chuck him overboard; do you?" demanded Shalleg. "I told you I wasn't going to do anything violent."

"But what are you going to do?"

"Wait, and you'll see," was the rather unsatisfactory answer.

Joe wished it was settled. He, too, was wondering.

The course of the boat seemed changed. By the motion the men were rowing across a choppy current, probably toward shore. Joe found this to be so, a little later, for the boat's side grated against what was probably a wooden pier.

"Light the lantern," directed Shalleg.

"But I thought you didn't want to be seen," objected Wessel.

"Do as I tell you," was the sharp rejoinder. "We're not going to be seen. We're going to leave the boat."

"And leave him in it?" asked the other man.

"Yes, I'm going to turn him adrift down the river," went on the chief conspirator. "I'll stick a light up, though, so he won't be run down. I don't wish him that harm."

"Are you going to leave him tied?" Wessel wanted to know.

"I sure am!" was the rejoinder. "Think I want him giving the alarm, and having us nabbed? Not much!"

Dimly, from beneath the handkerchief over his eyes, Joe saw the flash as a match was struck, and the lantern lighted. Then he heard it being lashed to some upright in the boat. A little later Joe felt the craft in which he lay being shoved out into the stream, and then he realized that he was alone, drifting down the Delaware, toward the bay, and tied hand and foot, as well as being gagged. He was practically helpless.

"There, I guess that'll teach him not to meddle in my affairs any more!" said Shalleg bitterly. Then Joe heard no more, save the lapping of the waves against the side of the craft.

For a time his senses seemed to leave him under the terrible strain, and when he again was in possession of his faculties he could not tell how long he had been drifting alone, nor had he any idea of the time, save that it was still night.

"Well, I've got to do something!" decided Joe. "I've got to try and get rid of this gag, and yell for help, and to do that I've got to have the use of my hands."

Then he began to struggle, but the men who had trussed him up had done their evil work well, and he only cut his wrists on the cruel bonds. He was on his back, and he wished there was some rough projection in the bottom of the boat, against which he could rub his rope-entangled wrists. But there was none.

How the hours of darkness passed Joe never knew. He was thankful for one thing—that there was a light showing in his boat, for he would not be run down in the darkness by some steamer, or motor craft. By daylight he hoped the drifting boat might be seen, and picked up. Then he would be rescued. Even now, if he could only have called, he might have been saved.

Gradually Joe became aware that morning had come. He could see a film of light beneath the bandage over his eyes. The boat was bobbing up and down more violently now.

"I must be far down the bay," thought Joe.

He was cramped, tired, and almost parched for a drink. He had dozed fitfully through the night, and his eyes smarted and burned under the bandage.

Suddenly he heard voices close at hand, above the puffing of a motorboat.

"Look there!" someone exclaimed. "A boat is adrift. Maybe we can work that into the film."

"Maybe," assented another voice. "Let's go over and see, anyhow. We want this reel to be a good one."

Dimly Joe wondered what the words meant. He heard the voices, and the puffing of the motor coming nearer. Then the latter sound ceased. Some craft bumped gently against his, and a man cried:

"Someone is in this boat!"

Back to contents

CHAPTER XXVIII

MOVING PICTURES

"Hand me a knife, somebody!" called a man. "I'll cut these ropes."

Joe opened his eyes, and closed them again with a feeling of pain. The sudden light of a bright, sunny morning was too much for him.

"He's alive, anyhow," a girl's voice said.

Joe half opened his eyes this time, and saw a strange sight. Alongside his boat was a cabin motor craft, and on the rear deck he could see gathered a number of men, women and girls. What took Joe's attention next was a queer oblong box, with a crank at one side, and a tube projecting from it, mounted on a tripod. Then, as his eyes became more accustomed to the light, Joe saw bending over him in the boat, two men.

One of them had a knife, with which he quickly cut the ropes that bound Joe's arms and feet. It was a great relief.

He sat up and looked about him. The motor boat was a large and fine one, and was slowly drifting down into Delaware Bay, for Joe could see a vast stretch of water on all sides.

"Too bad we can't work this rescue into a scene," spoke one of the men on the motor craft.

Joe looked at him wonderingly, and then at the machine on the bow of the boat. All at once he realized what it was—a moving picture camera. He had seen them before.

"Are you folks in the movies?" he asked as he stood up, with the help of the two men.

"That's what we are," was the answer. "We came out early this morning to do a bit of 'water stuff,' when we saw your boat adrift. We put over to it, and were surprised to see you tied in it. Can you tell us what happened?"

"Yes," answered Joe, "I was practically kidnapped!"

"Come aboard, and have some coffee," urged a motherly-looking woman of the party.

"Yes, do," added another member of the company. "We have just had breakfast."

The aroma of coffee was grateful to Joe, and soon he was aboard the motorboat, sipping a steaming cup.

"Kidnapped; eh?" remarked one of the men. "Then we'd better save that boat for you. It will be a clue to those who did it."

"Oh, I know who did it, all right," answered Joe, who was rapidly feeling more like himself. "I don't need the boat for evidence. But, since you have been so kind to me, I wish you'd do one thing more."

"Name it," promptly said the man who seemed to be in charge of the company.

"Get me somewhere so I can send word to Philadelphia—to Manager Watson of the St. Louis Cardinals. I want to explain what happened, so he won't expect me in the game to-day."

"Are you a member of the St. Louis team?" asked one of the men, quickly.

"One of the pitchers—my name is Matson."

The two leading men of the company looked at each other in an odd manner.

"It couldn't have happened better; could it, Harry?" one asked.

Our hero was a trifle mystified until the man called Harry explained.

"You see, it's this way," he said. "My name is Harry Kirk, and this is James Morton," nodding toward the other man. "We manage a moving picture company, most of whom you now see," and he indicated those about him. "We have been doing a variety of stuff, and we want to get some baseball pictures. We've been trying to induce some of the big teams to play an exhibition game for us, but so far we haven't been successful. Now if you would use your influence with your manager, and he could induce some other team to play a short game, why we'd be ever so much obliged."

"Of course I'll do all I can!" cried Joe. "I can't thank you enough for your rescue of me, and the least I could do would be to help you out! I'm pretty sure I can induce Mr. Watson to let his team give an exhibition, anyhow."

"That's all we want—an opening wedge," said Mr. Kirk, "but we couldn't seem to get it. Our finding of you was providential."

"It was for me, anyhow," said Joe. "I don't know what might have happened to me if I had drifted much farther."

Joe explained how it had happened, and the unreasoning rage of Shalleg toward him.

"He ought to be sent to jail for life, to do such a thing as that!" burst out Mr. Kirk. "You'll inform the police; won't you?"

"I think I had better," said Joe, thoughtfully.

The motor began its throbbing, and the big boat cut through the water, towing the small craft, in which Joe had spent so many uncomfortable hours.

The young pitcher was himself again, thanks to a good breakfast, and when the dock was reached was able to talk to Manager Watson over the telephone. It was then nearly noon, and Joe was in no shape to get in the game that day.

To say that the news he gave the manager astonished Mr. Watson is putting it mildly.

"You stay where you are," directed his chief. "I'll send someone down to see you, or come myself. We'll get after this Shalleg and his gang. This has gone far enough!"

"What about the game to-day?" asked Joe.

"Don't you worry about that. We'll beat the Phillies anyhow, though I was counting on you, Joe. But don't worry."

Back to contents

CHAPTER XXIX

SHALLEG'S DOWNFALL

And it was. The game was not to count in the series, for some changes and new rules had to be adopted to make it possible to get it within the scope of the moving picture cameras. And the picture managers agreed to pay a sum that made it worth while for the players, Joe included, to put up a good game of ball.

To his delight Joe was selected to pitch for his side, and fully himself again, he "put up a corking good game," to quote his friend Rad.

"Well, I'm not sorry to be leaving Philadelphia," remarked Joe to Rad, when their engagement in the Quaker City was over, and they were to go on to Brooklyn. "I always have a feeling that Shalleg will show up again."

"I only wish he would!" exclaimed Rad.

"I don't!" said Joe, quickly.

"I mean and be captured," his chum added, quickly.

"Oh, that's different," laughed Joe.

Taking three of the four games from the Superbas, two of them on the same day, in a double-header, the St. Louis team added to their own prestige, and, incidentally, to their standing in the league, gaining fourth place.

"I think we have a good chance of landing third place," the manager exulted when they started West. They were to play Chicago in their home town, then work their way to New York for a final set-to with the Giants, and end the season on Robison Field.

And in St. Louis something happened that, for a long time, took Shalleg out of Joe's path.

The first game with Chicago had been a hard one, but by dint of hard work, and good pitching (Joe going in at the fourth inning to replace Barter), the Cardinals won.

"And we'll do the same to-morrow," good-naturedly boasted Manager Watson, to Mr. Mandell of the Cubs.

"Well, maybe you will, but I have a good chance to put it all over you," said the Chicago manager, and there was that in his manner which caused Mr. Watson to ask quickly:

"What do you mean?"

"Just this. How much chance do you think you'd have to win if our men knew your battery signals?"

"Not much, of course, but the thing is impossible!"

"Is it?" asked the other, quietly. "Not so impossible as you suppose. I have just received an offer to have the signals disclosed to me before the game to-morrow."

"By whom?" cried Manager Watson. "If any of my players is trying to throw the team——"

"Go easy," advised the other with a smile. "It's nothing like that. The offer came from a man, who, I understand, tried unsuccessfully to become a member of the Cardinals."

"Not Shalleg!"

"That's who it was."

"Where can I get him?" asked Mr. Watson, eagerly. "He's wanted on a good deal more serious charge than that. Where can I get him?"

"I thought you might want to see him," said the Chicago manager, "so I put him off. I've made an appointment with him——"

"Which the police and I will keep!" interrupted Mr. Watson.

"Perhaps that would be better," agreed Mr. Mandell.

So the plot for the downfall of Shalleg was laid. It appeared that he had come back to St. Louis, and, by dint of careful watching, and by his knowledge of the game, he had managed to steal the signal system used between the Cardinal pitchers and catchers. This he proposed disclosing to the Chicago team, but of course the manager would have nothing to do with the scheme.

Shalleg had named a low resort for the transfer of the information he possessed, he to receive in exchange a sum of money. He was in desperate straits, it appeared.

The Cubs' manager, Joe and Mr. Watson, with a detective, went to the appointed meeting place. The manager went in alone, but the others were hiding, in readiness to enter at a signal.

"Did you bring the money?" asked Shalleg, eagerly, as he saw the man with whom he hoped to make a criminal "deal."

"I have the money, yes," was the cool answer. "Are you prepared to disclose to me the Cardinal battery signals?"

"Yes, but don't speak so loud, someone might hear you!" whined Shalleg.

"That's just what I want!" cried the manager in loud tones, and that was the signal for the officer to come in. He, Joe and Mr. Watson had heard enough to convict Shalleg.

"Ha! A trap!" cried the released player, as he saw them close in on him. He made a dash to get away, but, after a brief struggle, the detective overpowered him, for Shalleg's manner of life was not such as to make him a fighter.

He saw that it was no use to bluff and bluster, and, his nerve completely gone, he made a full confession.

After his unsuccessful attempt to borrow money of Joe, he really became imbued with the idea that our hero had injured him, and was spreading false reports about him. So he set out to revenge himself on Joe.

It was Shalleg who induced Wessel to pick a quarrel with Joe, hoping to disable the pitcher so he could not play ball that season. It was a mean revenge to plot. And it was Shalleg's idea, in luring Joe to the lonely house, on the plea of helping Rad, to involve him in a fight that might disable, or disgrace, him so that he would have to resign from the Cardinals. Likewise it was a tool of Shalleg's who kept track of Joe, who boarded the same car as did our hero, and who so cruelly twisted his arm, hoping to put him out of the game.

Shalleg denied having induced Wessel to enter Joe's room that night in question, but his denial can be taken for what it was worth. As to Weasel's object, it could only be guessed at. It may have been robbery, or some worse crime.

And then, when all else failed, Shalleg tried the desperate plan of kidnapping Joe, but, as he explained, he did not really intend bodily harm. And perhaps he did not. He was a weak and criminally bad man, but perhaps there was a limit.

"Well, this is the end!" the former ball player said, bitterly, as he was handcuffed, and led away. "I might have known better."

Some time afterward, when the ball season had closed, Shalleg was tried on the charge of mistreating Joe, and was convicted, being sentenced to a long term. His cronies were not caught, but as they were only tools for Shalleg no one cared very much whether or not they were punished.

Back to contents

CHAPTER XXX

THE HARDEST BATTLE

It was the final game between the Giants and the Cardinals. To win it meant for the St. Louis team that they would reach third place. And if they did get third position, it was practically certain that they could keep it, for their closing games in St. Louis were with the tail-enders of the league.

"Are you going to pitch, Joe?"

"I don't know that, either. Haven't heard yet," was the answer.

Just then a messenger came up to Joe.

"There's somebody in that box," he said, indicating one low down, and just back of home plate, "who wants to speak to you."

Joe looked around, and a delighted look came over his face as he saw his father and mother, Clara, and one other.

"Mabel!" exclaimed Joe, and then he hurried over.

"Say, this is great!" he cried, with sparkling eyes. "I didn't know you folks were coming," and he kissed his mother and sister, and wished—but there! I said I wouldn't tell secrets.

"Your father found he had some business in New York," explained Mrs. Matson, "so we thought we would combine pleasure with it, and see you play."

"And they looked me up, and brought me along," added Mabel. "I just happened to be in town. Now we want to see you win, Joe!"

"I don't even know that I'll play," he said, wistfully.

Joe felt that he could bide his time, and yet he did long to be the one to open the game, as it was an important one, and a record-breaking crowd was on hand to see it.

But it was evident that Manager Watson's choice of a pitcher must be changed. It needed but two innings to demonstrate that, for the Giants got four hits and three runs off Slim Cooney, who, most decidedly, was not in form.

The substitution of a batter was made, and the manager nodded at Joe.

"You'll pitch!" he said, grimly. "And I want you to win!"

"And I want to," replied Joe, as he thought of those in the box watching him.

It was to be Baseball Joe's hardest battle. Opposed to him on the mound for the Giants was a pitcher of world-wide fame, a veteran, well-nigh peerless, who had won many a hard-fought game.

I might describe that game to you in detail, but I will confine myself to Joe's efforts, since it is in him we are most interested. I might tell of the desperate chances the Cardinals took to gain runs, and of the exceptionally good stick work they did, against the redoubtable pitcher of the Giants.

For a time this pitcher held his opponents to scattering hits. Then, for a fatal moment, he went up in the air. It was a break that was at once taken advantage of by the Cardinals. They slammed out two terrific hits, and, as there were men on bases, the most was made of them. Two wild throws, something exceptional for the Giants, added to the luck, and when the excitement was over the Cardinals had tied the game.

"Oh, wow!"

"Now, we've got 'em going!"

"Only one run to win, boys!"

"Hold 'em down, Joe!"

Thus came the wild cries from the stands. Excitement was at its height.

There was a hasty consultation between the peerless pitcher and the veteran catcher. They had gone up in the air, but now they were down to earth again. From then on, until the beginning of the ninth inning, the Cardinals did not cross home plate, and they got very few hits. It was a marvelous exhibition of ball twirling.

But if the Giant pitcher did well, Joe did even better, when you consider that he was only rounding out his first season in a big league, and that he was up against a veteran of national fame, the announcement that he was going to be in the game being sufficient to attract a large throng.

"Good work, old man! Good work!" called Boswell, when Joe came to the bench one inning, after having allowed but one hit. "Can you keep it up?"

"I—I hope so."

It was a great battle—a hard battle. The Giants worked every trick they knew to gain another run, but the score remained a tie. Goose egg after goose egg went up on the score board. The ninth inning had started with the teams still even.

"We've just got to get that run!" declared Manager Watson. "We've just got to get it. Joe, you are to bat first. See if you can't get a hit!"

Pitchers are proverbially weak hitters. One ingenious theory for it is that they are so used to seeing the ball shooting away from them, and toward the batter, that, when the positions are reversed, and they see the ball coming toward them they get nervous.

"Ball!" was the umpire's first decision in Joe's favor. The young pitcher was rather surprised, for he knew the prowess of his opponent.

And then Joe decided on what might have proved to be a foolish thing.

"I'm going to think that the next one will be a swift, straight one, and I'm going to dig in my spikes and set for it," he decided. And he did. He made a beautiful hit, and amid the wild yells of the crowd he started for first. He beat the ball by a narrow margin, and was declared safe.

The umpire tossed a new ball to Joe, for the other had gone too far away to get back speedily.

Joe wet the horsehide, and sent it drilling in. The batter made a slight motion, as though to hit it, but refrained:

"Strike! You're out!" said the umpire, stolidly.

"Why, that ball was——"

"You're out!" and the umpire waved him aside, impatiently.

Joe grinned in delight.

But when he saw the next man, "Home Run Crater," facing him, our hero felt a little shaky. True, the chances were in favor of the Cardinals, but baseball is full of chances that make or break.

"If he wallops it!" thought Joe.

But Crater did not wallop it. In his characteristic manner he swung at the first delivery, and connected with it. Over Joe's head it was going, but with a mighty jump Joe corraled it in one hand, a sensational catch that set the crowd wild. Joe was playing the game of his life.

"Only one more!"

"Strike him out!"

"The game is ours, Joe!"

But another heavy hitter was up, and there was still work for Baseball Joe to do.

To his alarm, as he sent in his first ball, there came to his arm that had been twisted on the car, a twinge of pain.

"My! I hope that doesn't bother me," thought Joe, in anxiety.

"Ball one," announced the umpire.

Joe delivered a straight, swift one. His arm hurt worse, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.

"Strike!" grunted the umpire, and there was some balm for Joe in that.

The batter hit the next one for a dribbler, and just managed to reach first.

"If I could only have managed to get him out!" mused Joe. "I'd be done now. But I've got to do it over again. I wonder if I can last out?"

To his relief the next batter up was one of the weakest of the Giants, and Joe was glad. And even yet a weak batter might make a hit that would turn the tables.

"I've got to do it!" murmured Joe, and he wound up for the delivery.

"Strike!" announced the umpire. Joe's heart beat hard.

"Here goes for the fadeaway," he said to himself, "though it will hurt like fun!"

It did, bringing a remembrance of the old hurt. But it fooled the batter, and there were two strikes on him.

The game was all but over. With two out, and two strikes called, there could be but one result, unless there was to be something that occurs but once in a lifetime. And it did not occur.

"Strike! You're out!" was the umpire's decision, and that was the end. The Cardinals had won, thanks, in a great measure, to Joe Matson's splendid work.

"That's the stuff!"

"Third place for ours!"

"Three cheers for Joe Matson—Baseball Joe!" called his teammates, who crowded around him to clap him on the back and say all sorts of nice things. Joe stood it, blushingly, for a moment, and then he made his way over to the box. As he walked along, a certain quiet man who had been intently watching the game said softly to himself.

"He must be mine next season. I guess I can make a trade for him. He'd be a big drawing card for the Giants."

"Oh, Joe, it was splendid! Splendid!" cried Mabel, enthusiastically.

"Fine!" said his father.

"Do you get any extra when your side wins?" asked his mother, while the crowd smiled.

"Well, yes, in a way," answered Joe. "You get treated extra well."

"And it's going to be my treat this time," said Mabel, with a laugh. "I want you all to come to dinner with me. You'll come; won't you, Joe?" she asked, pleadingly.

"Of course," he said.

"And bring a friend, if you like," and she glanced at Clara.

"I'll bring Rad," Joe answered.

They lived the great game over again at the table of the hotel where Mable was stopping.

"Is your arm lame?" asked Mrs. Matson, noticing that her son favored his pitching member a trifle.

"Oh, I can finish out the season," said Joe. "The remainder will be easy—only a few more games."

"And then what?" asked Rad.

"Well, a vacation, I suppose, and then get ready for another season with the Cardinals."

But Joe was not destined to remain with the Western team. The horizon was widening, and those of you who wish to follow further the adventures of our hero may do so in the succeeding volume, which will be called "Baseball Joe on the Giants; Or, Making Good as a Ball Twirler in the Metropolis."

In that we shall see how Joe rose to even higher fame, through grit, hard work and ability.