“What on earth brought you down this way?” she asked, as she made room for Joe to sit down beside her, a permission of which he availed himself with alacrity.
“I guess it’s because I’m the luckiest man on earth,” said Joe gallantly.
“What a pretty speech!” and she dimpled mischievously. Joe had never known that dimples could be so distracting.
“It seems to me that you are pretty far from home yourself,” he declared.
“Are you complaining on that account?” she laughed.
“Anything but that,” protested the young pitcher, and the look that accompanied the words was convincing evidence of his sincerity.
“I’ve been attending a wedding of one of my old schoolmates,” explained Mabel. “We had been great chums at boarding school and nothing would do but that I should act as her bridesmaid. We had a great time, and after the happy couple had started on their honeymoon, her parents insisted that I should stay a day or two with them. I wanted to get home yesterday, but they wouldn’t have it.”
Joe mentally blessed the unknown benefactors who had prevented Mabel from taking an earlier train.
“I guess I know after all, why you are coming in this direction,” she went on. “You know I’m greatly interested in baseball and I’ve been keeping pretty well posted as to the doings of the teams. I see that Mr. Joseph Matson is no longer a member of the St. Louis nine,” she said archly.
“No,” laughed Joe. “They got tired of me and so they wished me on the New Yorks.”
“Isn’t that glorious!” declared Mabel with unaffected enthusiasm. “I’ve been wanting to have a chance to congratulate you ever since I heard the news. It’s a great step forward, and it’s wonderful when you think that you’ve only been in the league a year. But I’m not a bit surprised, after seeing some of the games you pitched last year. That last one you pitched in New York was just splendid.”
“Do you know why it was so good?” said Joe, earnestly, bending toward her. “It was because I had a mascot in the grandstand that day and I simply couldn’t lose.”
“Is that so?” asked Mabel, innocently. “Dear me, how very interesting! I’ve always heard that ball players were superstitious. What kind of a mascot was it?”
“Why,” said Joe, “it had brown eyes and the most beautiful wavy hair, and a lot of dimples and——”
“Oh, look at that funny little farmhouse,” hastily remarked Mabel, looking out of the window. “Did you ever see anything so quaint?”
But Joe, who had not the slightest interest in quaint farmhouses just at this moment, persisted:
“As I was saying, this mascot——”
“Yes,” interrupted Mabel, “but tell me one thing that I’m just dying to know. Do you think the New Yorks will win the pennant this year?”
And Joe, despite himself, was forced to bow to her will and change the subject. But he mentally resolved that he would yet tell her what he wanted to about that mascot.
“That’s something that’s pretty hard to tell,” he answered. “We’ve got a mighty strong team on paper, and if we get our share of the breaks, I don’t see anything that’s going to beat us out.”
“Won’t that be fine!” she exclaimed. “And that’ll mean that you’ll play in the World’s Series. Oh, if you could win the championship of the league and the championship of the world in the same year!”
“It’s asking a good deal,” laughed Joe, “but stranger things than that have happened. It would mean a lot of glory and it would also mean a lot of money.”
“Oh, you mercenary men!” she smiled. “Always thinking about money.”
“Sure,” said Joe. “Why shouldn’t they. What do you think they want the money for? Listen, Mabel. Shall I tell you what Clara said would be a good thing for me to do with the Series money if I get a part of it?”
But Mabel scented danger and again she fenced.
“Don’t trouble,” she said. “I’ll write to Clara and ask her about it.”
Poor Joe realized how helpless a mere man is in the hands of a pretty girl when she wants to make him speak or refrain from speaking. But he clung desperately to the theme in the hope that in some way or other it would give him an opening.
“I saw a moving picture the other day that was a dandy,” he went on. “It showed the winners of the Series last year getting their checks in the office of the Treasurer. Were they a happy looking bunch? I should say so. One of the checks was flashed on the screen and it showed figures for three thousand eight hundred dollars odd.”
“A little fortune in its way,” agreed Mabel.
“I should say it was,” continued Joe. “Why, do you know what a man could do with that money? He could get a cozy little home and furnish it and——”
“Speaking of Reggie——” interrupted Mabel hurriedly.
“I wasn’t speaking of Reggie,” said Joe, exasperatedly. At that moment he could have wished the unoffending Reggie at the bottom of the sea.
“I know we weren’t,” said Mabel, sweetly, “but really we ought to be because I’m awfully worried about the dear boy. He’s been acting so queerly of late. Hasn’t seemed to have any appetite, and at night I can hear him walking the floor in his room. I’ve tried to get him to tell me what is troubling him, but he just says it is nothing and I can’t get any satisfaction. Then too, he’s constantly taking flying trips all over the country. He’s been away now for some time and in one of his letters he told me that he had seen you. Did he tell you what was on his mind?”
It was very hard to resist the pleading in those brown eyes, but Joe was loyal to that free masonry that makes men hang together. And besides, the little witch had been tantalizing him so, that there was a little wicked satisfaction in having the whip hand himself, if only for a moment.
“Why, Reggie seemed very much as usual,” he declared. “If he was a bit worried, it’s only what all men feel at times. I know that more than once after I’ve lost a close game I’ve been like a bear with a sore head. He’ll be all right, no doubt, after a while. Do you think he’s at home now?”
“I rather think he is,” returned Mabel, “but I’m not sure. He wrote me that he expected to get home some day this week. But you’ll have a chance to see for yourself when we get to Goldsboro. Of course, you’ll come up to our house for dinner?”
“Do you really want me to?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” she returned. “Mother will be glad to meet you again too. She’s talked a lot about you since the last time you were there. She thinks you’re such a handsome young man,” she added mischievously, for the pleasure of seeing him blush.
“By the way,” she went on, enjoying his confusion, “I’ve seen your picture in the papers so often for this last week or two.”
“It’s a shame to spoil good paper by putting my ugly phiz upon it,” said Joe, getting redder still.
“Ugly!” exclaimed Mabel, warmly. “I think it’s just——”
She checked herself as though she had gone too far, and now it was her turn to blush.
“What do they say about the great Mr. Matson in today’s papers?” she asked lightly. “I haven’t seen a copy yet. Have you got one? I’d like to see it, if you have.”
Her wish was a command and Joe went to his seat returning with the paper. She turned to the sporting page and her eye fell upon the picture of Joe in the lumber yard.
“Why, what’s this?” she asked, wonderingly.
“Oh, it’s a little thing that happened in Riverside,” answered Joe. “The newspapers got hold of it and are making a mountain out of a molehill.”
With quickening curiosity, Mabel read the account from beginning to end. When she had finished she looked up at Joe, and there was something in her eyes that Joe had longed to see there, something that made his heart give a wild leap.
“Goldsboro,” shouted the brakeman, putting his head in the door. “All out for Goldsboro!”
There was a mad scramble to gather their belongings together and by the time they were going down the aisle of the car Mabel had recovered something of her self possession.
“I’m going to steal this paper from you,” she said, “and I just want to tell you that it was one of the finest things I’ve ever heard or read about. There isn’t one man in a million that would have thought and acted so quickly and skillfully. So there now, Mr. Hero,” she added in a lighter tone, to conceal her real feeling.
Joe, whose head was in a whirl and who was not quite sure whether he was in Goldsboro or Heaven or a blending of both, was about to reply when a well-known voice fell on his ears:
“Hello, Sis! Why, Joe Matson, by all that’s lucky! What good wind blew you into Goldsboro? Welcome to our city.”
And the next minute Reggie had grasped his hand and was shaking it as though he would wring it off.
Joe returned the greeting with equal cordiality.
“How are you, Reggie, old man!” he exclaimed. “I’m awfully glad to find you at home. I was talking to Mabel about you and she wasn’t sure whether you would be here or not. I’m certainly in luck meeting two of the best friends I have on the same day.”
“It was a big surprise to me,” said Mabel, “when Joe seemed to rise up like a ghost out of the floor of the car.”
“A pretty substantial ghost, I take it,” laughed Reggie, as he took in the stalwart frame and perfect condition of his friend.
“Joe’s coming up to the house for dinner,” went on Mabel.
“You just bet he is,” declared Reggie. “He doesn’t get out of my clutches as long as he stays in Goldsboro. Hope you can make us a good visit, Joe.”
“About four hours or so,” laughed Joe.
“Four hours only!” Reggie stared at him blankly. “What’s the answer?”
“Joe’s on his way to the training camp at Marlin Springs,” explained Mabel. “The Giants pass through here this afternoon and Joe is going to join them when their train comes along.”
quoted Joe, with a smile.
“It’s too bad,” declared Reggie with unaffected regret. “But since the minutes are so precious we’ll make every one of them count. I’ve got my buzz wagon outside. Give me your traps and bundle in, both of you.”
Joe helped Mabel into the rear seat, holding her hand perhaps a wee bit longer than necessary in doing so, and then settled down beside her, while Reggie grasped the wheel and threw in the clutch. Reggie’s judgment in cars was good, however much it might go astray when it came to finance, and he was a skilled driver, so that it was not long before they had left the business part of the town behind them and were threading the more fashionable street that led to the Varley mansion.
“It’s a splendid day for motoring!” exclaimed Mabel. “I wish we were going further.”
“The end of the world wouldn’t be too far, if you were alongside of me,” affirmed Joe, trying to look into her eyes.
But because she was afraid perhaps to let him see just then what was written there, she kept them averted, though a tell-tale flood of color rioted from neck to brow.
They stopped before a large substantial house that bore every mark of solid prosperity. Reggie jumped out and threw open the door and Joe helped Mabel to alight. She ran lightly up the steps with a gay little wave of her hand.
“I suppose Reggie will want you to go with him while he puts the car into the garage,” she said. “In the meantime, I’ll prepare the folks inside for the great honor that has come upon them. It isn’t often that we have a chance to entertain a hero.”
Joe shook his finger at her menacingly, as with a laugh she entered the door that was opened by a servant.
“I suppose Mabel was referring to that scrap you had with Talham Tabbs,” said Reggie, as he guided the car to the garage in the rear of the house.
“Yes,” replied Joe, “as luck would have it, one of the New York papers got hold of that and played it up strong. Mabel happened to get hold of it on the train and she’s given it a good deal more importance than it is worth.”
“She can’t very well do that,” protested Reggie warmly, “for it was a good piece of work, don’t you know. I’d have told her of it myself before this, only I was afraid that she might get on to that wretched muddle of mine.”
“How about that, by the way?” asked Joe, eagerly. “Tell me now while you have a chance. Have you found any clue to the fellow’s whereabouts?”
“Not a thing,” replied Reggie, gloomily. “I’ve been following up tips ever since I left Riverside and I’m no nearer to him now than I was then.”
“It’s too bad,” consoled Joe. “It beats all how that fellow could have made such a getaway. It wasn’t half an hour after he had escaped before we were hot on his track. He didn’t have any hat or overcoat, and everybody was on the lookout for him. How on earth could he have managed it?”
“Search me,” said Reggie, disgustedly. “That fellow is as slick as greased lightning. He proved that by the way he got hold of my securities. All madmen are said to be cunning, but I’ll bet he could give cards and spades to the whole bunch and beat them out. I suppose there’s nothing left for me but to make a clean breast of it to the governor. As it is, I’m only sending good money after bad, running round the country as I do.”
“Don’t give up yet, old man,” cried Joe, clapping him heartily on the shoulder. “While there’s life there’s hope. The game isn’t over till the last man’s out in the ninth inning. Buck up. You may be happy yet. You can tell your father any time, but there’s no use doing it until your year is up and you have to. If there’s anything that I have learned from baseball it is never to stop trying. Get up on your toes and play the game.”
“By George, old man, it’s good to hear you talk that way!” cried Reggie, with a sudden accession of hope. “I get so moody and dopey mulling the thing over to myself that I lose heart. But you’re right. I’ll pull myself together and fight the thing out to a finish.”
“That’s the real stuff,” approved Joe. “The man can’t stay hidden forever, and any day may see the end of the chase. I have a feeling that you’re going to win out. But there’s one thing I’d do, old fellow. Tell Mabel all about it. As you said yourself one time, she’s a thoroughbred. She’ll stick to you through thick and thin. She’s worrying about you now because she knows there’s something wrong with you and you won’t tell her what it is. If you talk it over with her, it will take a load off your mind and hers too. Besides, you’ll have a better chance of winning. Two heads are better than one and what one doesn’t think of the other will. She was asking me about it today. Of course, I didn’t give you away, but I made up my mind then that I would ask you to tell her the whole story. It’ll clear the air, you’ll both be happier, and your chances will be vastly better.”
“Old top, I think you’re right,” replied Reggie, who had a great respect for Joe’s judgment. “She and I have always been great pals and we think the world of each other. I didn’t want to put my burden on her shoulders, but, as you say, she will worry more if she doesn’t know than if she does. I’ll tell her the whole thing before I sleep tonight.”
“That’s a go then,” said Joe, and they shook hands on it.
Reggie led the way into the house, and Joe received a most cordial greeting from Mr. and Mrs. Varley. He had met them before and they had always felt most warmly toward him since the day that he had rescued Mabel from being carried over a cliff by a runaway horse. All that they had seen and heard of him since had increased their favorable estimate of him. And Joe did all he could to deepen that impression, because some day he expected to ask these kindly people for one of their most precious possessions and he wanted the answer to be the right one.
The dinner was free from all formality, for despite their wealth, the Varley home life was as simple and unaffected as Joe’s own home at Riverside. Mrs. Varley beamed upon him and told him what she thought of his rescuing the baby, while Mr. Varley was especially interested in Joe’s contract and bonus, and his chance of getting into the World’s Series. It is more than likely that the shrewd business man already saw what way the wind was blowing and guessed pretty well the nature of the question that Joe hoped some day to ask him. Reggie was gayer than he had been for a long time, now that he had determined to share his secret with his sister. And Mabel, winsome, sweet, bewitching, worked such havoc with her smiles and eyes and dimples that poor Joe was more hopelessly enslaved than ever.
Before he knew it the time had come for him to go. For just a minute he had her alone while the rest were in another part of the room. She was laughing and toying restlessly with a pair of gloves that rested on the table near which they stood.
“I want the pay for that paper you took from me this morning,” he said, assuming a stern air.
“How are you going to get it?” she bantered. “Perhaps I’m bankrupt.”
“In that case, I’ll take this glove and hold it as security,” he returned, suiting the action to the word.
She flushed adorably but made no protest, and Joe’s fingers trembled as he put the absurdly little glove in his breast pocket.
Just then a warning “honk, honk!” came from Reggie’s car, drawn up at the curb outside.
Joe, half in a daze, said goodby to his hosts, last of all to Mabel. There was no chance for more than a formal leave taking, but Joe’s heart again became unruly, for in her eyes he had seen once more the look she had turned on him in the train.
The two young men made good time to the station, which they reached five minutes before the train from the north rolled in.
“Goodby, old top,” said Reggie, as he shook his hand in parting. “I’m no end glad that I’ve had these few hours with you, don’t you know. You’ve made a new man of me. I feel as though I’d taken a tonic, by Jove.”
“I’ll send you a bill,” laughed Joe, as he returned Reggie’s grip. “Be good to yourself, old man, until I see you again. And don’t forget that you promised to tell Mabel.”
“I’m game,” replied Reggie, as he stepped back into his car.
Joe passed through the station and out on the platform. It was a long train, composed mostly of Pullmans. Joe knew that the New York Club had two special cars chartered especially for their party, and he wondered which they were. He called to a porter.
“Which cars are the Giants traveling on?” he asked.
Into the eyes of the porter came a deep respect. He was a “fan” himself and he sized Joe up at once as a professional.
“Right over here, sah. This way, sah.” And with a deep bow he seized Joe’s bag and led the way to the first of the two cars located near the center of the train.
Joe sprang up the steps and passed into the corridor of the car. A few steps further and he was in the car proper and surrounded by members of the Giant team.
There were perhaps thirty men or thereabouts in the car. Some were playing cards, others telling stories, still others skylarking, while a few were quietly reading or looking out of the windows at the crowd gathered on the station platform. There was an utter absence of formality and restraint, and the prevailing atmosphere was one of good fellowship. Most of the men were well but quietly dressed, although a few were conspicuous by reason of loud ties and silken hose and flashing diamonds. And as Joe looked at the latter he grinned as he thought of his old friend Campbell, the third baseman of the Cardinals, with his love of gaudy raiment and neckwear that could be “heard a mile.”
The light of recognition flashed in many eyes as they lighted on the newcomer, and the next instant Joe was shaking hands warmly with half a dozen who crowded around him.
“Joe Matson, as I live!” cried Hughson, the most famous pitcher in the game. “The man who made me take water last year in New York. I sure am glad to see you, Matson. Our boys are counting on you to get us into the World’s Series this year.”
“I’ll try to do my share,” laughed Joe, “that is, if McRae doesn’t keep me warming the bench. By the way, where is he? I suppose it’s up to me to report to him right away.”
“He’s talking to one of the big muckamucks in the next car,” chimed in Barrett, the Giant second baseman. “How are you, Matson, old man? You look as fine as silk.”
“Been keeping himself in condition by knocking crazy men off lumber piles,” laughed “Red” Curry, the right fielder. “Oh, we’re onto your curves all right. Read all about it in this morning’s paper. Was that straight goods or was it just a reporter’s yarn?”
“The reporter hasn’t let the story lose anything in the telling,” said Joe. “I did bean the fellow, but it was an easy enough shot. But for the love of Pete, boys, don’t hold it against me!”
There was a general laugh, and then Hughson pushed Joe into a seat and sat down beside him. In a few minutes they were in an animated conversation as to the prospects of the team for the coming season.
Joe could not help contrasting his present reception with that he had received when he first broke into the professional ranks. Then he was just a “busher,” a “rookie,” a nobody who had his reputation yet to win. The “old hands” had looked on him patronizingly or contemptuously and flocked by themselves. He had been made to feel that he was outside the pale, and some of the meaner spirits, fearing that he might supplant them later on, had done everything in their power to keep him down. Only a young fellow in his “first season” can know how utterly friendless and forlorn he is sometimes made to feel.
But in baseball, as in everything else, “nothing succeeds like success.” Joe had “arrived.” He had stood the gaff and won his spurs by the hard ordeal of actual battle. He had faced the best batters of the country and outguessed them. He had won his right to a place in the inner circle. And here he was on a plane of equality and talking as a friend and comrade with Hughson, the king of them all.
It was in no spirit of vainglory that Joe recalled these things. His head was not swelled in the slightest degree. He knew how precarious is baseball fame. He knew that the pitcher who one day had to doff his cap to the applause of the crowd might, the next time he appeared, be hooted from the box. But he was profoundly pleased and gratified that he had so far advanced in his profession that he had a recognized standing. He need not now fear that he would not even have a chance to make good. He would have every opportunity and his success or failure would depend on himself alone.
“Yes,” Hughson was saying, “I’ve been looking at the thing from every angle, and I don’t see how any team has a license to beat us out. We’re strong in every position except perhaps one. I won’t say what that is but leave you to find it out for yourself. We’ve got rid of some trouble makers that knocked us out of the pennant last year and just now we’re like some big happy family.”
“How do you dope out the Chicagos?” asked Joe. “Don’t you think they’ll give us a harder fight than any of the other teams?”
“They may,” admitted Hughson, thoughtfully. “They’ve got a terrific batting combination. They led the league in that respect last year. But I think some of their pitchers show signs of slowing up. I hear that Blaney had to go to Bonesetter Reese this winter for some trouble in his salary wing. He’s the most dependable southpaw they have on the staff and if he goes back on them they’ll be in a pretty serious pickle.
“They may have picked up some port side flinger in the draft this winter, but I haven’t heard of any that are likely to set the river afire. Brennan, their manager, though, is as foxy as they make them, and he may have something good under cover.”
“How do you figure Pittsburgh?” asked Joe.
“Pittsburgh doesn’t scare me much,” was the answer. “Of course old Wagner is a team in himself. Isn’t it wonderful how that old slugger keeps on year in and year out? He’s about the only man in the whole league that I’m really afraid of. When he comes up to the plate with that big wagon tongue of his I always feel that he’s more likely to get my number than I am to get his. But he can’t do the work of a whole ball team after all, and the rest of the nine don’t figure out so very strong, to my way of thinking. They’re sure to be in the first division, but I think that lets them out. To tell the truth, I’m more sweet on Boston’s chances than any one else’s, outside of our own.”
“Boston!” ejaculated Joe in surprise. “I didn’t think they had a look in for the flag.”
“Don’t fool yourself,” returned Hughson. “Believe me, that team will bear a lot of watching. They’ve got Rawlings for a manager and he’s one of the most cagey men in the game. He can take a ‘busher’ and develop him into a star quicker than any man I ever saw outside of McRae. I know they say he has a team of cast-offs, but he’s welding them into a winning combination. His weakest spot was the keystone bag, but he’s made a deal with Chicago this winter and got Ebers, the most brainy man who ever played second base. I’ll bet he has the star infield of the league before the year is out.”
“The Giants have good cause to remember Ebers,” laughed Joe.
“You bet we have,” returned Hughson, grimly. “It was his quick thinking that knocked us out of the championship the year that Burkett forgot to touch second. Oh, maybe we weren’t sore that day when we saw our chance to get into the World’s Series go glimmering. We lost at least fifty thousand dollars that afternoon by that one misplay. Poor Burkett himself felt so bad about it that the boys were afraid he was going to lose his mind. The gloom was so thick about the clubhouse that day that you couldn’t cut it with a knife.”
Just then a thick-set man of medium height came through the car and stopped at their seat.
“How are you, Matson?” he asked, pleasantly.
Joe was on his feet in an instant and his hand, outstretched in greeting, grasped that of McRae, the far-famed leader of the Giants.
Hughson got up and relinquished his seat to McRae.
“Sit down here,” he said. “I’ve been chinning with Matson until he’s black in the face and he’ll be glad to get rid of me.”
He grinned at Joe’s laughing disclaimer and made his way up the car while McRae slipped into the vacant seat.
“There goes one of the finest men that ever stepped in shoe leather,” he remarked, as his eye followed Hughson’s tall form up the aisle.
“Isn’t he a prince?” said Joe, eagerly. “You don’t know whether to admire him most as man or player.”
“He’s just about a hundred per cent. in both,” agreed McRae. “He’s been the mainstay of my team for the last ten years. There isn’t enough money in the league to buy him from the Giants. He’s the only man on the team who doesn’t have to go through the regular schedule in the training camp. I let him come along just as he likes, for I know he’ll be fit as a fiddle when the season opens. I don’t mind telling you that I consulted him as to getting you from St. Louis, and it was largely on his advice that I put through the deal.”
“Even his opponents like and respect him,” said Joe. “In swinging round the circuit last year I never heard any one say a word against him. They all agree that he’s a credit to the game.”
“Well, now, how about yourself?” asked McRae, as his keen eye swept over Joe’s athletic form. “You look as though you had been taking care of yourself this winter. Some of my players are hog fat when they report in the spring, but I should judge that you wouldn’t have to lose more than five pounds or so to get down to your best playing weight.”
“Just about that, I guess,” replied Joe. “I’m weighing about one hundred and seventy now, and I always feel most fit when I tip the scales at one hundred and sixty-five.”
“Been doing anything outside the rings and dumb-bells?” McRae inquired.
“I’ve done just enough pitching to keep my arm supple,” answered Joe. “We have a good gymnasium in our town and there have always been enough of the boys around to catch me when I felt like doing a little twirling.”
“How about that bonus clause in the contract?” asked the manager, with a twinkle in his eye. “Are you going to do us out of that extra thousand?”
“Am I going to get a chance to pitch thirty games?” laughed Joe.
McRae grinned.
“I can see that you’ve been figuring on it,” he rejoined. “It’s too early in the season to make any promises. A good deal will depend upon how my veterans come along. But I don’t mind telling you that I’m going to figure you as one of my first-string pitchers and give you your regular turn in the box. The rest will depend on you. I play no favorites. I’m out to win from the first crack of the bat, and it’s the man who wins his games that makes a hit with me. Whether you’ve been ten years in the league or one doesn’t cut any ice.
“I don’t need to ask you whether you drink or not,” he added. “I found out all about that before I put through the deal. Besides, I can tell from looking at you that you’re no booze fighter. I won’t stand for dissipation on my team. I’m pretty lucky this year as far as that goes. A couple of the boys are a little wobbly in the matter of the wet goods, but I think I can make them walk the chalk line until the playing season is over. If they don’t, I’ll trade or sell them. But the rest of the men don’t give me any trouble in that way.”
“You won’t have to worry about me on that score,” Joe assured him. “If I fall down, it will only be because I haven’t it in me to win, it won’t be because I’ve been wrestling with the demon Rum.”
“That’s good,” laughed McRae. “Stick to that and I’ll bet you win your bonus. I’m going to send over one of my rookies to talk to you. I think he has the stuff in him to make a good pitcher and I want you to help and encourage him all you can. He played last year on the Princeton team and made such a good showing that one of our scouts recommended that we give him a trial. But he’s only an amateur and of course he’s got an awful lot to learn. Boost him along all you can.
“By the way,” said McRae, as he rose to leave, “I want to congratulate you on the job you did with that crazy man. It was a nifty bit of work.”
“That thing keeps chasing me everywhere,” laughed Joe. “I can’t get away from it.”
“It’ll make good advertising,” laughed McRae. “There’ll be a big crowd out when you pitch your first game to see the man who can throw a snowball as well as he can a baseball. But what tickled me when I read about it was the quick thinking it showed. That’s what I want on my team. I want a player to be quick in the head as well as in the feet. I haven’t any use for ivory domes.”
It was the first time that Joe had ever had a chance to have a real talk with the famous manager. They had known each other, of course, by sight, and had exchanged occasional nods when they met. And, as Joe had whimsically told his folks, there had been an interchange of chaff in the heat of battle. But now for the first time Joe had a chance to judge of the man on whom his fate would so largely depend during the coming season, and his impression had been a favorable one.
He was familiar with McRae’s record as a player before he had become a manager. He was an intensely aggressive man. Aggressiveness stood out all over him like “the quills on the fretful porcupine.” On the field he was scrappy and fearless and fought like a tiger for every bit of advantage that might help his team to win. He was a terror to umpires and had probably been ordered off the field more times than any manager in the league.
But though he carried his zeal too far at times, and had made many enemies, he had many good qualities that offset his defects. He was generous and fair to his men and protected them against public clamor, when they had incurred the rage of the fickle fans. He kept Burkett, after that ghastly error at second that had lost a championship. Twice he had lost the World’s Series, owing to a muff by the center fielder at the crucial point in the game. But he knew that the man had tried to do his best and he had refused to release him. He was a hard man but he tried to be a just one, and Joe felt sure that he would have every chance to make good under his management.
A tall young fellow came down the car and paused beside the seat.
“Mr. Matson?” he asked.
Joe nodded pleasantly.
“My name is Barclay,” went on the newcomer. “Mr. McRae suggested that I come over and have a talk with you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Joe, as he rose and grasped his hand. “You’re from Princeton, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Barclay. “And you’re from Yale, I understand.”
“That’s right,” replied Joe. “How’s the tiger?”
“Fine,” returned Barclay. “How’s the bulldog?”
They laughed and sat down together. The ice was broken and they were soon talking like old friends. The traditional rivalries of their two colleges gave them an endless number of things to talk about. Joe found him very congenial and intelligent, and Barclay on his part was delighted to find himself on a friendly footing with a college man, who had broken into the big league and “made good.” He had been feeling rather shaky and forlorn, as is the usual custom of “rookies,” and Joe, remembering his own experience, did his best to help him shake off that feeling. So chummy did they become that Joe proposed that they room together during their stay in the training camp. Barclay jumped eagerly at the chance and on a word to the manager the matter was so arranged.
In due time the train rolled into Marlin Springs and the pilgrims disembarked, glad to stretch their legs after the long journey. A big crowd of citizens and officials of the town were on hand to give them a boisterous greeting, and the village band struck up a triumphal march as the band of athletes moved on to the hotel. They made a splendid picture of physical manhood. After the long winter they were eager for the fray. They were like so many greyhounds straining at the leash.
“Look pretty good, don’t they?” remarked McRae to Hughson. “But it isn’t a circumstance to the way they’ll look when I get through with their training and have them ready to take the field.”
The next morning dawned soft and balmy. The air was full of the fragrance of flowers and musical with the singing of birds. To Joe who two days before had been in a region of snow and ice where winter still reigned supreme, it almost seemed as though he had been carried by the carpet of Solomon to some different clime and country.
“Great Scott, but this is regular baseball weather!” he cried, as he looked out of the window. “Get a move on, Jim, and let’s get outdoors as soon as possible. It’s a crime to waste any minute of a morning like this.”
Barclay, thus adjured, scrambled out of bed and they hurried into their clothes.
“What time was it that McRae wanted us to be ready to start for the park this morning?” asked Jim.
“Nine o’clock sharp, and it’s after seven now. We won’t have more than time to get our breakfast and get into our baseball togs.”
They went down to the dining room where a special section had been reserved for the team. Quite a number were already eating the excellent breakfast and others soon straggled in until all were accounted for. There was a general air of hilarity, especially among the older members of the team. The rookies, however, were on edge with nervousness in anticipation of the coming ordeal that meant so much to them. They gulped down their meal in a preoccupied way and conversation lagged in their corner.
By nine o’clock all had changed into their uniforms and had assembled in front of the hotel.
“Where’s the bus?” asked one of the drafted men.
There was a roar of laughter from the old timers.
“The only bus you’ll have will be those two legs of yours,” chuckled Curry. “You’ll start right in now, my bucko, to learn what they were made for.”
The abashed rookie subsided, and just then McRae put in his appearance.
“All here, eh?” he remarked, as his keen eye ran over the group. “Come along then and we’ll jog down to the Park.”
The “jog” proved to be a run of two miles or more. It did not inconvenience Joe to any extent because he was already in fine fettle, but many of the others were winded by the time they reached the gates. But pride kept them from falling behind and none of them cared to take a chance with the rasping tongue of McRae. Besides he was only asking them to do what he was willing to do himself and they soon learned that he worked just as hard to get into condition as any “busher” on the team.
Joe tingled clear to the finger tips as he passed through the entrance and his eye fell on the diamond. For months he had been hungry for baseball. The passion for the game was in his blood, as it has to be if one is going to be a star player. He longed for the music of bat meeting ball. He felt like a colt let out to pasture in the spring.
“Go easy now, boys,” warned McRae. “Don’t get up too much steam all at once. You pitchers, especially, cut out all curves for the first few days. Just straight ones and not too fast at that. You don’t want to do anything more now than just limber up.”
There were a number of bats and balls in the little clubhouse and these were brought quickly into service. The majority of the men scattered out into the field, while others, standing near the plate, batted up flies. Others took the infield positions and passed the ball around the bases. The pitchers paired off with the catchers and tossed up a few easy ones, seldom cutting loose a fast one except at times when the temptation became too hard to resist. McRae wandered around the field watching the action of the different players, putting in a word of criticism or advice here and there, but devoting himself especially to the new men from whom he hoped to cull a certain amount of “big league timber.” No one knew better than he how hard this was to get. He had thirty or more prospects on hand to develop, but if he really got two or three first-class men out of that number he would feel amply repaid for all the trouble and expense.
At noon they ran back to the hotel for dinner and returned for a two-hour session in the afternoon. They felt pretty tired when night came and they slept like logs. The next morning all were lame and sore and there were demands for arnica and a massage. But McRae believed that one is cured by “the hair of the dog that bites him,” and he insisted on the two sessions just the same although he limited the time for each. By the end of a week most of the soreness had disappeared and the men were as spry as kittens.
“Now,” McRae announced one morning, “we’re going to have some real practice. I’m going to split the squad into two teams. One will be called the Giants and the other the Yannigans. We’ll only play six inning games at the start, but I want them to be for blood. Most of the regulars will be on the Giant team, but I give you old timers fair warning that if any of the Yannigans play better ball than you do they’ll get your job.”
To equalize matters somewhat, he let the Yannigans have one of the first string pitchers, but for the rest they had to stand or fall on their merits. And the Yannigans soon proved that they were not to be despised. They wanted to show McRae what they could do, and they “worked their heads off” to defeat their rivals. More than once they had that satisfaction, although in the majority of games, as was to be expected, they came off second best.
The pitching staff too was now sent through its paces. Robson, the famous old time catcher of the Orioles and a warm friend of McRae’s, had special charge of this work. For developing young pitchers he had no equal in the country.
He had a tip from McRae to pay especial attention to young Barclay, of whom the manager had great hopes. Jim had a good fast ball and a fair variety of curves. But during his last year at Princeton he had been coached by one of the greatest spit ball pitchers in the country and had developed a very effective form of that puzzling delivery.
Neither McRae nor Robson favored the “moist” ball overmuch, as they thought it took too much out of the twirler and put too big a strain on his pitching arm. Chesebro, who discovered it and Ed Walsh of the Chicagos who perfected it, had both been worn out before their time. Still, as no other pitcher on the Giants used it and Barclay was willing to take the chance, they were not averse to letting him show what he could do. And Robson soon had to admit that what he could do was “plenty.” Before long, it had become clear that, whoever might be sent back to the bushes, Jim would not be among them.
As for Joe himself, he had never been in finer shape at the beginning of a season. He had “speed to burn.” The ball shot over the plate, like a bullet from a gun. His control was nearly perfect. He made the ball fairly “talk.” He won a game from the strong Houston team with comparative ease and saved another from Waco after Markwith had been batted out of the box.
“You’re playing like a house afire, Joe,” said Jim, after this last game. “I’ll bet you’ve got a rabbit’s foot concealed about you somewhere.”
“Rabbit’s foot be hanged,” laughed Joe. “I know a trick worth two of that.”
Could Joe have referred to a dainty little glove that nestled in his pocket?
In what estimation Joe was held by the “powers that be” may be inferred from a scrap of conversation that passed between McRae and Robson as the team was working its way north, after training days were over, to open the season at the Polo Grounds.
“What do you think of Matson, Robbie, old boy?” asked McRae.
“What do I think?” said Robson, emphatically. “I think he’s going to be a second Hughson.”
“How are you feeling, Joe?” asked Jim, as the men were dressing in the clubhouse, preparatory to going on the field for the first game of the championship race.
“Like a fighting cock,” answered Joe. “How are you?”
“A bit shaky,” confessed Jim. “My heart keeps coming up in my throat and I have to keep swallowing it all the time.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” chaffed Joe. “Neither you nor I will have anything to do today but root for the rest of the boys. That’s a moral certainty.”
“You can’t sometimes most always tell,” quoted Jim. “Nothing is certain in baseball.”
“No,” admitted Joe, as he adjusted his belt. “But it’s a cinch that Hughson will pitch today. He always does in the first game. An opening day without Hughson in the box would be like the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out.”
“Gee!” interrupted Larry Barrett as he glanced through the door in the direction of the stands. “Take a squint at that crowd! I’ll bet all New York is here today.”
It was the great day of the season, the day to which the hungry baseball enthusiasts in the metropolis had looked forward all through the winter and early spring. For days the fans had been in an ever increasing fever of excitement. The papers had been full of predictions as to the chances of the New Yorks for the flag. There had been pictures of the team individually and in groups together with their fielding and batting averages. There had been rosy stories of the way they had been “breaking fences” in the training camp, and there were hints that McRae had uncovered one or two “phenoms” who would make the rooters sit up and take notice. The whole population of the city that had a drop of red blood in its veins was on tiptoe with expectation.
The day had dawned clear and bright, and for hours before the time for the game to start the trains and trolleys had been disgorging their crowds at the gates. The far famed Polo Grounds had never been in more superb condition. The diamond was like so much soft green velvet. The white markings of the base lines were dazzling by way of contrast with the green. Boxes, grandstands and bleachers were filled to overflowing with a hilarious, good-natured crowd, that was out for a good time and determined to have it. Long before the time for starting the game, it became evident that “ground rules” would have to be established, making a hit into the crowd only good for two bases, no matter how far it went.
The Boston “Braves” were to cross bats with the Giants, and there was a keen curiosity in the crowd to see how “Rawling’s cast-offs” would shape up, although few gave them more than an outside chance to win.
“Line up now, boys, for the grand march,” sang out Robson, as he bustled into the clubhouse.
The team came out and got into line, McRae and Hughson leading. The Bostons joined them and the two teams came down to the plate amid an uproar of boisterous applause. The leaders clasped hands at the plate, the movie men, who were there in droves, set their machines going, and then the members of the two teams broke ranks and scattered for preliminary practice. This was snappy and lightning fast, and “stunts” were pulled off by both teams that brought the crowds to their feet.
Then the bell rang for the game to begin. The mayor of the city threw out the first ball. Hughson caught it and returned it to the mayor’s wife to keep as a souvenir, after first writing his autograph on it at her request. Then he took his place in the box, the first Boston batter came to the plate, the umpire cried “Play ball!” and the championship race was on in earnest.
Joe and Jim had warmed up together with the other pitchers and now sat on the bench together with the rest of the New York team who were not actually playing in the game.
“Watch that drop. Wasn’t it a beauty?” commented Joe enthusiastically, as the first ball eluded the batter’s savage swing and fell with a thud into the catcher’s glove.
“It was a lulu, all right,” agreed Jim. “If that’s a sample of what the old boy has in stock today, they’ll break their backs going after them.”
The first man proved an easy victim by the “strike out route,” the second dribbled a slow roller to the box that Hughson got to first in plenty of time, and the third succumbed to a high foul that Mylert, the catcher, gathered in close to the right of first base. It was a quick inning and Hughson was greeted with cheers as he walked in.
“That’s the way, Hughie, old boy!”
“You’ve got them buffaloed!”
“They’re dead ones already!”
“They can’t touch you!”
But the Boston pitcher soon showed that he was also in fine fettle, and though the New Yorks got a man to first on a fumble by the third baseman, he got no further and the inning ended as a scoreless tie.
For three more innings the same state of things persisted, although the Giants gathered three hits while only one had been made off Hughson.
“We’re getting on to him though,” said Barrett, as he came back to the bench, referring to Leonard, the Boston pitcher. “He’s got a high, fast one that he winds around your neck, but his curves aren’t such a much. About the sixth inning we’ll start in to plug him.”
But the “Braves” had views of their own on “plugging,” and by one of the “breaks” of the game they were the first to score.
It was in the first part of the fifth inning. Willis, their first man up, had got to first through an infield hit that took a high bound just as Barrett had set himself for it and went over his head. The next player lay down a perfect sacrifice bunt which Denton, the Giant third baseman, got in time to put his man out at first though he could not prevent Willis reaching second. Hughson put on steam and struck out the next batter on three pitched balls, and the crowd breathed more easily. But the glorious uncertainty that makes the game what it is was shown when the Boston right fielder sent a beauty to left just inside the third base line that scored Willis although the batter by quick fielding was held at first.
The Boston rooters went wild while the New Yorkers sat glum and silent. Their opponents had scored “first blood” and in as close a game as that one promised to be that lone run loomed up like a mountain.
“Never mind, old man,” said McRae to Hughson, as the latter walked in after the third man had been caught stealing. “The game’s young yet. We’ll see that run and go them one better.”
But the seventh inning came with the Bostons still in the lead.
“The lucky seventh,” was the cry that went through the stands. “All stretch!” And the fans went through the time-honored exercise while they whooped it up for their favorites.
“Now Larry!” they yelled as Barrett strode up to the plate, “hit it a mile! Show them where you live!”
Larry, who had led the National League in hitting the previous year, tapped both heels for luck, squared himself and glared fiercely at the pitcher.
That individual glared back and sent the ball hurtling over the plate. It chanced to be a low, fast one, the kind that Larry doted on. He caught it square on the end of his bat. It went screaming out over the center fielder’s head. On a clear field it would have been an easy home run, but in accordance with the ground rules it only counted for a two bagger. Larry perched on second with a broad grin on his face while the stands went crazy.
“We’ve got him now!” cried McRae. “He’s going up in the air.”
The next batter put up a high fly to right, which was caught after a hard run, Barrett making third on the out.
The next man up was Red Curry. He looked so formidable as he swung his bat that the pitcher thought it advisable to pass him to first on four wide ones.
“He’s getting rattled!” yelled McRae. “We’ve got his goat!”
But the soundness of the pitcher’s judgment was vindicated a moment later when the next batter, Lewis, hit into a force play, so skilfully managed that while a man was out at second Larry was held at third. The crowd groaned as they saw the vision of a run go glimmering, but roared with delight a moment later when Becker scorched a hot one between second and third, bringing in Larry with the tying run. And their joy became delirium when Byrnes cracked a beauty to right and Lewis got home by a great slide to the plate.
The Giant players threw their caps in the air and Joe and Jim hugged each other in their glee.
“We’re in the lead now,” chortled Joe, “and we can trust old Hughson to hold them down.”
The Boston pitcher pulled himself together and made the next batter put up a high foul that was caught by the first baseman, making the third out. But nobody cared. The Giants were ahead and there were only two innings to go.
In the Boston half of the eighth, the first man went out on a fly to center and the second “fanned.” The third hit a teasing bounder to the left of the box. Hughson made a great try, but in doing so he wrenched his knee badly. He got his man at first but when he came in to the bench he was limping and was evidently in great pain. McRae, Robson and the trainer gathered round him and massaged the knee vigorously.
“Do you think you can stay it out, Hughson?” asked McRae with great anxiety. “There’s only one more inning you know.”
“I’ll try to,” was the answer. “But in the meantime you’d better warm up another pitcher.”
McRae and Robson had a hurried conference.
“I’d put in Markwith,” said McRae, “but these Bostons are death on southpaws.”
“Try Matson,” suggested Robson. “I noticed he was going great guns in practice.”
“It’s a big risk before this crowd for his first time out,” said McRae, dubiously. “But we’ll have to chance it.”
He hurried over to Joe.
“Get out and warm up, Matson,” he said, briefly. “I may have to put you in for the ninth.”
Joe’s head whirled. To follow the great Hughson! And before this record-breaking crowd!
Then he took a grip on himself.
“All right,” he answered, and taking Weldon, one of the Giant reserve catchers, he went off toward the further end of the stand and began warming up.
But the inning was very short, as the Boston pitcher was on his mettle and retired the side in one-two-three order. Long before Joe had really warmed up, the New Yorks took the field.
Hughson went out gamely to the box, trying to hide his limp as much as possible. But the Boston players recognized that this was their chance. One run would tie and two would win. It was now or never, and their heavy batters were coming up.
Hughson, with all his pluck, could not perform miracles. He tried to put all his skill and cunning into his pitching, but his wounded knee refused to back him up. There were men on first and second, with none out, when he signaled to McRae.
“It’s no use, Mac,” he said, as the latter came over to him. “I can’t bear my weight on my foot so as to get any power behind the ball. We’ve still got a chance if you put in Matson.”
So Joe, at a signal from the manager, took up the pitcher’s burden with two men on bases and none out, while the Boston coachers danced up and down on the coaching lines, yelling like mad men and doing all they could to rattle him.