“Ladies and gentlemen!” roared the umpire, taking off his cap, “Matson now pitching for the New Yorks!”
There was a yell of applause from the packed stands to greet the newcomer. There had been a great deal of curiosity stirred up by the newspaper accounts of Joe’s exploit with the madman, and the crowd was in a friendly mood. Besides, they realized that they ought to encourage him at this critical time when the game hung in the balance. So they cheered him loyally, though not many thought he could win with such a handicap.
Some of them remembered, however, how this same young pitcher had tamed their own Giants the last game of the previous season and realized that there was still a fighting chance.
Succeeding the first wild yell, a deathlike silence settled over the stands as Joe wound up for the first ball.
Straight as an arrow it darted toward the plate, breaking into a wide outcurve as the batter lunged at it.
“Strike one!” called the umpire, and a cheer went up.
The next two were balls at which the batter declined to “bite.”
“Strike two!” called the umpire as the next one cut the plate.
The next was a ball.
“He’s in the hole now!” yelled the Boston coachers. “He can’t get it over. He’s going up.”
Joe did his best to get the next one over the rubber, but he had not warmed up enough yet to get perfect control, and the umpire waved the batter down to first. He ran down, laughing derisively, while his comrades moved up to second and third.
“All over now but the shouting,” was the cry that went up from the enemy’s coaching lines. “We don’t need to hit the ball. Just leave him alone and he’ll win the game for us.”
Larry came in from second, ostensibly to consult with Joe, but really to give him a moment’s breathing space.
“Keep your nerve, old man,” he counseled. “We’ll get them yet. We’re all with you.”
“I know it, Larry,” said Joe, gratefully.
“Play ball!” yelled the Bostons.
“Write him a letter!”
“Hire a hall!”
But Larry was too old a bird to mind their jeers and he took his time in getting back to his position.
Joe knew that the next batsman, depending upon his being wild, would not attempt to strike at the first balls served but would try to “wait him out.” So he put two perfect strikes across the plate. The batter grew serious and set himself for the next which he figured would also be a strike. But Joe outguessed him and fed him a slow one that he frantically struck at before it reached the plate.
“You’re out!” called the umpire, and the stands broke into thunderous applause.
Still, there were three on bases and a long fly to the outfield, even if caught, would probably bring the man in from third with the tying run. At all costs Joe must keep the ball on the ground within the limits of the infield where a play could be made for the plate.
He measured the next Boston man carefully as he came to the plate. He was the heaviest batter on the team, and his mates begged him vociferously to “line it out.”
“It only takes one to do it.”
“Give it a ride!”
“Hit it on the seam!”
The batter shook his bat at Joe.
“Put it over if you know how,” he jibed, “and I’ll kill it.”
He was a trifle less confident, however, when a speedy one cut the plate breast high, missing his bat by six inches.
“That’s no way to kill a ball,” taunted Joe.
The batter was trying to think up a retort, when Joe, without waiting to wind up, slipped one over before he was expecting it.
“Strike two!” called the umpire.
“Clever work, Matson!” called out McRae delightedly, while a tempest of cheering swept the stands.
The next one was a low outcurve that the batter reached for and connected with. It shot like a bullet straight at Joe, but above his head. If his team had had a big lead, Joe would have dodged and left it to his fielders, for it was almost deadly to face it at that distance. But he leaped high in the air and it stuck in his glove. All the men on bases, thinking it was a sure hit, were legging it for home. Like a flash Joe turned and shot it down to third, completing a beautiful double play.
Three men were out, the game was over and the Giants had won by a score of two to one!
The lightning like quickness of the play had dumbfounded spectators and players alike. Only for an instant, however. Then a roar went up that could have been heard for a mile, and the crowd swept down from the stands. Joe saw them coming and made a break for the clubhouse. He got away from the grandstands but the bleachers intercepted him, and for the last twenty yards he had to force his way through a surging mob who tried to grab his hand or clap him on the shoulder or in a hundred ways tried to express their appreciation of his work. It was with a sigh of relief that he found himself at last within the welcome shelter of the club’s quarters.
His comrades were not far behind him and came tumbling in pell-mell, filled with delight at having the game snatched from the fire at the last moment.
“Gee!” said Larry. “That was a close call! I never saw a prettier double!”
“You’re some pitcher, Joe!” cried Red Curry. “I thought we were goners sure with those three men on the bags.”
McRae and Robson hurried in, their features one broad grin.
“You saved the day, Matson!” exclaimed the former. “I admit I was a little scared when you went in with such odds against you. But you stood the gaff all right.”
“We’ve got the jump on the other fellows by copping the first game,” said Robson. “It’s a great thing to get away to a running start. It puts heart and courage into the team, and that certainly would have been a hard game to lose.”
“It was Hughson’s game after all,” protested Joe. “It was his magnificent pitching that held them down to one run up to the ninth. All I had to do was to hold them there.”
“Of course we know what Hughson is,” said McRae, “but we weren’t quite so sure what you would be when brought face to face with a pinch. All I ask you to do is to keep up the way you’ve started.”
Joe would not have been human if he had not felt jubilant at these words of praise from the head of the team. But it did not make him lose his head. He knew that the same tongue that gave him credit now would be quite as ready to “skin him alive” if he failed to do his best. If “eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,” Joe knew that it was also the price of success in his chosen profession. No baseball player can rely on the great things he did yesterday. He must be prepared to do them today and tomorrow also. The same public that today had overwhelmed him with applause might in a few days be demanding that he be taken out of the box. And knowing this, Joe resolved that he would never give less than the very best that was in him. He would have his bad days—every pitcher has—but it would never be from lack of trying.
But whatever the future might have in store for him, today at least was his. The honey of success was on his tongue and it was very sweet. He had made good in his first game in the metropolis. In the words of Robson, he had “got off to a running start.”
He whistled blithely as after his shower and rubdown, he got into his clothes and, accompanied by Jim, passed out into the street.
“Well, Joe, the Giants trimmed the Braves good and proper,” chuckled Jim, for the twentieth time referring to the thing that loomed largest in the minds of both.
“We certainly did, but we must remember that ‘one swallow doesn’t make a summer!’” answered Joe. “We’ll have our own scalps taken many a time before the season’s over. As it was, we had a mighty close call. Those ‘cast-offs,’ as they call them, played like champions, and perhaps Hughson was right when he said that they were the ones we would have to look out for.”
“Perhaps so,” assented Jim. “But I’m rather sweet on Chicago for the runner-up. I see by the bulletin board that they whipped Cincinnati by twelve to three. Those fellows are terrors with the stick. You’ll have to do your prettiest when you stack up against them, Joe.”
“None of the teams are going to be easy meat,” was the answer. “They’re better balanced than they’ve been for several years. There isn’t one of them that can’t be figured to have a chance.”
“That’s the way I like to see them,” declared Jim. “There’s no fun in having one or two teams out in the lead so far that there’s no chance of the others catching up.”
“I wonder whether that trouble with his knee is going to lay Hughson up,” remarked Joe, after they had taken their seats in the elevated train and were being whirled to their hotel downtown. “It would be a pretty serious thing for the nine if he were out of the running. He’s the backbone of the team.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be anything serious,” said Jim. “I overheard Farley, the trainer, telling McRae that Hughson would be as well as ever in a week.”
“I suppose Markwith will go in tomorrow,” remarked Joe.
“Quite likely,” assented Jim. “Although those Bostons just eat up left-handed pitching. I shouldn’t wonder if McRae would put you in again. You only pitched one inning and I don’t suppose that has tired you much.”
“Not a bit,” replied Joe. “Still, I think that Bugs Hartley is more likely to be called on. He warmed up well in practice before the game and seems to be in prime condition. Besides, he might feel slighted if McRae doesn’t start him. He seemed sore when I was called on today.”
“Did you notice that, too?” asked Jim. “I thought he acted mighty queer in the clubhouse this afternoon. All of the other fellows were tickled to death that we won, but Hartley seemed to have a grouch on. You don’t suppose he’s small enough to grudge you your victory, do you?”
“I should hope not,” answered Joe. “I don’t see why he should. I’ve gone out of my way to be pleasant to him. He’s an odd fellow, but he’s a mighty good pitcher, and I wish him all the luck in the world.”
“Bugs” Hartley, as he had been dubbed on account of his erratic ways, had been on the Giant team for two seasons. As long as he took care of himself, he ranked among the best pitchers of the league. But he had a weakness for liquor and other forms of dissipation, and McRae had been sorely tried in his attempts to keep him within the bounds of discipline. Several times Hartley had left the team in the lurch by going off on sprees just when they most needed his services. But he had pleaded so eagerly for another chance, when threatened with dismissal, that McRae, though with many misgivings, had kept him on his staff in the hope that he might ultimately reform him.
He had an intensely jealous nature and had been much disgruntled when the deal had been put through that had brought Joe to the Giants. He figured that now McRae would feel so strong in the box that he would be more ready to dispense with his own services the next time he should kick over the traces. And the triumph of the newcomer that afternoon of the first game had been gall and wormwood to Hartley.
“I wonder when I’m going to get my chance or whether I’m going to get any chance at all,” mused Jim.
“You’ll get your chance in good time all right,” declared Joe, confidently. “You’re a fixture on the team. Don’t worry about that.”
“I’m not a bit sure of that,” said Jim, dubiously. “McRae hasn’t told me so yet, and perhaps my head will fall into the basket when the time comes for him to reduce the team to the twenty-two man limit.”
“I’ve had a straight tip from Hughson that McRae means to keep you,” said Joe. “So make your mind easy on that score. As for your chance to play, you’ll have to be patient. You may have to sit on the bench for a while, but then again you may be in harness in a month. The only thing to do is to go ahead with your practice for all that you’re worth and saw wood.”
The campaign that opened that day at the Polo Grounds proved to be a hot one. During the first three weeks the Eastern clubs played among themselves, and the Western clubs did the same. Following the Braves at the Polo Grounds came the Phillies and the Brooklyn Superbas, and then the Giants in their turn visited the grounds of their opponents. The games were bitterly contested, for this year the Eastern teams were scheduled to go West before the Westerners invaded the East, and each was eager to start on the trip with a substantial lead already gained. It was nip and tuck, with now one team, now another at the head of the column, but the net result was that when the teams took the train for the West the Giants were in the lead by a narrow margin of only half a game over the Phillies, while the other two were bunched close up.
“I’m glad anyway that we make the first trip West instead of it being the other way,” remarked Joe to Jim, as they dropped into their seats in the Pullman that was to take them to St. Louis, where they were to open. “We’ll have the big advantage of winding up the season on our own grounds, and in a close race such as this promises to be, that may make all the difference in the world.”
“Right you are,” answered Jim. “And here’s hoping that our last game at the Polo Grounds may end like the first—in victory.”
It was with a thrill that Joe gathered up his hand-baggage when the train rolled into the Union Station at St. Louis. Here was the city where he had first broken into the big league, where he had fought his first battles and won his spurs in fast company. If he had not played on the Cardinals, he might not have attracted the attention of McRae and been traded to the Giants; if he had not been on the Giants he would not have had his present chance of getting into the World’s Series; if he should get into that dreamed of Series there would be that neat little sum with which to start housekeeping—and here Joe put his hand into his breast pocket to touch that little glove.
His pleasant musings were interrupted by a vigorous clap on the shoulder and the sound of a well-remembered voice.
“Hello, Joe, old man!” it said, and the next instant Joe was shaking hands with good old Rad Chase, who had come down to meet him.
“Rad, old boy, there’s no man on earth I’d rather meet,” he declared, after introducing him to Jim. “How are things going in little old St. Louis?”
“Fine as silk,” grinned Rad. “The only thing we’re missing is the eminent Mr. Matson on our team. If we had him, we’d make a mighty strong bid for the flag. I see that you’ve been up to your old tricks in New York. They’re beginning to put your name and Hughson’s together when they talk of the Giants’ chances to win the pennant.”
“You mustn’t believe all you hear,” laughed Joe. “But I’m glad to see that you’re cleaning up things here in the West. Those three straight from Chicago last week was some ball playing.”
“Let’s hope it isn’t only a spurt,” said Rad. “We need some Giant scalps in our wigwam just now. About three out of four will do.”
“Guess again,” laughed Joe. “But tell me how are the old boys? How is Campbell? Has he got any new neckties this year?”
“Has he?” grinned Rad. “He showed me one yesterday that had a regular delirium-tremens effect. I’m afraid to go to sleep for fear I’ll dream of it.”
“Come up to the hotel with us and have dinner,” invited Joe, as he signaled for a taxi.
“You bet I will,” replied Rad, heartily. “I’ve got a hundred things I want to talk to you about and now that I’ve got my hooks on you, I’m not going to let go in a hurry.”
They had a royal meal and a delightful evening together, and about ten o’clock Rad rose to go.
“Barclay and I’ll go with you a way,” said Joe. “McRae doesn’t care, as long as we’re back by eleven.”
They strolled through the brilliantly lighted streets until they had reached Rad’s home and then Joe and Jim Barclay started to return.
Finding that they were a little later than they thought, they were making a short cut through a side street, when their attention was drawn to a man who emerged with unsteady steps from a saloon on the corner. There was something familiar about him, although they could not get a clear view of his face.
Suddenly Joe gave vent to a startled ejaculation:
“Great Scott, Jim!” he exclaimed, “it’s Bugs Hartley!”
“So it is,” replied Jim, looking more closely. “And he’s pretty well loaded. What’ll McRae say?”
“What he’ll say will be plenty,” returned Joe, “and he won’t stop with talking. He’ll fire him from the team. Look here, Jim, we’ve got to get him into the hotel without Mac seeing him.”
“How are we going to do it?” asked Jim.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to try. Hello, Hartley,” he called, coming up beside the man.
Hartley turned and looked at our hero sourly.
“Hello yourself,” he said with a lurch. “Whaz mazher?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” replied Joe, “except that you’d better come home with us right away. It’s nearly eleven o’clock and it’s time we were in bed. We don’t want McRae to make the rounds and find our rooms empty. Come along.”
Hartley, with an intoxicated man’s stubbornness, was inclined to argue the question, but Joe and Jim ranged themselves alongside and half urged, half dragged him along, until they drew near the hotel.
“You stay here,” directed Joe, who had thought out a way of smuggling his team-mate into the hotel, “while I go on and fix things up.”
He slipped in and found the head porter to whom he passed a bill, at the same time telling him what he wanted. The porter suggested that they go through the servant’s quarters in the rear of the hotel and upstairs by a freight elevator that he arranged to have in readiness. Joe went back to where he had left the others, and by dint of strenuous efforts he and Jim finally got Hartley up to his room without detection. There they surrendered him to the tender mercy of his room-mate, who helped him to get undressed and put him to bed.
Joe and Jim adjourned to their own room. They were flustered and distressed. They felt bitterly indignant at Hartley who, by his recklessness, was threatening to wreck the chances of the team. Yet they felt that they could not have acted differently from what they had.
“He’s a peach, isn’t he?” said Jim, indignantly.
“That’s what he is,” returned Joe. “And it’s his regular turn to go in the box tomorrow. He’ll be in fine condition to pitch. They’ll knock him all over the lot.”
“Just when the team was moving along so smoothly,” groaned Jim. “It’s like throwing a monkey wrench into a ship’s engines. Before you know it, the whole thing’s ready for the scrap heap.”
“It’s too bad,” assented Joe. “But all we can do is to hope that it won’t happen again. Perhaps when he comes to his senses, he’ll realize what a close call he’s had and cut out the liquor for good.”
As Joe had predicted, the Cardinals made merry with Hartley’s curves the next day and won the game with ease. Joe put the second game on the right side of the ledger, and Hughson accounted for the third. Markwith had a bad day, however, in the concluding game, and the team had to be satisfied with an even break, where they had fondly hoped for three out of four or possibly a clean sweep.
They were a trifle luckier in Chicago, where they won two out of three, rain preventing the last game. Cincinnati yielded three straight, though the Queen Cityites took the fourth, and in Pittsburgh, where they wound up their first Western invasion, they broke even.
“Not so bad for a road trip, nine out of fifteen,” said Larry Barrett, as he was talking it over with Joe. “As a matter of fact it’s better than we did at home. But the Giants always have been a good road team. But now you’ve had a chance to size up every team in the league. You’ve seen their weak points and their strong ones. Tell me straight, who do you think will win the pennant?”
“The Giants,” replied Joe, without a second’s hesitation.
“That listens good,” laughed Larry. “There’s nothing like feeling sure of a thing. I only hope you’re right.”
But a time was coming when Joe would have given a great deal to be half as sure as he was that afternoon.
The Giants were hailed with acclamations by the New York press and public on their return. The sporting critics agreed that the team had been “licked into shape” by their astute manager in a surprisingly short time. One enthusiast even went so far as to hail them as the coming champions, a thing which vexed McRae, who knew too much of the ups and downs of baseball to want to claim a pennant before it was won.
He himself had more than one thing to worry about. The team had “got by” so far through the marvelous pitching of Hughson and Joe. Not only had they won a large proportion of their games, but they had relieved the other pitchers when games were all but lost and pulled them out of the fire. But where he had fondly counted on four first string pitchers, he suddenly found himself reduced to two who were really pitching “up to form.”
Markwith had proved to be not nearly so good as in the preceding year. He still possessed marvelous speed and his curves were breaking well, but he lacked endurance. Part of this was due, perhaps, to his winter on the vaudeville stage, with its irregular hours and feverish atmosphere, and part also to the wonderful record of nineteen straight the season before. Perhaps the great strain had sapped his stamina. Whatever the cause, he could not be relied on for a full nine inning game. For six innings, he would pitch with all his old time skill and power. Then would come a bad inning and—bang! to an accompaniment of base hits, the game would go up in smoke.
Hartley also seemed to be going to pieces. His nerves were on edge. He was sullen, moody and erratic. He had never been any too strong mentally, and the life he lived had undermined his physical strength. There were times when he pitched a brilliant game and showed flashes of his old ability, but these were steadily growing fewer. McRae had by turns coaxed and threatened, but he had almost reached the limit of his patience, and Hartley’s stay with the Giants hung by a thread that might snap at any moment.
A bright element in the outlook was the very evident fact that Jim Barclay was a “comer.” Twice McRae had ventured to put him in against the weaker teams. In one case he had won, and in the other held the enemy to a tie. But he was not yet ripe enough to take a regular turn in the box. Joe helped him all he could, and Robson, who tried him out each morning, was sure that in time he would develop into a star.
Joe was jubilant at the success he had met with so far. He felt stronger and better physically than he had ever felt in his life. His arm was giving him no trouble, despite the unusual demands made upon it, and he never shirked or complained if he was called out of his regular turn. As Robson confided to McRae, they had found a man at last who was a “glutton for work.”
But Joe had another object of devotion outside of his attachment to his team, and shortly after the return from the first Western trip he was lifted into the seventh heaven of delight by the receipt of a dainty letter in feminine handwriting that told him Mabel was coming to New York. She did not know how long she should stay, but it would be for a week at least. Reggie was coming with her. She was not sure at what hotel she should stop, but if Joe would like to have her do so, she would call him up by ’phone and tell him where she was stopping.
If Joe would like!
His blood raced wildly a few days later when he took up the telephone and heard Mabel’s voice.
“Is that you, Joe?” she asked. “This is Mabel.”
“Don’t I know it?” he answered. “Tell me quick where you are!”
“I’m at the Marlborough,” she answered, “but——”
“Yes, I know,” said Joe. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He raced to the street, hailed a taxi, and in less than the promised ten minutes stood in the presence of the one person on earth he most wanted to see.
Joe had thought that it was impossible for her to be prettier or sweeter than she had been in Goldsboro, but now he knew that he had been mistaken.
“How impetuous you are!” she pouted. “You didn’t let me finish what I was saying on the ’phone.”
“I suppose a man dying of thirst is impetuous when he catches sight of water,” answered Joe. “I suppose——”
But what Joe supposed was destined to remain unspoken at that time, for just then Reggie, who had been down at the hotel office, came into the room. If he had only waited five minutes longer! Perhaps even Mabel could have been reconciled to her brother’s absence, if the blood that dyed her cheeks was any indication.
“How are you, old chap?” cried Reggie, wholly unaware that he was not wanted. “I’m no end glad to see you, don’t you know. So glad that you looked us up. I hope you’ll find time to go around with us a lot while we’re here.”
“I certainly will if you will let me,” declared Joe, shaking hands with his friend. “Our team is playing at home all this week, thank fortune. I want you to be my guest at as many of the games as you care to see, and in the evenings we can take in some of the plays that are running in town, or take trips down to the seashore. There’s no better summer resort after all than little old New York.”
“I agree with you there, old man,” answered Reggie, “and we’ll be glad to put the matter to the test. But tonight I want you to stay and take dinner with us at the hotel.”
And as Mabel seconded the invitation, Joe did not have to be urged very hard. As a matter of fact, in his present mood it would have taken something like a crane and derrick to remove him from what had suddenly become the most interesting place in New York.
They had a most enjoyable dinner and it was only after he had returned to his hosts’ rooms that Joe broached the subject of Talham Tabbs.
“Have you had any news of your securities?” he asked, when he had Reggie for a moment alone.
A frown came over his friend’s face.
“Not a blessed thing doing,” he declared. “I’ve run down every clue that had the least promise to it and I’m just as far away from getting them back as I’ve been from the beginning. I guess they’re past praying for.”
“Of course, you told Mabel as you promised?” ventured Joe.
“Sure thing,” said Reggie. “I told her that very night. The dear girl has helped and cheered me up in every way possible. She’s pure gold.”
Joe assented to this with what might have seemed almost unnecessary emphasis.
“Never give up the ship though, old man,” he encouraged. “We’ll lay that fellow by the heels yet. Soon or late we’ll nab him.”
“We’ll hope so,” said Reggie, with a faint smile; and as Mabel came over just then to where they were standing, the theme was changed.
They decided on several ways to pass the week agreeably, and among other things it was settled that they should visit the Bronx Zoo, of which Mabel had often heard and which had just been adding largely to its already wonderful collection.
The next day the Giants were to play the Brooklyns, but when Joe looked out of the window, he saw that the rain was falling steadily.
“No game today if this keeps up,” was his mental comment.
It did keep up until afternoon, and the game was called off. At two o’clock it cleared, and Joe called up Mabel and suggested that they should go to the Zoo that afternoon. Reggie was engaged downtown, but Mabel complied gladly with the suggestion.
They had passed two delightful hours wandering about in the famous Park when, just as they were nearing one of the animal houses, there was a sudden commotion and the crowd scattered in all directions. From within came the hoarse shouts of keepers, and attendants came running with ropes and pitchforks.
“Look out!” they shouted. “Run for your lives! Get inside the other houses! The leopard is loose!”
There was a wild panic, and the crowd rushed frantically for shelter. The doorways were blocked by a frantic, struggling mob. The screams of women and frightened children blended with the deeper shouts of the men, and the result was pandemonium.
Joe saw that there was no chance of getting inside. He seized Mabel by the arm and hurried down one of the side paths, at the foot of which was a small toolhouse whose door he saw was open.
They had nearly reached it when Mabel gave a stifled shriek.
“Look!” she cried, and pointed to a clump of bushes at the side of the path and about twenty feet away.
Joe looked, and for a moment his heart stood still.
Crouching at the foot of the bushes with his tail moving slowly to and fro, was a large leopard, his yellow eyes glowing wickedly and every muscle stiffened as he prepared for a spring.
Joe had never carried a weapon, and even if he had had a revolver it is doubtful whether it would have stopped that huge body if it had come hurtling toward them. He looked wildly about him after he had thrust Mabel behind a bench.
At his feet was a jagged piece of rock weighing perhaps a pound. It was a forlorn chance but his only one.
Like a flash, he stooped, grasped it firmly, and hurled it with all his might at the leopard. The distance was so short that he could not miss, and the rock caught the brute in the neck just under the ear. There was a scream of pain and rage, the topaz glow faded from the eyes, and the beast collapsed in a crumpled heap.
Joe did not wait an instant. He was not sure whether the brute was killed or merely stunned. He took Mabel by the arm and half carrying her got her to one of the gates. He put her into a taxi standing at the curb and they were whirled downtown to the Marlborough. She was white and shaken at their narrow escape and Joe himself was by no means calm. If anything had happened to Mabel! He shuddered at the thought.
“Oh, Joe, you have saved my life!” she exclaimed, when she could speak coherently. “That horrible brute!” she shuddered.
Joe wanted to tell her why that life was so [see Tr. Notes] precious to him and to urge that since he had saved it, it fairly belonged to him. But this would have been taking her at a disadvantage just then and he contented himself with the warm pressure of the little hand that rested in his and showed no inclination to withdraw.
Joe chuckled to himself the next day, as he read the highly-colored stories in the papers bearing on the happening at the Park. The leopard had escaped while it was being transferred from one cage to another, and had afterward been found dead with a broken neck in a side path of the Park. There was a good deal of speculation as to how it had been killed, but apart from the fact that it had been due to a blow nothing was positively known. It was confidently predicted, however, that the whole truth would be uncovered in a day or two.
“Not unless I talk in my sleep, it won’t,” decided Joe.
He had no liking for notoriety, but it was chiefly on Mabel’s account that he kept silent. He knew how deeply she would dread having her name appear in print. She was one of those who believed that a woman’s name should appear in the papers only three times—when she was born, when she married and when she died. And Joe agreed with her. It was astonishing how he was growing to agree with her on everything.
The week of Mabel’s stay passed all too quickly. Joe grudged every hour of it. They went about everywhere when his duties permitted, and he had the satisfaction of winning a game under her approving eyes. When at last he saw her on the train for Goldsboro, she had promised to come to New York to see the wind-up of the season at the Polo Grounds.
“I’m looking for you to win the pennant and get into the World’s Series,” she said at parting. “You won’t disappoint me, will you?”
“We’ve simply got to win it,” he replied. “I need that World’s Series money badly. Why if I had that I could——”
But Reggie blundered along just then, and Joe could not tell what he wanted to do with the money. But perhaps Mabel guessed.
The baseball campaign was waxing hotter and hotter. The teams were so close together that, as they say of racing horses, “one blanket would have covered them.” So far, it was anybody’s race. In the East, Brooklyn was making a great spurt and had drawn up close to the front. Chicago was showing the way to the Western teams, but St. Louis was crowding close at her heels. It was a ding-dong, slam-bang race, with first one and then the other showing in front, and the whole baseball public was in a state of feverish excitement. Great crowds gathered around the bulletin boards in every large city. All agreed that it was the most even race in years. Huge throngs filled the playing grounds and the game was on the topmost wave of prosperity.
When the Western teams finished their first visit East, the Chicagos were leading the league by three full games. Brooklyn was second, and St. Louis was tied with the Giants for third.
That they were not leading at this stage in the season did not greatly worry McRae. He knew what a fearful strain was on the team that went out in front and he was content to let it make the pace, as long as he could trail along within easy striking distance.
Joe, however, was not so philosophical. He had the instinct of the thoroughbred, and hated to see anyone bowling along in front of him.
“I hate to take anyone’s dust,” he said one day to Jim. “It makes me wild to have Chicago showing us the way.”
“They’ll come back to us all right,” said Jim, confidently. “The last few games they’ve just won out and that’s all. They’ve fallen down badly of late in their batting.”
And Jim was right, for, two weeks later, Chicago had resigned the lead to Brooklyn and had fallen to the foot of the first division.
The see-saw persisted until the latter part of August. By that time “class” had begun to tell. Three teams had drawn away from all the others, and it was clear that, barring accidents, the flag would fly in one of three cities, Boston, Chicago or New York.
The Giants on their last trip West had made a runaway campaign of it. They had simply cleaned up everything. They led the league in batting and were third in fielding. But what counted most was that they were out in front ten straight games ahead of the nearest contender. The New York papers were already beginning to speculate what pitchers McRae would pin his faith to in the World’s Series.
“It’s our pitching staff that has carried us through so far,” exulted McRae in one of his talks with Robson. “That is,” he corrected, “it’s the great work of Hughson and Matson. That young Barclay, too, has rounded to in fine shape. If only Markwith had kept up his great work this season, we’d be so far ahead that they couldn’t see us with a telescope.”
“It is too bad the way he’s fallen down,” mused Robson, “and Hartley too has been a big disappointment. I tell you, Mac, you never did a better stroke of work in your life than when you got Matson from St. Louis. That fellow is the biggest sensation of the year. You notice that when he’s announced to pitch the crowds are almost as big as those who come out to see Hughson. I’ll bet,” he chuckled, “that you’re going to lose that thousand dollar bonus before the season is over. He’s already won fifteen games, and the way he is going it’s a dead cinch that he’ll get the other five.”
“I’ll be only too glad to lose it,” grinned McRae. “He’s already brought it in at the box office ten times over. You’re right when you say he’s been a mighty good investment. If we fly the flag in New York, he’ll be responsible for it.”
“It’s lucky you signed him for a three-years’ contract,” went on Robson. “If you hadn’t, every club in the league would have been offering him big money at the end of the season.”
“He won’t lose anything by it,” declared McRae, decidedly. “If he keeps up the way he has begun, I won’t hold him to the figures of his contract. He’ll get a big slice of World’s Series money, and I’ll start him off next season at figures that will make his hair curl.”
“Knock wood, Mac,” counseled Robson, nervously. “I don’t like to hear you talking yet of the World’s Series as though it were a certainty. You’re never in more danger than when you feel surest. We’re not yet out of the woods, and you know as well as I that baseball is the most uncertain game in the world.”
“You’re right, Robbie, old boy,” assented his friend. “I know that there’s always a chance of falling down. I wouldn’t talk this way with anyone but you. But on the dead level, I can’t for the life of me see how we’re going to lose unless our pitching staff goes to pieces.”
Two days later the pitching staff went to pieces.
The trouble began with Hartley.
On the last Western trip he seemed to lose what little shred of self-control he had left, and began to drink heavily.
His comrades tried to shield him, as Joe and Jim had done on an earlier occasion, but all to no purpose. In his sober moods he was penitent and promised solemnly never to offend again. But his moral fibre had been weakened by self-indulgence, and with every debauch he became the less able to resist temptation.
McRae had pleaded with him and threatened him. He had fully resolved to release him when the season was over, but he hoped to keep him going fairly well till the end of the present year. When Hartley was “good,” he was almost unhittable, and in a close finish he might come in handy.
But of late he had been losing almost every game that he pitched. Twice in one week Joe had gone in when Hartley had been batted from the mound and by superhuman exertions had just nosed out a victory.
Hartley resented this bitterly. He seemed to think that Joe was trying to “show him up.” He glared at our hero whenever they came near each other, growled at him in the clubhouse after the game, and on two occasions of late had tried to trip him.
Joe attributed this to his mental state, and where he would have resented, with his fists if need be, such conduct on the part of another, he passed it over pityingly in the case of Hartley.
“Bugs seems to have it in for me,” he remarked to Jim one day, when they were dressing after the game. “You’d think that after I’d tried to shield him as I did in St. Louis, he’d be grateful, instead of trying to harm me in any way he could.”
“It’s just an illustration of the old motto: ‘Do a man a favor and he’ll never forgive you,’” returned Jim. “The trouble with Bugs is that he isn’t right in the upper story. His nickname fits him right enough.”
Finally, McRae, wrought to exasperation by the loss of a game that ought to have been won easily, gave Hartley his ten days’ notice of release. And this time, although Hartley begged hard for another chance, the manager was adamant.
“It’s no use, Hartley,” he declared. “You’ve told me the same thing fifty times and you’ve fallen down every time. Here’s where you and I part company.”
Hartley saw that this time McRae was really through with him. He began at once to pull wires to land a berth in some other club. But in the meantime, his unreasonable hate of Joe developed until he could think of little else.
Joe himself, although he had every reason to be glad at Hartley’s departure from the club, was sincerely sorry for the plight in which the latter found himself, and took early occasion to tell him so.
“I hope you’ll land something else right away, Hartley,” he said, heartily. “There ought to be some years of big league pitching in you yet, and some of the other clubs will soon be after you, when they know they can get you.”
“You shut up!” snarled Hartley. “I’m not asking any sympathy from you or anybody else. I was pitching in the big league when you were a busher and I’ll be pitching in it yet when you’re fired back to the minors. You’ve been trying to do me ever since you’ve been on the club. You’ve put on extra steam whenever you’ve followed me in a game, just to show that you could win where I was losing. I’ve been on to you, all right.”
“If you were any one else, I’d ram those words down your throat!” exclaimed Joe, angered at finding his friendly advances met in such fashion. “But you have troubles enough just now without my adding to them. You’re your own worst enemy, Hartley, and it’s time you got wise to it.”
He turned on his heel and left him and did not see the man until noon the next day. Then Hartley approached him as he sat at the hotel table. Joe was slated to pitch that day, and as he did not like to eat a heavy meal immediately before the game, he had come down for a light lunch earlier than the rest of the team.
Hartley came up to him with a pleasant smile.
“I’m sorry I spoke to you the way I did yesterday, Matson,” he said. “But I was feeling sore and wanted to take it out on somebody. I hope there’s no hard feelings.”
“Not in the least,” said Joe, whose nature was too large to cherish a grudge. “Any man is liable to say what he doesn’t mean when things aren’t going just right. Just forget all about it.”
He pointed to a chair opposite.
“Sit down and have a cup of coffee with me,” he invited. “I was just going to order one for myself to finish up with.”
Hartley accepted the invitation and Joe signaled the waiter and gave the order. They chatted on various topics until the coffee was placed before them. Hartley motioned the waiter to put the cups down near him.
“I’ve got the sugar and cream right here,” he said, lightly. “How many lumps of sugar, Matson?”
“Two will do,” answered Joe, “and just a drop of cream.”
Hartley dropped two cubes in Joe’s cup and at the same time slipped in a tiny white tablet that he had extracted from his vest pocket.
“There you are,” he said, as he passed the cup over.
He swallowed the contents of his own cup with a gulp.
“Well, I’ll have to be going,” he remarked after a moment. “I understand you’re going to pitch against the Phillies this afternoon. Hope you trim them, all right.”
“Thanks,” responded Joe. “I’ll do my best, but they have a big batting streak on just now and all pitchers look alike to them. But if our boys back me up with the stick, I’ll try to hold them down.”
After Hartley had gone, Joe glanced at his watch. He saw that it was later than he thought and swallowed his coffee hastily. He noticed that it had rather a bitter taste, but the matter passed from his mind the next moment.
Whatever the drug that Hartley had used, it was of such a nature that it did not take effect at once. Joe felt in his usual good shape for some time after he got into his baseball togs. It is true that the ball seemed to feel a little heavier than usual when he was warming up, but he suspected nothing when the time came for him to go into the box.
The first thing that he noticed was that he did not have his usual control. His curves would not break at the right place, and he could not seem to get them over the plate. Then too, his speed was missing. He called on all his resources, but the ball sailed up to the plate as “big as a balloon.”
The Phillies were quick to notice that something was wrong with that “wing” of Matson’s, which in previous games they had learned to respect. Before the first inning was over, they had lined out two slashing hits which, with three bases on balls, netted them three runs to start with.
“What’s the matter, Matson?” asked McRae, as the Giants came in to bat.
“Oh, I’m all right, I guess,” answered Joe. “I’ll steady down in the next inning. I guess I didn’t warm up enough.”
The Giants were quickly disposed of for a goose egg and Joe again took his place on the mound. He walked out to it a little unsteadily, a fact that McRae’s keen eyes were quick to notice.
“If that were anybody else than Matson, I’d say he’d been drinking,” he remarked to Robson.
“Nothing like that,” replied Robson. “We’ll see how he makes out this time.”
But the very first ball he sent over, Cravath, the chief slugger of the Phillies, knocked clear over the right field fence for a home run.
A fusillade of hits followed until the bases were full.
“Look here, Matson,” said McRae, sharply, walking over to him. “What’s the matter with you? They’ve put the game on ice already. Take a brace, man.”
Shouts of derision came from the Phillies’ bench.
“He hasn’t anything on the ball but his glove!” one of them jeered.
“It’s a shame to take the money!” yelled another.
“All aboard for the airship!” cried a third.
A flush of humiliation passed over Joe’s face.
He could see that Robson was hurrying a couple of the second string pitchers out into a corner of the field to warm up. It was a new experience for him and a bitter one.
“I’ll get them yet,” he said to McRae, and the latter noticed that his voice was thick. “Let me play the inning out.”
“Play ball!” called the umpire, and McRae walked back to the coaching line. Joe made a mighty effort, but the first ball he pitched was sent into left on a line, and the three men on bases scampered home.
“That’s enough,” cried McRae sharply, while the rejoicing Phillies held a jubilee at their bench. “Take off your glove and go to the clubhouse.”
Joe took off his glove and with his face scarlet walked unsteadily off the field. He had been batted out of the box in one of the crucial games of the season. What would his folks say when they read of it? What would Mabel say?
By this time his head was throbbing, and every bone had its own particular ache. The shower brightened him up a little, but in a few minutes he was worse than ever, and it was all he could do to get to his hotel. There he stumbled and would have fallen if it had not been for one of the attendants. He took him to his room, where he lay down upon the bed and fell into a stupor. There Jim found him when he returned and immediately called a physician. Together they worked over him until after a couple of hours the effects of the drug had been counteracted to a large extent, and although weak and white he began to feel more like his natural self.
“What on earth could have been the matter, Joe?” asked Jim. “Could it have been a case of ptomaine poisoning? All the doctor was sure of was that it was a drug or poison of some kind. What have you been eating?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” answered Joe. “In fact I just had a couple of sandwiches and an omelet for lunch. And coffee,” he added, and then as a sudden thought struck him he sat up straight in bed.
“I had some coffee with Bugs Hartley,” he added, slowly. “And it was Bugs that put the cream and sugar in both cups.”
They looked at each other for a full minute without speaking.
“I see a great light,” said Jim at last. “The first thing I shall do is to hunt up Hartley and thrash him within an inch of his life.”
“No, don’t do that,” said Joe, earnestly. “We haven’t positive proof, and it’ll only bring scandal on the game. I’ll be as well as ever in a day or two. The worst of it is that I’m afraid McRae thought I had been drinking.”
“He must know better than that,” replied Jim, indignantly. “But just to make sure I’ll give him a quiet tip as to the real state of things.”
“I certainly felt sore to be batted out of the box,” said Joe, his thoughts reverting to the game. “What was the score, anyway?”
Jim hesitated a second.
“Fifteen to three,” he got out at last. Joe’s face lengthened.
“That was a massacre sure enough,” he groaned. “The biggest score any team has rolled up against us this season. Who went in after I was taken out?”
“Markwith,” answered Jim. “But he couldn’t do a thing with them. They simply slammed him to all corners of the lot. But by that time the game was gone anyway, and McRae just let him stay in and take his medicine.”
“And how did the Chicagos make out today?” asked Joe.
“They trimmed the Pittsburghs, four to three,” replied Jim. “Those fellows seem to have taken a new lease of life. A little while ago we were ten games ahead of them. Now they’re only six games behind and coming fast.”
“Their pitchers are working well too,” commented Joe. “You notice that they’re holding down their opponents to mighty small scores and they’re handing out quite a few shut-outs. We’ve got our work cut out for us if we want to beat those birds.”
“And we’ll have to do it in a hurry, too,” said Jim. “The season’s pretty near an end. It’s a case of now or never.”
The Giants were “slipping.”
There was no blinking the fact. The New York public admitted it with dismay. The newspapers of all the other league cities proclaimed it with delight.
Not slipping fast, but slipping surely.
Not that they were quitting. They were game to the core. Everybody was working desperately to hold on to the slender lead that they had fought for so gallantly in the early part of the season. McRae and Robson, crafty old foxes that they were, worked day and night to bolster up the weak places. They changed the batting order. They used their pinch hitters. They put the team through morning practice. They perfected the “inside stuff.” They worked every trick known to the game.
But still the Giants kept slipping. The batting was far below the usual standard. The men “fought” the ball instead of fielding it cleanly. The pitching staff was too limited. Hughson and Joe were pitching magnificent ball, but they were the only first-string pitchers that could be absolutely relied on. Some of the second string men, notably Jim, were doing well, but now that every game was so important, McRae did not dare to put them in. The strain was apt to be too much for any but the veterans.
There were times when the Giants seemed to throw off the baleful paralysis that was holding them and play in something of their old brilliant form. But too many defeats were mixed in with victories, and all the time those scrappy Chicagos, seldom losing, kept closing up the gap, until when the last week of the season arrived they were right on the Giants’ heels.
By the mere chance of the schedule, the Chicagos were to wind up the season with the New Yorks on the Polo Grounds. Four games were to be played. Before the series commenced, the Giants were just one game in the lead. If the Chicagos could take three games out of the four, they would win the championship.
The Giants had the advantage of playing on their own grounds and in the presence of the home crowds. That was an advantage not to be despised. Moreover, they only had to win two out of the four, while the Chicagos were required to win three.
But, on the other hand, the men from the Windy City were on the aggressive, while the Giants were on the defensive. And the Chicagos had been climbing while the New Yorks had been slipping. These facts had a significance all their own, and despite the apparent odds in favor of the home team, opinion was about evenly divided as to who would bear off the victory.
McRae figured on pitching Hughson in the first game of the series. The veteran had always had the “Indian sign” on the Chicagos, and the chances were that he would win his game. If he did, the Giants would only have to take one out of the remaining three. Joe and Markwith would try for the second and third. If by an evil fate they lost both, McRae could again call on Hughson for the fourth and deciding game.
On the night before the first game, McRae dropped into the uptown hotel where the Chicagos were quartered, to have a word of friendly greeting with Brennan, the manager of the Windy City warriors.
While they were bitter enemies on the ball field, each fighting like a wildcat for every shred of advantage, they were the best of friends when once they had discarded their uniforms and gotten into their street clothes. In this they were not unlike the lawyers who berate each other bitterly while the case is on, and after the court has adjourned go to lunch together arm in arm.
Brennan saw his opponent enter, and, rising from the group of reporters who were trying to get from him his views on the series, came forward to greet him with extended hand, a broad grin on his features.
“How are you, John?” he queried. “Have you come in to ask me to let you off easy tomorrow?”
“Not a bit of it, Roger,” laughed McRae as he shook hands. “I simply heard that there were a lot of dead ones in town and I wanted to know what cemetery you’d prefer to be buried in. I’ll make it Woodlawn or Greenwood or any place you say. Or if you like, I’ll ship your remains back to Chicago.”
“You always were a good bluffer, John,” retorted Roger. “But I can see that you’re just whistling to keep your courage up. When we go back to Chicago it won’t be in boxes, but in Pullmans; and we’re going to take the pennant along with us.”
“Where do you get that stuff?” rejoined McRae. “I’ll set the squirrels after you if you don’t stop your foolishness. I’m only wondering whether I’ll take four straight or let you have just one of the series as a sort of booby prize.”
They chaffed each other good-naturedly for a while, to the great delight of the reporters and hotel guests, who had gathered in a dense crowd about them.
“You’ve got only a one-man team, John,” Brennan wound up. “Hughson’s carried the team along for years. If it hadn’t been for him you wouldn’t have won a pennant in the last ten years.”
“How about Matson?” parried McRae. “Do you remember the last game he twirled against you in Chicago?”
Brennan winced and the crowd laughed at the memory of that game, which had been a Waterloo for the men of the Windy City.
“He caught us off our stride that day,” he admitted, “and we’re aching to get at him. We’re all tuned up to knock him out of the box.”
A little more banter, and McRae rose to go.
“Sorry to have to leave you,” he remarked, “but I have an appointment to see a man about setting up a new pennant pole at the Polo Grounds.”
“I’m ahead of you there, John,” laughed Brennan. “I ordered mine before I left Chicago.”
“You’ll be sending a wire in a day or two to countermand the order,” the Giant leader prophesied. “By the way, Roger,” he went on, dropping his scoffing tone, “if you want to use the grounds for morning practice, I’ll fix it up so that you can divide the time with my boys.”
“That’s very white of you, John,” replied Brennan warmly, “and I appreciate it. But I guess I’ll stick to the regular rule and let you have it all to yourself. Thanks, though, just the same.”
They shook hands and parted with the mutual respect of hard fighters and gallant sportsmen.
The city was wild with excitement and it was a foregone conclusion that the four games would draw bigger crowds than had ever before been packed into the Polo Grounds.
Mabel, true to her promise, had come to the city, accompanied by Reggie, and Joe had secured seats for them in a box so located that they could follow every move of the game. It is needless to say that every spare minute that he could take from his work was spent in the vicinity of the Marlborough Hotel, at which the visitors were again staying.
“You simply must win, Joe,” Mabel declared. “You surely wouldn’t have the heart to lose after I’ve come all the way from Goldsboro.”
“I haven’t any heart to lose anyway,” replied Joe. “I lost that long ago.”
“I see Hughson is going to pitch the first game,” said Mabel, hastily changing the subject to a safer ground. “Do you think he will win?”
“Sure I do,” replied Joe, enthusiastically. “He’s the greatest pitcher that ever threw a ball.”
“They say there’s a good deal of professional jealousy among artists,” laughed Mabel, “but you don’t seem to be troubled that way.”
“Not a particle where Hughson is concerned,” affirmed Joe, stoutly. “He’s one of the best friends I have on the team and I root for him for all I’m worth every time he goes into the box.”
“You’ll pitch the second game, I suppose,” she went on.
“I think that’s the program just at present, but you never can tell. Something might come up that would make McRae change his mind five minutes before the game begins.”
“I’ll have an advantage over the other pitchers. They’ll only have one glove while I’ll have two.”
Mabel opened her eyes and was about to ask an explanation, but as Joe tapped his pocket, she remembered the glove that she had given him at Goldsboro and blushed in confusion.
She was never lovelier than when she blushed, and there is no knowing what would have happened right then and there, if Reggie had not come on the scene. Joe liked Reggie, but there were times when he certainly was a nuisance.
“Well, Joe, how are you feeling?” asked Reggie amiably, as they shook hands. “Not suffering from palpitation of the heart or anything like that, I suppose?”
To tell the truth, Joe’s heart was palpitating very strongly just at that moment. But it was not the thought of the big games that caused it. Perhaps Mabel could have guessed the reason more accurately than Reggie.
“I never felt better,” Joe replied.
“Going to put it all over the Chicagos, I hope,” continued Reggie.
“That’s what we’re figuring on,” answered Joe. “But those fellows are going great guns just now and it will be a man’s job to beat them. By the way,” he added, changing the subject, “have you found any trace of Tabbs?”
“Not a thing,” replied Reggie gloomily. “I guess I’ll have to charge that ten thousand up to experience. It’s coming near time to report to my father and I’d rather be shot than do it.”
The first game justified the choice of McRae. Hughson was never in better form. He simply toyed with the opposing batsmen. His famous fadeaway was working to perfection. Twice he mowed down the side in one-two-three order. His control was absolute and not an enemy reached his base on balls. Three times there were men on the bags, once through an error and twice as the result of hits, but Hughson tightened up and they never got farther than second. It was a superb exhibition of twirling, and amid the frantic applause of the vast crowd the game ended with the score:
New Yorks 5, Chicagos 0.
First blood for the Giants!