For a long time Joe sat staring at the telegram, while Jim considerately buried himself in the newspaper descriptions of yesterday’s great game.

How dear the home folks were! How their hearts were wrapped up in him and his success! What a splendid, wholesome influence that cozy little village home had been in his life. He thought of his patient, hard-working father, his loving mother, his winsome sister. He thought of their quiet, circumscribed life, shut out from the great currents of the world with which he had become so familiar.

They were proud of him! Yet all they could do was to read of his triumphs. They had never seen him pitch.

He took a sudden resolution.

The home folks were in for one great, big, glorious fling!

CHAPTER V
GETTING READY FOR THE FRAY

“Come along, Jim!” cried Joe, jumping to his feet. “Put down that old paper and let’s go up to the Polo Grounds. You know we’ve got to meet McRae and the rest of the gang there at two o’clock, and it’s almost one now. We’ll just have time to get a bite of lunch before we go.”

“I’m with you,” responded Jim.

They hurried through their lunch and took the train at the nearest elevated station.

“Some difference to-day from the way we felt when we were going up yesterday, eh, Joe,” grinned Jim, as he stretched out his legs luxuriously and settled back in his seat.

“About a million miles,” assented Joe. “Then my heart was beating like a triphammer. Then the work was all to do. Now it’s done.”

“And well done, too, thanks to you,” returned Jim. “Say, Joe, suppose for a minute—just suppose that the Chicagos had copped that game yesterday.”

“Don’t,” protested Joe. “It gives me the cold shivers just to think of it.”

When they entered the clubhouse, a roar of welcome greeted them from the members of the team who were already there. They crowded round Baseball Joe in jubilation, and the air was filled with a hubbub of exclamations.

“Here’s the man to whom the team owes fifty thousand dollars!” shouted the irrepressible Larry Barrett, the second baseman, who had led the league that year in batting.

“All right,” laughed Joe. “If you owe it to me, hand it over and I’ll put it in the bank.”

In the laugh that ensued, McRae and Robson, the inseparable manager and trainer of the Giants, came hurrying up to Joe. Their faces were beaming and they looked years younger, now that the tremendous strain of the last few weeks of the league race had been taken from their shoulders.

They shook hands warmly.

“You’re the real thing, Joe,” cried Robson.

“You won the flag for us,” declared McRae. “That home run of yours was a life saver. It brought home the bacon.”

Joe flushed with pleasure. Praise from these veterans meant something.

“It took the whole nine to win for us,” he said modestly.

“Sure it did,” agreed McRae. “The boys put up a corking good game. But your pitching held Brennan’s men down, and it was that scorching hit that put on the finishing touch.”

“It was the trump that took the trick,” supplemented Robson.

Denton, the third baseman and wag of the team, stepped up and gravely put his hands around Joe’s head as though measuring it.

“Not swelled a bit, boys,” he announced to his grinning mates. “He can wear the same size hat that he did yesterday.”

They were all so full of hilarity that it was hard to get down to serious business, and McRae, who was as happy as a boy, made no attempt at his usual rigid discipline.

But when they had at last quieted down a little, he gathered them about him for a talk about the forthcoming World Series.

“You’ve done well, boys,” he told them, “and I’m proud of you. You’ve played the game to the limit and made a splendid fight. I don’t believe there’s another team in the league that wouldn’t have gone to pieces if the same thing had happened to their crack pitcher that happened to Hughson. It was a knockout blow, and I don’t mind admitting to you now that for a time my own heart was in my boots. But you stood the gaff, and I want to thank you, both for the owners of the club and for myself.”

There was a gratified murmur among the players, and then Larry shouted:

“Three cheers for McRae, the best manager in the league!”

The cheers were given with a will and the veteran’s face grew red with pleasure.

“And three more for Robson, the king of trainers!” cried Jim.

They were given with equal heartiness, and Robson waved his hand to them with a grin.

“I’m glad we all feel that way,” resumed McRae, when the tumult had subsided. “If at times I’ve been a bit hasty with you lads and given you the rough side of my tongue, it’s been simply because I was wild with excitement and crazy to win. And now for the big fight that lies before us. It’s a great thing to be champions of the National League. But it’s a greater thing to be champions of the world.”

A rousing shout rose from the eager group.

“Sure, we’ve got it copped already,” cried Larry.

McRae smiled.

“That’s the right spirit to tackle the job with,” he replied, “but don’t let the idea run away with you that it’s going to be an easy thing to do. It isn’t. Those American Leaguers are tough birds, and any one who beats them will know he’s been in a fight.

“There used to be a time,” he went on, “when the bulk of the talent was in the National League. But it isn’t so any longer. They have just as good batting, just as good pitching and just as good fielding as we have.

“Of course, we don’t know yet just which team we’ll have to face, but we may know before night. If the Bostons win to-day that will settle it. Even if they lose, provided the Athletics lose, too, the Red Sox will be the champions. Of course, there’s nothing sure in baseball, but all the chances are in favor of the Bostons.

“In any case, it will be an Eastern club, and that cuts out the matter of the long jumps. But whichever one it happens to be, it’ll prove a hard nut to crack.”

“Nut-crackers is our middle name,” murmured Denton.

“You proved that yesterday,” laughed McRae, “and you’re going to have a good chance to prove it again.

“Just as soon as the American race is decided,” he continued, “and it’s known in what city we are to play, the National Commission will have a meeting to fix all the details of the World Series. If they follow precedent, as they probably will, the first game will be appointed for a week from this Friday. They’ll toss a coin to see whether it shall be here or in the other city. I’m rooting for it to be here. It’ll give us a better chance to win the first game if we play it on the home grounds, and you know what it means to get the jump on the other fellows.”

“You bet we do!” went up in a chorus.

“Just as soon as it is decided who our opponents are to be,” the manager resumed, “I’m going to send some of you fellows out as scouts to see some of the practice games of the other fellows and get a line on their style of play. You can pick up a lot of useful information that way, and we’ve got so much at stake that we can’t afford to overlook a single point of the game.”

“How about our own practice?” asked Larry.

“I was coming to that,” replied McRae. “I’m going to get together just as husky a bunch of sluggers and fielders as can be found in the National League.”

He took a sheaf of telegrams from his pocket.

“I’ve got a lot of wires here from every club in the league, offering the services of any of their players I want,” he said. “We’ve had our own fight, and now that it’s over they’re all eager to help the National League to down the American. It means a good deal to each of them to have us come out winner. Even Brennan has offered to let me have some of the Chicagos to practise against. I saw him at the hotel last night, and, although of course he was sore that he didn’t win yesterday, he told me I could call upon him for any men I wanted.”

“He’s a good sport,” ejaculated Jim.

“Sure he is,” confirmed McRae, heartily. “He’s a hard fighter but he’s as white as they make ’em.”

He consulted a list on which he had jotted down a few names in pencil.

“How will this do for an All National team to practise against,” he asked.

A murmur went up from the players.

“Some sweet hitters!” exclaimed Markwith.

“A bunch of fence breakers,” echoed Jim.

“They’ll give you mighty good practice,” grinned McRae. “If they can’t straighten out the curves of you twirlers, nobody can. I’ll have them all on here in a day or two, and then we’ll start in training.”

The conference lasted till late in the afternoon, and just as it was breaking up, a telegraphic report was handed to McRae. He scanned it hastily.

“That settles it!” he exclaimed. “Boston won to-day, three to two. We’re up against the Red Sox in the World Series!”

CHAPTER VI
JOE GIVES FAIR WARNING

Although the news only confirmed what had been all along expected, it was worth a great deal to the Giants to know certainly just whom they would have to fight. Their enemy now was detached from the crowd and out in the open. They could study him carefully and arrange a clear plan of campaign.

Joe and Jim were discussing the matter earnestly, as they passed out of the Polo Grounds to go downtown.

“Don’t let’s take the elevated,” suggested Joe. “We haven’t had much exercise, and I want to stretch my legs a little.”

“I’m agreeable,” replied Jim. “There’s a cool breeze and it’s a nice night for walking. We can go part of the way on foot, anyway, and if we feel like it we’ll hoof it for the whole distance.”

They soon got below the Harlem River and before long found themselves in the vicinity of Columbus Circle. They were passing one of the fashionable cafés that abound in that quarter when the door opened and a man came out. Joe caught a good look at his face, and a grim look came into his eyes as he recognized Beckworth Fleming.

Fleming saw him at the same time, and the eyes of the two men met in a look of undisguised hostility. Then with an ugly sneer, Fleming remarked:

“Ah, Mr. Matson, I believe. Or was it Mr. Buttinski? I’m not very good at remembering names.”

“You’ll remember mine if I have to write it on you with my knuckles,” returned Joe, brought to a white heat by the insult and the remembrance of the occurrence of the day before.

“Now, my good fellow——” began Fleming, a look of alarm replacing his insolent expression.

“Don’t ‘good fellow’ me,” replied Joe. “I owe you a thrashing and I’m perfectly able to pay my debts. You’d have gotten it yesterday if we’d been alone.”

“I—I don’t understand you,” stammered Fleming, looking about him for some way of escape from the sinewy figure that confronted him.

“Well, I’m going to make myself so clear that even your limited intelligence can understand me,” said Joe, grimly. “You keep away from the Marlborough Hotel. Is that perfectly plain?”

Before the glow in Joe’s eyes, Fleming retreated a pace or two, but as he caught sight of a policeman sauntering up toward them, his courage revived.

“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” he snarled.

“You will if you value that precious skin of yours. I’ve given you fair warning, and you’ll find that I keep my word.”

By this time the officer had come up close to them, and Fleming, immensely relieved, turned to him as an ally.

“Officer, this man has been threatening me with personal violence,” he complained.

The policeman sized him up quizzically. Then he looked at Joe and his face lighted up.

“Good evening, Mr. Matson. That was a great game you pitched yesterday,” he ejaculated in warm admiration.

“I tell you he threatened me,” repeated Fleming, loudly.

The officer smiled inquiringly at Joe.

“Just a trifling personal matter,” Joe explained quietly. “He insulted me and I called him down.”

The policeman turned to Fleming.

“Beat it,” he commanded briefly. “You’re blocking up the sidewalk.”

Fleming bristled up like a turkey cock.

“I’ll have your number,” he said importantly. “I’ll——”

“G’wan,” broke in the officer, “or I’ll fan you. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

He emphasized the command by a poke in the back with his club that took away the last shred of Fleming’s dignity, and he retreated, with one last malignant look at Joe.

“I know his kind,” said the officer, complacently. “One of them rich papa’s boys with more money than brains. Sorry he bothered you, Mr. Matson. Are youse boys goin’ to lick them Bostons?”

“We’re going to make a try at it,” laughed Joe.

“You will if you can pitch all the games,” rejoined the policeman, admiringly. “It cert’nly was a sin an’ a shame the way you trimmed them Chicagos. You own New York to-day, Mr. Matson.”

The chums bade him a laughing good-night and resumed their interrupted stroll.

“Who was that fellow, anyway?” asked Jim in curiosity.

“His name is Fleming,” answered Joe. “That’s about all I know of him.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Since yesterday.”

“What was the row all about, anyway?”

“Oh, nothing much,” evaded Joe. “I guess we just don’t like the color of each other’s eyes.”

Jim laughed and did not press the question. But he had heard the warning to keep away from the Marlborough Hotel, and could hazard a vague guess as to the cause of the quarrel.

At their hotel both Joe and Jim found a letter from the owners of the New York Club waiting for them. In addition to the informal thanks conveyed to the team in general by McRae, they had taken this means of thanking each player personally. It was a gracious and earnest letter, and wound up by inviting them to a big banquet and theatre party that was to be given by the management to the players in celebration of their great feat in winning the National League championship for New York.

But Joe’s letter also contained a little slip from the Treasurer, to which a crisp, blue, oblong paper was attached. Joe unfolded it in some wonderment and ran his eyes over it hastily.

It was a check for a thousand dollars, and on the accompanying slip was written:

Joe grabbed Jim and waltzed him about the room, much to Barclay’s bewilderment.

“What are you trying to do?” he gasped. “Is it a new tango step or what?”

“Glory, hallelujah!” ejaculated Joe. “Yesterday and to-day are sure my lucky days.”

He thrust the check before his friend’s eyes.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Jim. “It never rains but it pours. If you fell overboard, you’d come up with a fish in your mouth.”

“It sure is like finding money,” chortled Joe. “Everything seems to be coming my way.”

“You’ll be lending money to Rockefeller if this sort of thing keeps on,” Jim grinned. “But after all it can’t be such a surprise. You must have known that you had won twenty games.”

“That’s just it,” explained Joe. “I wasn’t sure of it at all. I figured that with yesterday’s game I had nineteen. But there was that game in August, you remember, when I relieved Markwith in the sixth inning. We won the game, but there were some fine points in it which made it doubtful whether it should be credited to Markwith or me. I had a tip that the official scorers were inclined to give it to Markwith, and so I had kissed the game good-bye. But it must be that they’ve decided in my favor after all and notified the New York Club to that effect.”

“That’s bully, old man,” cried Jim, enthusiastically. “And you can’t say that they’ve lost any time in getting it to you.”

“No,” replied Joe. “Ordinarily, they’d settle with me on the regular salary day. But I suppose they feel so good over getting the pennant that they take this means of showing it.”

“They can well afford to do it,” said Jim. “Your pitching has brought it into the box office twenty times over. Still it’s nice and white of them just the same to be so prompt. That’s one thing that you have to hand to the Giant management. There isn’t a club in the league that treats its players better.”

“You’re just right,” assented Joe, warmly, “and it makes me feel as though I’d pitch my head off to win, not only for my own sake but for theirs.”

“You certainly have had a dandy year,” mused Jim. “With your regular salary of forty-five hundred and this check in addition you’ve grabbed fifty-five hundred so far. And you’ll get anywhere from two to four thousand more in the World Series.”

“I haven’t any kick coming,” agreed Joe. “It was a lucky day for me when I joined the Giants.”

“I suppose you’ll soak that away in the bank to-morrow, you bloated plutocrat,” laughed Jim.

“Not a bit of it,” Joe answered promptly. “To-morrow night that money will be on its way to Riverside as fast as the train can carry it.”

CHAPTER VII
THE THOUSAND DOLLAR BANKBILL

The little town of Riverside had been buzzing with excitement ever since the news had flashed over the wires that the Giants had won the championship of the National League. On a miniature scale, it was as much stirred up as New York itself had been at the glorious victory.

For was not Joe Matson, who had twirled that last thrilling game, a son of Riverside? Had he not grown up among the friends and neighbors who took such pride and interest in his career? Had he not, as Sol Cramer, the village oracle and the owner of the hotel, declared, “put Riverside on the map?”

There had been a big crowd at the telegraph office in the little town on the day that the final game had been played, and cheer after cheer had gone up as each inning showed that Joe was holding the Chicagos down. And when in that fateful ninth his home run had “sewed up” the victory, the enthusiasm had broken all bounds.

An impromptu procession had been formed, the village band had been pressed into service, the stores had been cleared out of all the fireworks left over after the Fourth of July, and practically the whole population of the town had gathered on the street in front of the Matson house where they held a hilarious celebration.

The quiet little family found itself suddenly in the limelight, and were almost as much embarrassed as they were delighted by the glory that Joe’s achievement had brought to them.

The crowd dispersed at a late hour, promising that this was not a circumstance to what would happen when Joe himself should come home after the end of the World Series.

Had any one suggested that possibly the Giants would lose out in that Series, he would have stood a good chance of being mobbed. To that crowd of shouting enthusiasts, the games were already stowed in the New York bat bag. How could they lose when Joe Matson was on their team?

In the Matson household joy reigned supreme. Joe had always been their pride and idol. He had been a good son and brother, and his weekly letters home had kept them in touch with every step of his career. They had followed with breathless interest his upward march in his profession during this year with the Giants, but had hardly dared to hope that his season would wind up in such a blaze of glory.

Now they were happy beyond all words. They fairly devoured the papers that for the next day or two were full of Joe’s exploits. They could not stir out of the house without being overwhelmed with congratulations and questions. Clara, Joe’s sister, a pretty, winsome girl, declared laughingly that there could hardly have been more fuss made if Joe had been elected President of the United States.

“I’m sure he’d make a very good one if he had,” said Mrs. Matson, complacently, as she bit off a thread of her sewing.

“You dear, conceited Momsey,” said Clara, kissing her.

Mr. Matson smiled over his pipe. He was a quiet, undemonstrative man, but in his heart he was intensely proud of this stalwart son of his.

“How I wish we could have seen that game!” remarked Clara, wistfully. “Just think, Momsey, of sitting in a box at the Polo Grounds and seeing that enormous crowd go crazy over Joe, our Joe.”

“I’m afraid my heart would almost break with pride and happiness,” replied her mother, taking off her glasses and wiping her eyes.

“Of course it’s great, reading all about it in the papers and seeing the pictures,” continued Clara, “but that isn’t like actually being there and hearing the shouts and all that. But I’m a very wicked girl to want anything more than I’ve got,” she went on brightly. “Now I’m going to run down to the post-office. The mail must be in by this time and I shouldn’t wonder if I’d find a letter from Joe.”

She put on her hat and left the house. Mrs. Matson looked inquiringly at her husband.

“You heard what Clara said, dear,” she observed. “I don’t suppose there’s any way in the world we could manage it, is there?”

“I’m afraid not,” returned Mr. Matson. “I’ve had to spend more money than I expected in perfecting that invention of mine. But there’s nothing in the world that I would like more than to see Joe pitch, if it were only a single game.”

Clara soon reached the little post-office and asked for the Matson mail. There were several letters in their box, but none from Joe.

She was much disappointed, as in Joe’s last telegram he had told her that a letter was on the way and to look out for it.

She had turned away and was going out of the office, when the postmaster called her back.

“Just wait a minute,” he said. “I see I’ve got something for you here in the registered mail.”

He handed her a letter which Clara joyfully saw was addressed in Joe’s handwriting.

“It’s directed to your mother,” the postmaster went on, “but of course it will be all right if you sign for it.”

Clara eagerly signed the official receipt and hurried home with her precious letter.

“Did you get one from Joe?” asked her mother, eagerly.

“There wasn’t anything from him in the box,” said Clara, trying to look glum. Then as she saw her mother’s face fall, she added gaily: “But here’s one that the postmaster handed me. It came in the registered mail.”

She handed it over to her mother, who took it eagerly.

“Hurry up and open it, Momsey!” cried Clara, fairly dancing with eagerness. “I’m just dying to know what Joe has to say.”

Mr. Matson laid aside his pipe and came over to his wife. She tore open the letter with fingers that trembled.

Something crisp and yellow fluttered out and fell on the table. Clara’s nimble fingers swooped down upon it.

“Why, it’s a bankbill!” she exclaimed as she unfolded it. “A ten dollar bill it looks like. No,” as her eyes grew larger, “it’s more than that. It’s a hundred—Why, why,” she stammered, “it’s a thousand dollar bill!”

“Goodness sakes!” exclaimed her mother. “It can’t be. There aren’t any bills as big as that.”

Mr. Matson took it and scrutinized it closely.

“That’s what it is,” he pronounced in a voice that trembled a little. “It’s a thousand dollar bill.”

The members of the little family stared at each other. None of them had ever seen a bill like that before. They could hardly believe their eyes. They thought that they were dreaming.

Mrs. Matson began to cry.

“That blessed, blessed boy!” she sobbed. “That blessed, darling boy!”

Clara’s eyes, too, were full of tears, and Mr. Matson blew his nose with astonishing vigor.

But they were happy tears that did not scald or sting, and in a few minutes they had recovered their equanimity to some degree.

“What on earth can it all mean?” asked Mrs. Matson, as she put on her glasses again.

“Let’s read the letter and find out,” urged Clara.

“You read it, Clara,” said her mother. “I’m such a big baby to-day that I couldn’t get through with it.”

Clara obeyed.

The letter was not very long, for Joe had had to dash it off hurriedly, but they read a good deal more between the lines than was written.

“The idea!” exclaimed Clara, tossing her pretty head and blushing like a rose, but looking not a bit displeased, nevertheless.

There was silence in the room for a moment after Clara finished reading. They looked at each other with hearts beating fast and eyes shining.

“New York, Boston, the World Series!” Clara gasped in delight. “Pinch me, Dad, to see if I’m dreaming! Oh, Momsey!” she exclaimed as she danced around the room, “Joe put it just right. It’s going to be a ‘ga-lorious spree!’”

CHAPTER VIII
RECKLESS DRIVING

In New York, the preparation for the World Series was rapidly taking form. Little else was thought or spoken of. Pictures of the teams and players usurped the front pages of the newspapers, crowding all other news into the background. For the time being the ballplayer was king.

It was generally agreed by the experts that the contest would be close. Neither side could look for a walkover. The fight would be for blood from the very start.

On paper the teams seemed pretty evenly matched. If the Red Sox were a little quicker in fielding, the Giants seemed to have “the edge” on their opponents in batting. It was felt that the final decision would be made in the pitcher’s box.

And here the “dope” favored the Red Sox. This was due chiefly to the accident that had befallen Hughson. Had that splendid veteran been in his usual shape, it was conceded that New York ought to win and win handsomely. For Boston could not show a pair to equal Hughson and Matson, although the general excellence of their staff was very high.

But with Hughson out of the Series, it looked as though Joe’s shoulders would have to bear the major part of the pitching burden; and though those shoulders were sturdy, no one man could carry so heavy a load as that would be.

Thus the problem of New York’s success seemed to resolve itself into this: Would Hughson have so far recovered as to take part in the games? And behind this was still another question: Even if he should take part, would he be up to his usual form after the severe ordeal through which he had passed?

So great was the anxiety on this score that almost every new edition of the afternoon papers made a point of publishing the very latest news of the great pitcher’s condition. Most of these were reassuring, for Hughson really was making remarkable progress, and it goes without saying that, regardless of cost, he was receiving the very best attention from the most skilful specialists that could be secured.

In the meantime the National Commission—the supreme court in baseball—had met in conclave at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York. They really had little to do, except to reaffirm the rules which had governed previous Series and had been found to work well in practice.

The Series was to consist of seven games, to be played alternately on succeeding days in the two cities. The place where the games were to start would be decided by the toss of a coin. If rain interfered with any of the games, the game was to be played in the same city on the first fair day.

The Series was to finish when either of the teams had won four games. Only in the first four games played were the players to share in the money paid to see them. This provision was made so that there should be no temptation for the players to “spin out” the Series in order to share additional receipts. It was up to each team to win four straight games if it could.

Of the money taken in at these first four games, ten per cent. was to go to the National Commission and ten per cent. into the clubs’ treasuries. The balance was to be divided between the two teams in the proportion of sixty per cent. to the winner and forty per cent. to the loser.

The players had no financial interest whatever in any money taken in at other games, which went to the clubs themselves, less the percentage of the National Commission.

“Hurrah!” cried Jim Barclay in delight, as he broke into the rooms occupied by Joe and himself.

“What’s the matter?” asked Joe, looking up. “Dropped into a fortune? Got money from home?”

“We’ve won the toss of the coin!” ejaculated Jim. “New York gets the first game.”

“Bully!” cried Joe. “That’s all to the good. That’s the first break in the game and it’s come our way. Let’s hope that luck will stay with us all through.”

“And just as we supposed, the first game will start on Friday,” continued Jim. “So that we’ll have about a week for practice before we have to buckle to the real work.”

“McRae told me this morning that he had almost all the practice team together now, and that we’d start to playing against them on Monday,” said Joe.

“It’s up to us to make the most of this little breathing spell, then,” returned Jim. “I think I’ll take a little run down to the beach to-morrow. Care to come along?”

“I’ve got an engagement myself to-morrow,” Joe replied. “I’m going for an automobile ride with Reggie Varley and Miss Varley. By the way, Jim, why don’t you come along with us? Reggie told me to bring along a friend if I cared to. There’s plenty of room, and he has a dandy auto. Flies like a bird. Come along.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out on Long Island somewhere. Probably stop at Long Beach for dinner.”

“Sure, I’ll come,” said Jim readily. “But don’t think I’m not on to your curves, you old rascal. You want me to engage Reggie in conversation so that you can have Miss Varley all to yourself.”

“Nonsense!” disclaimed Joe, flushing a trifle.

“Well, then,” said the astute Jim, “I’ll let you have the front seat with Reggie, while I sit back in the tonneau.”

“Not on your life you won’t!” said Joe, driven out into the open.

“All right,” grinned Jim resignedly. “I’ll be the goat. When do we start?”

“Reggie will have the car up in front of the Marlborough at about ten, he said. We’ll have a good early start and make a day of it.”

“All right,” said Jim. “Let’s root for good weather.”

They could not have hoped for a finer day than that which greeted them on the following morning. The sun shone brightly, but there was just enough fall crispness to make the air fresh and delicious.

Reggie was on time, nor did Mabel avail herself of the privilege of her sex and keep them waiting. The girl looked bewitching in her new fall costume and the latest thing in auto toggery, and her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes drew Joe more deeply than ever into the toils. Jim’s mischievous glance at them as they settled back in the tonneau while he took his seat beside Reggie, left no doubt in his own mind how matters stood between them.

Whatever else Reggie lacked, he was a master hand at the wheel, and he wound his way in and out of the thronging traffic with the eye and hand of an expert. They soon reached and crossed the Queensboro Bridge, and then Reggie put on increased speed and the swift machine darted like a swallow along one of the magnificent roads in which the island abounds. Beautiful Long Island lay before them, dotted with charming homes and rich estates, fertile beyond description, swept by ocean breezes, redolent of the balsam of the pines, “fair as a garden of the Lord.”

Jim, like the good fellow and true friend that he was, absorbed Reggie’s attention—that is, as much of it as could be taken from the road that unrolled like a ribbon beneath the flying car—and Joe and Mabel were almost as much alone as though they had had the car to themselves. And it was very evident that neither was bored with the other’s society. Joe’s hand may have brushed against Mabel’s occasionally, but that was doubtless due to the swaying of the car. At any rate, Mabel did not seem to mind.

At the rate at which they were going, it was only a little while before they heard the sound of the breakers, and the great hotel at Long Beach loomed up before them.

Reggie put up his car and they spent a glorious hour on the beach, watching the white-capped waves as they rushed in like race horses with crested manes and thundered on the sands. Then they had a choice and carefully selected dinner served in full view of the sea.

“Some hotel, this,” remarked Reggie as he gazed about him. “Make a dent in a man’s pocketbook to live here right along.”

“Yes,” agreed Jim. “They give you the best there is, but you have to pay the price. Reminds me of a story that used to be told of a famous hotel in Washington. The proprietor was known among statesmen all over the country for the way he served beefsteak smothered in onions. One man who had tried the dish advised his friend to do the same the next time he went to Washington.”

“But onions!” exclaimed his friend with a shudder. “Think of one’s breath.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” replied the other. “When you get the bill it will take your breath away.”

Reggie laughed, and, as the afternoon was getting on, ordered the car to be brought around. They had thought to go out along the south shore as far as Patchogue, before turning about for home.

They were bowling along on the Merrick Road in the vicinity of Bay Shore, when an automobile behind them came rushing past at a reckless rate of speed. It almost grazed Reggie’s car, and the quick turn he was obliged to make came within an ace of sending the car into a ditch.

“My word!” cried the indignant Reggie. “Those bally beggars ought to be pinched. A little more and they’d have smashed us.”

“Half drunk, most likely,” commented Jim. “They’ll kill somebody yet if they keep that up. By Jove, I believe they’ve done it now!”

From up the road came a chorus of yells and shouts. They saw the flying automobile hesitate for a moment and then plunge on, leaving a limp and motionless form sprawled out in the road behind it.

CHAPTER IX
A BRUTAL ACT

There was a shout from the men and a scream of terror from Mabel.

“Oh, hurry, hurry!” she urged. “Perhaps they’ve killed him!”

Reggie needed no urging, and in a moment more they had come within a few feet of the figure that still lay without motion or any sign of life.

Joe and Jim were out of the car like a flash and ran to the side of the victim.

Reggie turned the car into a piece of open woodland at the side of the road, and then he and Mabel descended and joined the others.

The man who had been hit seemed to be nearly seventy years old. His hair was silvery white, except where it was dabbled with blood that flowed from a wound in his head near the left temple. His clothing was shabby and covered with dust. A G. A. R. button was on the lapel of his coat.

As Joe knelt down and lifted the man’s head to his knee, the latter opened his eyes and gave utterance to a groan.

Jim, who had a rough knowledge of surgery from his experience with the accidents that are constantly happening on the ball field, ran his hands deftly over the prostrate form.

“Don’t seem to be any bones broken,” he announced after a moment. “And that cut on the head seems to have come when he struck the road. But let’s carry him over to this patch of grass and bind up his head to stop that bleeding.”

The handkerchiefs of the party were called into requisition and torn into strips from which a bandage was improvised. There was a small brook near by, and Mabel hurried to this for water, with which she bathed the man’s head and face.

“We’d better get him into the car and carry him on to Bay Shore,” said Joe, when they had done all they could. “I don’t imagine he’s fatally hurt, although at his age the shock may make it serious.”

Just then the man stirred feebly and his eyes opened. There was a puzzled expression as he gazed into the faces surrounding him, and then a look of comprehension as he recalled the fact of the accident.

“Was it your car that hit me?” he asked. “But no, I know it wasn’t,” he added, as he caught sight of Mabel. “There wasn’t any woman in that machine.”

“Don’t try to talk,” admonished Joe gently. “You’ve had a bad shake-up, but there are no bones broken and you’ll be as good as ever in a little while.”

“They didn’t give me a dog’s chance,” the old man murmured wearily. “They must have seen me coming, but they didn’t honk their horn or give me any warning. They were fooling and laughing, and the car was zigzagging as though the driver was half drunk. An old man like me doesn’t count, I guess, with a bunch of joy riders. Did they stop afterwards?”

“Not a second,” declared Jim angrily. “They rushed on without even looking behind. They’re not much better than a bunch of murderers.”

“I wish we’d got their number,” Joe gritted savagely between his teeth. “I tried to, but they were raising such a cloud of dust that I only caught the numbers seven and four as part of their license number. And that isn’t enough to go by.”

“They ought to be made to pay handsomely for the outrage,” declared Mabel indignantly.

“We’ll telephone to the towns ahead when we get to Bay Shore, describing them as well as we can, and try to have them arrested,” said Joe. “But now we must get to a doctor or a hospital. This man ought to be attended to at once.”

Joe and Jim lifted the old man carefully and placed him, half sitting, half lying, in the tonneau of the car. The others crowded in as they were able, and Reggie threw in his clutch and started on the way to Bay Shore.

Here on making inquiries they found that there was a large hospital at Islip, not far away, and in a few minutes they were at the doors of the big institution.

A preliminary examination showed that the wound on the head was a superficial one and that the old man was suffering chiefly from shock. He was put to bed in a cool private room that Joe made himself responsible for, and the doctor predicted that in a few days he would be on his feet again and able to return to his home.

This, they had learned from him, was Boston. His name was Louis Anderson. He was in poor circumstances and his visit to Long Island had been for the purpose of disposing of a tiny bit of property which represented his last earthly possession.

“I can’t thank you boys enough,” he said, as they at last prepared to leave. “I only wish there was something I could do for you in return. I don’t suppose you often get to Boston.”

“We expect to get there several times within the next week or two,” remarked Joe, as he looked at Jim with an amused twinkle in his eye.

“Then you must be traveling men,” suggested Anderson. “What line are you in?”

“The baseball line,” grinned Jim.

“And you’re going to Boston?” repeated Anderson. “Why, then you must be members of the Giants and going to play in the World Series.”

“Guessed it right,” Jim responded.

“If I didn’t hate to root against Boston, I’d almost wish you’d win, after all you’ve done for me,” Louis Anderson smiled feebly.

“We’re going to try mighty hard,” Joe assured him.

“They say that fellow Matson of yours is the king of them all,” the old man went on.

“Oh, I don’t know,” responded Joe gravely. “I’ve known him to pitch some rotten ball.”

They shook hands and went away, promising to keep in touch with him and do all they could to find the reckless automobilists who had caused his injuries.

But although they gave the facts to the village authorities and had a notice sent out to other towns in the car’s path, they had little hope that anything would come of it.

“I guess they’ve made a clean getaway of it,” judged Jim, as they once more headed toward the city.

“It’s a burning shame,” commented Mabel. “He seems to be such a nice old man, too. The idea of those men not even stopping to see what they could do for him.”

“He might have died in the road for all they cared,” declared Reggie indignantly. “A good long jail sentence would teach those bounders a little decency, by Jove!”

“I’d like to have them soaked heavily for damages,” observed Joe. “I don’t think the old man would have much trouble in getting a heavy verdict in his favor from a jury. And I guess the poor old fellow needs all he can get.”

The knowledge, however, that the accident would not prove fatal and the consciousness that they had done all they could to help, served to dissipate the shock caused by the affair, and before long they were chatting as merrily as ever. So that when at last they parted at the doors of the Marlborough their only feeling of regret was that the day was ended. As for Joe and Mabel, snugly ensconced in the tonneau, they would have been willing to ride on forever. Joe said as much, and Mabel had acquiesced with her eyes if not in words.

It was a discordant note, therefore, when as the chums were going toward their rooms they almost ran into “Bugs” Hartley, the former pitcher of the Giants, who had been released earlier in the season for dissipation.

That erratic individual, whose venom against Joe had once led him to drug his coffee so that our hero might be unable to pitch, had rapidly gone from bad to worse. He had exceptional ability when he kept sober, and even after his release by McRae he could have found some other manager willing to give him a chance if he had kept away from drink. But he had gone steadily downhill until he was now a saloon lounger and hanger-on.

He had been drinking heavily now, as was evident by a glance at his bleared face, and had reached the ugly stage of intoxication. His former team mates stepped back as he lurched against them.

“Hello, Hartley,” said Joe not unkindly, for despite his just cause for resentment, he was shocked and sorry to see how low “Bugs” had fallen.

“Don’t you talk to me!” snarled Hartley viciously. “You got me off the team and knocked me out of my chance of World Series money.”

“You’re wrong there, Bugs,” returned Joe, keeping his temper. “I did everything I could to help you. When you were drunk in St. Louis, Jim and I smuggled you off to bed so that McRae wouldn’t find it out. You’re your own worst enemy, Bugs.”

“Why don’t you brace up, Bugs, and cut out the booze?” broke in Jim. “You’ve got lots of good pitching left in you yet.”

“Quit your preaching, you guys,” growled Hartley thickly. “It doesn’t work with me. You’ve done me dirt and I’m going to get even with you yet and don’t you forget it.”

He moved away unsteadily, and the chums watched him with a sentiment of pity.

“Poor old Bugs,” remarked Jim. “He can’t bat successfully against the Demon Rum.”

“No,” assented Joe. “I’m afraid he’ll be struck out.”

CHAPTER X
THE OPENING GUN

The practice games of the next few days were by no means tame affairs, even though there was nothing especially at stake.

The All-National team was, as has been seen, chosen from among the stars of the profession, and though they lacked, of course, the team work of the Giants, they gave the latter all they could do to hold their own. They had been ordered to “tear things wide open” and play the game for all it was worth.

This they proceeded to do with such effect that when the time for the great Series arrived the Giants had been put on their mettle and were at the very top of their form.

It had been an especially busy week for Joe. He had spent one day in Boston, to which city he had run over on the midnight train at the direction of McRae, in order that he might observe the practice of the Red Sox and get a line on their batters. He had been impressed but not dismayed by their show of strength, and had come back knowing that his work was cut out for him.

He had taken advantage, too, of his presence in Boston to arrange for rooms for his family, as well as for Reggie and Mabel, as they expected to go back and forth during the fateful week the Series lasted on the same trains taken by the two teams.

Thursday was made memorable to the New Yorks by the appearance of Hughson. There was an affectionate roar and rush for the veteran as he came into the clubhouse among his adoring mates.

To the torrent of questions poured out on him as to his condition, he responded that he was feeling fine physically, but was not yet sure of his arm. His shoulder was still somewhat lame and tender, but he hoped to get into some of the games later on. He tossed the ball about for a little while, but made no attempt to cut loose with any curves or fast ones. But the very sight of their crack pitcher once more in uniform was a tonic and inspiration to his mates, and they put an amount of “ginger” into their practice game that afternoon that was full of promise to McRae and Robson, as they watched their men from the side lines.

“I think we’re going to cop the Series, Robbie,” declared the former when the practice was over. “The men are as full of pep as so many colts.”

“They certainly look good to-day, John,” was the response. “But I’d give a thousand dollars out of my pocket at this minute if Hughson was in shape.”

That evening Joe’s parents and sister reached New York. Joe had received a wire telling him on what train they were coming and was at the station to meet them, full of affection and impatience.

He scanned eagerly the long train as it rolled into the station. Then he detected the familiar figures descending the steps of a Pullman coach, and in a moment more there was a joyful family reunion.

“Momsey—Dad!” he cried, grasping his father’s hand and kissing his mother, who had all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around his neck then and there. “And Sis, you darling! Sweet and pretty as a picture!” he exclaimed, holding her out at arms’ length so that he could look at her sparkling face. “Poor, poor Jim!” he teased. “I see his finish!”

Clara’s color deepened, but before she could retort, Joe was hurrying the little party through the crowd to the street, where he hailed a taxicab and had them whirled away to their rooms at the Marlborough.

He had arranged to have a nice supper served in their suite that night, as he knew that they would be tired and excited after their long journey. So they dined cosily and happily, and the hour or two of dear familiar talk that followed marked one of the happiest experiences the united little family had ever known.

But Joe could not stay nearly as long as he wanted to, for to-morrow was the day of the first game and he had to retire early so as to be in perfect condition.

McRae had told Joe that afternoon that he was slated to pitch the opening game.

“I’m banking on you, Joe,” the manager told him. “You’ve never failed me yet, and I don’t think you’ll do it now. If you fall down, we’re dead ones.”

“I’ll do my very best,” declared Joe earnestly.

“Your best is good enough for any one,” replied McRae. “Just show them the same stuff you did the Chicagos in that last game and I won’t ask for anything more.”

The next morning dawned bright and clear, and the city was agog with expectation. New York, usually so indifferent to most things, had gone wild over the Series. The morning papers bore the flaring headlines: “Matson Pitches the First Game.” Crowds gathered early about the bulletin boards. Long before the time set for the game, cars and trains disgorged their living loads at the gates of the Polo Grounds, and before the teams came out for practice the grandstands and bleachers were black with swarming, jostling humanity. The metropolis was simply baseball mad.

Within the gates, hundreds of special officers lined the field to keep order and prevent the overflow back of centerfield from encroaching on the playing space. The Seventh Regiment Band played popular airs. Movie men were here, there and everywhere, getting snapshots of the scene. The diamond lay like so much green velvet under the bright sun, and the freshly marked white base lines stood out in dazzling contrast. It was a scene to stir to the depths any lover of the great national game.

There was a thunderous roar as the teams marched down from the clubhouse, and there were bursts of applause for the sparkling plays that marked the preliminary practice. Then the field was cleared, the gong rang and the umpire, taking off his hat and facing the stands, bellowed in stentorian tones:

“Ladies and gentlemen: The batteries for to-day’s game are Fraser and Thompson for Boston, Matson and Mylert for New York.”

Loud applause followed, and this grew into a cyclone when Joe took the ball tossed to him and walked toward the pitcher’s box.

“Matson! Matson! Matson!” yelled the crowd.

Joe cast a swift look at the box where his family were seated with Mabel and Reggie. Then he touched a little glove that rested in a pocket of his uniform.

The head of the Red Sox batting order had taken up his position at the plate.

“Play ball!” called the umpire.

Joe straightened up to his full height, wound up deliberately, and the ball shot over the corner of the plate like a bullet. The batter lunged at it savagely, but only hit the air.

The crowd yelled its delight at the auspicious beginning.

“That’s the way, Joe!”

“He can’t touch you!”

“Missed it by a mile!”

A ball followed, then a foul, then another ball, and a final strike that sent the batter discomfited to the bench.

The next man up raised a towering skyscraper, which Larry gathered in without moving from his tracks, and the third man died, as had the first, on strikes.

The half inning had been short and sharp, and Joe met a tempest of encouraging cheers as he walked in to the bench.

“You’ve got their number, old man!”

“They’ll break their backs trying to hit you!”

“Some bad pitching, I don’t think!”

But Joe had had too much experience to be betrayed into any undue elation. There were eight innings more to come and in that time many things might happen.