Not a bit dismayed by their unpromising beginning, the Red Sox took the field, and speedily showed that they too could uncork a brand of pitching that was not to be despised.
The best that Burkett could do was to raise a “Texas Leaguer” that Berry gobbled in without any trouble. Larry chopped an easy one to Girdner, who got him at first with plenty to spare. Denton dribbled a slow roller that Fraser gathered in on the first base line, tagging the runner as he passed.
And now it was the turn of the Boston enthusiasts, of whom thousands had made the trip to see their favorites play, to yell frantically for the Red Sox.
Joe realized at once that he had a foeman in Fraser who was worthy of his steel, and knew that all his skill and cunning would be required to win.
For the next two innings the sides were mowed down with unfailing regularity, and not a man on either side reached first base. It looked as though the game were going to resolve itself into a pitchers’ duel, and the crowds were breathless with excitement as batter after batter was sent to the bench.
The Giants broke the ice in the fourth. Burkett scorched a single to right, and by daring base-running stretched it to a double, as Cooper was slow in making the return. Barrett sacrificed him to third. Fraser put on steam and fanned Denton on strikes. Then Willis came to the rescue with a sizzling hit just inside the third base line, and Burkett came galloping over the plate with the first run of the game.
The crowd rose and cheered wildly, and the Giants from their dugout threw their caps in the air and gathered around Burkett in jubilation. It was only one run, but the way the game was going that run looked as big as a mountain.
Willis was caught napping off first by a snap throw from Thompson to Hobbs, and the inning ended.
The fifth was devoid of scoring, but in the sixth the Bostons not only tied the Giants but passed them.
Loomis, the crack left fielder of the visitors, started the trouble with a sharp hit to Larry, who “booted” the ball, letting Loomis get to first. Hobbs lay down a bunt on which Joe had no time to get Loomis at second, though he tossed out Hobbs at first. Walters lined out the first clean hit that the Red Sox had made so far in the game. If it had been properly played and taken on the bound, it could have been held to a single. But Becker made a mistake in thinking that he could make a fly catch. The ball struck the ground in front of him, bounded over his head and rolled to the further corner of the field. Before it could be recovered, Walters had made the circuit of the bases, following Loomis over the plate, and the Red Sox were in the lead by two runs to one.
The Boston rooters started their marching song of “Tessie,” while the New Yorkers sat glum and silent.
Joe tightened up and struck out the two following batters in jig time, but it looked as though the mischief had been done.
“Don’t let that worry you, Joe,” counseled McRae, as he came in to the bench. “You’re pitching like a Gatling gun. That’s the first hit they’ve got off you in six innings and it ought to have been a single only. We’ll beat ’em yet.”
“Sure we will,” answered Joe, cheerfully. “We’ve only begun to fight.”
At the beginning of the “lucky seventh,” the crowd rose and stretched in the fond hope that it would bring the necessary luck for their favorites.
The omen might have worked, had it not been for a dazzling bit of play on the part of the Bostons.
Their own half had been fruitless. Joe was pitching now like a man inspired, and his bewildering curves and slants had made the Boston sluggers look like “bushers.”
In the Giants’ half, Joe was the first man up and he laced out a hot liner between second and short that carried him easily to first. Mylert hit to short and Joe was forced at second, though Berry relayed the ball to Hobbs too late for a double play. A wild pitch, the only one of the game, advanced Mylert a base. Burkett received a pass. Now there was a man on first, another on second, and rousing cheers came from the stands. There was only one man out, Fraser was evidently getting wild, and it looked as though New York might score.
The Boston infield moved in for a double play. And it looked for a moment as though they would make it. Larry hit to short, and a groan went up. But the hit was so sharp that Stock could not handle it cleanly, and, though he succeeded in getting Burkett at second Larry reached first safely while Mylert raced to third.
It was a time for desperate measures, and McRae gave the signal for a double steal. The moment Fraser wound up, Larry started for second, not with a design of reaching it, but hoping to draw a throw from the catcher, under cover of which Mylert might scamper home from third. If he could touch the plate before Larry was put out, the run would count and the score be tied.
Thompson threw like a shot to Berry at second. But instead of chasing Larry, who had stopped midway between first and second, he kept threatening to throw to third and catch Mylert, who was taking as big a lead toward home as he dared. After playing hide and seek for a moment, Berry thought he saw a chance to nip Mylert and threw to Girdner at third. But the ball touched the tips of his fingers and got past him, and Mylert started for home.
A howl of exultation went up from the throng. Then it died away as suddenly as it had risen.
Girdner, chasing the ball, slipped as he went to pick it up. Lying on the grass, he made a desperate throw in the direction of the plate. It went high, but Thompson made a tremendous jump, pulled it down and clapped it on Mylert just as he slid into the rubber.
“Out,” yelled the umpire.
It was as classy a play as any of the spectators had ever seen, and even the New Yorkers, sore as they were at losing the run, joined generously in the applause that greeted it.
“That fellow Girdner must have a rabbit’s foot about him somewhere,” remarked Robson to McRae with a twisted smile. “He couldn’t do that thing again in a thousand years.”
“A few more things like that and the crowd will die of heart disease or nervous prostration,” answered McRae. “But they can’t have all the breaks. Just watch. Our turn will be coming next.”
But nothing happened in the eighth to change the score, and the ninth opened with the Red Sox still in the lead.
That the Red Sox would not score again was as nearly certain as anything can be in baseball. Joe, as cool as an icicle, was going at top speed. They simply could not touch his offerings.
But as the visitors went back in one, two, three order, they consoled themselves with the thought that they did not have to do any more scoring. They were already ahead, and if Fraser could hold their opponents down for one more inning, the game was theirs.
But Fraser had about reached his limit. He could not stand the gaff as sturdily as Joe. With the exception of that one wild spell, he had pitched superbly, but the terrific strain was beginning to tell.
His first two pitches went as balls, and McRae, whose eagle eyes saw signs of wavering, signaled Becker, who was at the bat, to “wait him out.”
The advice proved good, and Becker trotted down to first where he immediately began to dance about and yell, hoping to draw a throw which in the pitcher’s nervous condition might go wild.
The Red Sox players shouted encouragement to their pitcher, and the catcher walked down to the box on the pretense of advice but really to give him time to recover himself.
No doubt this helped, for Fraser braced up and made Iredell put up a towering foul, which Thompson caught after a long run.
Joe came next and cracked out a pretty single between short and second. Becker tried to make third on it, but a magnificent throw by Walters nipped him at the bag. But in the mix-up, Joe, by daring running, got to second.
With two out, a long hit would tie the game, anyway, and carry it into extra innings.
Fraser seemed to waver again and gave Mylert his base on balls. Then big Burkett, the head of the batting order, strode to the plate.
Amid frantic adjurations from the crowd to “kill the ball,” he caught the second one pitched and sent a screaming liner far out toward the right field wall.
Cooper, the fleet Red Sox right fielder, had started for it at the crack of the bat. On, on he went, running like a deer.
Thirty-five thousand people were on their feet, yelling like maniacs, while Joe, Mylert and Burkett raced round the bases.
Ball and man reached the wall at the same instant. The gallant player leaped high in the air. But the ball just touched the tips of his fingers and rolled away, while Joe and Mylert dented the rubber, Burkett halting when he reached second.
Then the crowd went crazy.
The game was over. It had been a battle royal, but the Giants had vanquished the Red Sox, and had taken their first stride toward the championship of the world.
Baseball Joe waited just long enough to wave his cap at the box in which his party sat, and then raced with his companions to the clubhouse before the crowd that was rushing down over the field should overwhelm them.
Mabel turned towards Mrs. Matson, who had been watching the game with the most intense interest and yet with a sense of complete bewilderment. The intricacies of the game were new to her, but she knew that her boy had won, and at the applause showered upon him her fond heart swelled with motherly pride.
“What do you think of that son of yours now?” Mabel asked gaily. “Didn’t I tell you he was going to win?”
“It was j-just wonderful,” replied Mrs. Matson, reaching for her handkerchief to stay the happy tears that had not been far from her eyes all through the game.
Mr. Matson had renewed his youth, and his eyes were shining like a boy’s. Clara clapped her hands and laughed almost hysterically.
“Oh, oh, oh!” she cried. “And he’s my brother!”
Mabel laughed and gave her a little affectionate pat.
“I don’t wonder that you’re proud of him,” she said. Joe would have been glad to hear the slight tremble in her voice.
In the clubhouse there was, of course, a mighty celebration. A lead of one game in such a series as that promised to be was, as “Robbie” exultantly said, “not to be sneezed at.” Now they would have to win only three more to be sure of the flag, while the Red Sox needed to take four.
And yet, despite the victory, there was no undue boasting or elation. They had not won by any such margin as to justify too rosy a view of the future. The Red Sox had fought for the game tooth and nail, and at various stages a hair would have turned the balance one way or the other. The Bostons were an enemy to be dreaded, and a profound respect for their opponents had been implanted in the Giants’ breasts.
Besides, McRae knew that he had “played his ace” in putting Joe into the box. He had no pitcher of equal rank to bring out on the morrow, while at least two of the Red Sox boxmen were quite as high as Fraser in quality.
“You did splendidly to-day, Matson,” said McRae to Joe, clapping him jovially on the shoulder.
“I’m glad we won,” responded Joe. “But that Fraser is no slouch when it comes to putting them over.”
“He’s a crackerjack,” the manager admitted. “But you topped him all the way through. We raked him for seven hits, though he kept them pretty well scattered. But they only got to you for three, and one of them was a scratch. And he was wobbly twice, while you only gave one pass.”
“That crack of Burkett’s was a dandy,” observed Joe. “And it came just in the nick of time.”
“It was a lulu,” chuckled McRae. “My heart was in my mouth when I saw Cooper making for it. Mighty few hits get away from that bird, but it was just a bit too high for him.”
Both teams were to leave for Boston that night. A special train made up entirely of Pullman cars had been prepared to carry them, together with hundreds of enthusiasts who had planned to go with them back and forth and see each game of the Series. They would reach the city a little after midnight, and in order that the athletes might not be disturbed, they would be shunted into a remote part of the railroad yards where they could slumber peacefully until morning.
But several hours were to elapse before the train started. Joe hurried into his street clothes, and, accompanied by Jim Barclay, was whirled away in a taxicab to the Marlborough, where they had arranged to have a jolly dinner with his family and the Varleys.
The baseball players found everything ready for them, and the welcome that greeted them warmed their hearts.
“What a pity that we haven’t a band here ready to strike up: ‘Hail the conquering heroes come,’” said Mabel, mischievously.
“‘Hero,’ you mean,” corrected Jim. “I’m shining with only reflected glory. Here’s the real hero of the piece,” indicating Joe. “I’m only one of the Roman populace.”
“And who’s the villain?” smiled Mr. Matson.
“Oh, Fraser was the villain,” responded Jim. “But Joe foiled him just as he was about to carry away the che-ild.”
Barclay had not yet met Joe’s family, but now Joe introduced him to his parents and Clara. They greeted him cordially, and Clara’s eyes fell before the admiration that leaped into Jim’s merry blue ones.
It is barely possible that that young lady had thought more than once of what Joe had said of Barclay in the letter that had enclosed the thousand dollar bill. And now as she studied him shyly from time to time while he chatted away gaily, she had no difficulty in understanding why Joe had spoken so enthusiastically of his friend. And she was not sorry that Mabel had arranged that she and Jim should sit next each other at the table.
They were soon talking with freedom and animation.
“You ought to be awfully proud of that brother of yours,” Jim declared.
“I should say so!” Clara exclaimed. “He’s the dearest brother that ever lived.”
“He’s a prince,” assented Jim. “A finer fellow never trod in shoe leather. I owe an awful lot to him, Miss Matson. I was feeling as forlorn as only a ‘rookie’ can feel when I broke into the big league, but he took me up at once and we’ve been like brothers ever since.”
“He’s often spoken of you in his letters home,” replied Clara. “I’d tell you what he said of you, only it would make you too conceited.”
“And he’s raved to me about that sister of his,” said Jim. “He’s done more than that. He’s shown me your picture. I’ve been tempted more than once to steal it from him.”
“What a desperate criminal,” laughed Clara, her cheeks growing pink.
“I think any jury would justify me if they once saw the picture,” replied Jim, gallantly, “and they certainly would if they caught sight of the original.”
From this it can be seen that these young folks were fast becoming very friendly.
“It has been the dream of my life to see New York and Boston,” observed Clara.
“Is that so?” said Jim, eagerly. “I know both of them like a book. You must let me show you around.”
“That’s very nice of you,” said Clara, demurely. “But I suppose Joe will want——”
“Oh, of course,” said Jim. “But Joe will be so busy you know with the games. He’ll be under a big strain, while I’ll probably have plenty of time. I’m only a sort of fifth wheel to the coach, while Joe’s the whole thing. And then, too, Joe’s already got Mabel, and it isn’t fair that he should have two lovely girls while I’m left out in the cold. You really must take pity on me.”
Few girls would have been so hard-hearted as to let such a handsome young fellow as Jim die of grief, and Clara had no intention of hastening his demise by excessive cruelty on her part. So she assented, though with the proper degree of maidenly hesitation, and they began merrily to map out plans for the coming week.
Joe, seated with Mabel on one side and his mother on the other, had also been enjoying himself hugely through the dinner, while Reggie and Mr. Matson found plenty to talk about in discussing the events of the day. The time passed all too swiftly and before they knew it they had to begin preparations for the journey.
“Let’s look at the weather probabilities for to-morrow,” said Joe, buying an evening paper at the newsstand as they passed through the Grand Central Terminal.
“Um—cloudy and unsettled,” he read.
“That means that we’ll have to get busy and win in the first five innings before the rain comes,” laughed Jim.
“It ought to be a good day to pitch Markwith,” returned Joe. “With a cloudy day and that blinding speed of his they won’t be able to see the ball.”
The two young athletes saw their party to their car, and after a few moments of pleasant chat bade them good-night and repaired to the Pullmans that had been reserved for the Giant team.
All were in a most jovial mood and filled with highest hopes for the morrow. Joke and banter flew back and forth, until the watchful McRae asserted the claims of discipline and sent them all to their berths.
The next morning when they drew the curtains, they found that the weather man’s prognostications had been correct. Dull, leaden-colored clouds chased each other across the sky and a bleak wind came from the east.
“Looks like soggy weather, sure enough,” commented Jim, as he met Joe in the lavatory.
“It certainly does,” assented Joe. “Hope it holds off till after the game. It may cut down the attendance.”
“No danger of that unless it rains cats and dogs,” rejoined Jim. “Boston is the best baseball city in the country, and it’ll take more than a few clouds or even a drizzle to keep the crowds away.”
They breakfasted in the dining car, and then Joe’s party adjourned to the hotel where rooms had been reserved. There was not much time for sight seeing, but they all had a pleasant little stroll on the Common and in the wonderful Botanical Gardens, before their duties called the young men away to the baseball grounds.
The weather still continued threatening, but as Jim had prophesied, this did not affect the attendance. Boston was as wild over the Series as New York, and long before noon Commonwealth Avenue and Gaffney Street were packed with the oncoming throngs. By the time the game started the enormous Braves Field was packed to its utmost capacity.
Personally, McRae welcomed the overcast sky. It was a pitcher’s day, a day that called for speed, and speed as everybody knew was Markwith’s “long suit.”
“Smoke ’em over, Red,” was McRae’s admonition, when he told Markwith he was slated to pitch. “If we can only put this game on the right side of the ledger, the world’s flag is as good as won. Give us a lead of two games and it will take the spine out of those birds. They’ll never catch up.”
“I get you, Mac,” grinned the pitcher. “I’ll zip ’em over so fast they’ll have to use glasses to see ’em.”
For four innings it looked as though his prophecy would be fulfilled. His companions played like fiends behind him, and although the Bostons got to him for three bingles, they were scattered ones, and not a man got as far as third base.
“Looks as though Red had their goat, John,” Robson remarked to McRae.
“He’s doing fine,” McRae returned, “and our boys seem to be getting to Banks pretty freely.”
The Giants had, in fact, got a pretty good line on Banks, the port flinger of the Red Sox, and had accumulated three runs, which, with Markwith going as he was, seemed a very comfortable lead.
But the glorious uncertainty of the national game was demonstrated in the next inning. The Giants had been disposed of in their half with a goose egg, and the Red Sox came in to bat.
The first man up was given a base on balls. The next hit a sharp bounder to Denton, who ought to have made an easy out either at first or second, but he juggled the ball and both men were safe.
The error seemed to unnerve Markwith, and he gave another pass, filling the bases.
“Get to him, boys!” screamed the Boston coacher on the side lines near first base. “He’s got nothing on the ball but his glove and a prayer.”
Walters, the slugging center fielder, caught the second ball pitched right on the seam and sent it on a line between left and center for the cleanest of home runs, clearing the bases and denting the rubber himself for the fourth run. In jig time, the Red Sox had wiped out the Giants’ advantage and taken the lead.
The crowd went wild and the “Tessie” song swelled up from the stands.
McRae, with his brow like a thunder cloud, beckoned Red from the box and called in Jim, who, as a matter of precaution but with little idea of being called upon, had been warming up in a corner of the grounds.
“It’s up to you, Barclay,” he said as he handed him the ball. “Let’s see now what stuff you’re made of.”
Joe gave Jim an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
“Steady does it, old man,” he said. “They’re only one run ahead and the bases are empty. Hold them down and our boys will hand you enough runs to win out.”
It was a trying position for a young and comparatively new pitcher, but Jim was a “comer” and had already proved in other games that he had both skill and nerve.
“Knock this one out of the box, too,” came from the stands.
“Sew up the game right now!”
“Eat him up!”
“He’ll be easy!”
“Oh, you Red Sox!”
Jim wound up and shot one over for a strike.
“Easy, is he?” came back from the Giant supporters. “Just watch that boy’s smoke.”
Another strike followed, and the stands sobered down a little.
“You’re out,” called the umpire, as a third strike split the plate.
Shouts of delight and encouragement came from the Giants’ bench, and McRae’s face lightened somewhat.
The next man went out on a high foul, and the inning ended when Stock popped an easy fly to the box.
“Bully for you, old man!” came from his mates, as Jim walked in from the mound.
“Knock out some runs now, you fellows,” admonished McRae. “Barclay can’t do it all. And do it in a hurry, too. I don’t like the way those clouds are coming up.”
The sky was blackening rapidly, and the wind, coming from the east in strong gusts, told that a storm was on the way.
The Giants knew the need of haste, and they went at their work fiercely. Larry started proceedings with a rattling two bagger. Denton sacrificed him to third. Willis lined out a single, bringing in Larry and reaching second himself a moment later on a passed ball. Becker sent one to right that scored Willis and netted two bags for himself. Iredell went out on an infield catch, but Mylert came to the rescue with a sizzling hit that brought Becker to the plate amid frantic shouts from the New York rooters.
Three runs had been scored and New York was again in the lead by six to four. Two men were out. But now rain began to fall, although at first it was only a drizzle, and McRae, frenzied with anxiety, ordered Burkett to strike out.
Now, of course, it was the Bostons’ cue to delay the game. If they could prevent the sixth inning from being fully played out before the rain stopped proceedings, the score would revert to what it was at the end of the fifth inning and Boston would be declared the winner.
They came in slowly from the field, stopping frequently to talk to each other. Then when at last they were at their bench, the first batter took unusual pains in selecting his bat. And all the time the rain was falling more heavily.
McRae rushed at the umpire.
“Can’t you see what they’re doing?” he demanded. “Make them play ball.”
The umpire turned sternly to the batter.
“Hurry up there,” he commanded. “None of your monkey tricks or I’ll forfeit the game to the New Yorks.”
Thus adjured, the batter sauntered as slowly as he dared to the plate.
Jim put over a strike.
“That wasn’t a strike,” argued the Boston captain. “It didn’t come within six inches of the plate.”
“No argument,” snapped the umpire, who saw through the tactics. “Go ahead there,” he called to Jim.
Jim put over two more. The batter did not even offer at them. He had figured that with an occasional ball switched in it would take more time to put him out on strikes than if he gave a fielder’s chance. But there were no balls and he was declared out.
The second man crawled like a snail to the plate. It was pouring now and the bleachers were black with umbrellas. The Giants were fairly dancing up and down with impatience and apprehension.
Jim pitched like lightning, not waiting to wind up. But before he could dispose of the batsmen, the heavens opened and the rain came down in torrents.
Play was impossible. The umpire called the game and everybody scurried for shelter.
Old Jupiter Pluvius had taken a hand in the game.
It is needless to paint the exasperation on the faces of McRae and Robson and the rest of the Giant team, as they saw victory taken from them just as they were tightening their grip upon it.
“Talk about luck,” growled McRae. “Those fellows have got hogsheads of it.”
“Why couldn’t that rain have held off for ten minutes more?” groaned the rotund Robson.
“It may let up even yet enough to let the game go on,” remarked Larry, though without much conviction.
“Such a chance,” grunted Willis. “Why, you could take a swim at second base already.”
There was, indeed, little hope of resuming the game, although in accordance with the rules, if the rain ceased in half an hour and the grounds were in condition for play, the umpires could call the teams back to the field. But the rain was blinding, and to wait around any longer was only a matter of form.
Joe and Jim had worked their way through the crowds to the box in which their party sat. In the neat, gray, traveling uniforms that set their athletic figures off to perfection, the girls thought they looked handsomer than ever.
All gave them a hearty welcome and gladly made room for them. It was, of course, only by a coincidence that Joe found himself next to Mabel while Jim sat close to Clara.
“I’m so glad your side won, Joe,” said motherly Mrs. Matson, beaming lovingly on her son and heir.
“But we didn’t, Momsey,” Joe laughed a little ruefully.
“Why, I kept count of the runs,” said his mother in surprise, “and your side made six while the others had only four.”
“That’s right, but our last three don’t count,” explained Joe. “If we could only have finished out this last inning, we’d have won. But it wasn’t finished, and so the score went back to the end of the fifth inning when the Bostons were ahead four to three.”
“I think that’s a shame!” exclaimed his mother, with as near an approach to indignation as her kindly nature was capable of feeling.
“Those old Bostons were just horrid to try to delay the game that way,” declared Clara.
“It wasn’t a bit sportsmanlike,” declared Mabel, warmly.
Joe favored Jim with a solemn wink. Both knew that the Giants would have done precisely the same thing if positions had been reversed. It was a legitimate enough part of the game if one could “get away with it.”
“Yes,” assented Joe, keeping his face straight. “It didn’t seem exactly the thing.”
“I don’t wonder Mr. McRae was angry,” said Mabel. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have done a thing like that.”
Joe had a sudden choking fit.
“Well,” he said, “there’s no use crying over spilt milk. We ought to have made those runs earlier in the game, that’s all.”
“I felt so sorry for poor Mr. Markwith,” said Mrs. Matson. “It must have been very mortifying to have to give up before so many people.”
“Poor Red,” said Joe. “It was too bad, especially when he got away to such a splendid start. But every pitcher has to take his medicine some time. Pitchers are very much like race horses. One day no one can beat them and another day any one can beat them.”
“I think you did splendidly, Mr. Barclay,” said Clara, shyly.
“Oh, I didn’t have much to do,” said Jim. “Just the same,” he added, dropping his voice a trifle, “I’d rather hear you say that than any one else I know.”
The flush that made Clara look like a wild rose deepened in her cheeks not only from the words but the quick look that accompanied them.
“Don’t you think it might clear up yet?” she asked, changing the subject.
Jim followed her gaze reluctantly. He had something better to look at than the weather.
“The clouds do seem to be breaking away a little,” he assented. “But the base paths are a sea of mud, and the outfield is a perfect quagmire. There go the umpires now to look at it.”
Those dignitaries (there were four of them that officiated at each game, one behind the plate, one at the bases and the two others at the foul lines in right and left field, respectively) were, as a matter of fact, solemnly stalking out on the field.
From the stands went up a thunderous roar: “Call the game! Call the game!”
The Boston rooters were taking no chances and were perfectly willing to go without further baseball that afternoon, now that their favorites had the game won.
But their exhortations were unnecessary. Even McRae, clinging desperately to the last chance, could not in justice to his common sense urge that play should be continued. It was clearly impossible, and would have degenerated into a farce that would have risked the limbs of his athletes, to say nothing of the harm it would work to the game.
So there was no protest when the game was formally and finally declared off, and the disgruntled New Yorks gathered up their bats and strode from the field.
“Never mind, boys,” comforted McRae. “We can beat the Red Sox but we can’t beat them and the rain together. Better luck next time.”
“That listens good,” grumbled “Robbie,” who refused to be consoled. “But now we’ve lost the jump on them and it’s all to be done over again.”
“Well, we’re no worse off than they are, anyway,” returned the Giant manager.
“If we could only pitch Matson every day, the Series would be a cinch,” mused Robson.
“A copper-riveted cinch,” agreed McRae. “But I was mightily encouraged at the way young Barclay mowed them down. The ball didn’t look any bigger than a pea as it came over the plate.”
“He certainly had lots of stuff on the ball,” admitted Robson. “I wonder if he can stand the gaff for a full game.”
“I don’t know whether he’s seasoned enough for that yet,” said McRae, thoughtfully. “But it’ll stand a lot of thinking about. We’ll see first though how Hughson’s feeling when we get back to New York.”
The return journey to New York was not by any means so joyful as the trip out had been. Still, there was no discouragement in the Giants’ camp. They had played good ball and with the lead they had and the way Jim was pitching would probably have won if it had not been for the rain. And on the theory that the good and bad luck of the game usually struck an average, they felt that they were due to have the break in their favor the next time.
As for Joe and Jim, although, of course, they shared the chagrin of their mates, their cloud had plenty of silver lining. They had played their own parts well so far in the Series, and had no painful recollections to grow moody about. And then, too, were they not in the company of the two girls whom they devoutly believed to be the most charming in the world?
They made the most of that company in the quiet Sunday that followed. Mr. and Mrs. Matson smilingly declined Reggie’s cordial invitation, on the ground that they were feeling the need of rest after the excitement. The young people bundled into the car and they had a delightful ride through the woods of Westchester, whose trees were putting on their autumn tints of scarlet and russet and gold. A supper at the Claremont put the finish to a day in which the blind god with his bow and arrows had been extremely busy, and the drive home through the twilight was something none of them ever forgot.
The next morning, Joe, scanning the paper, gave a delighted exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jim, disturbed in a pleasing reverie that had nothing to do with baseball.
“Matter enough,” returned Joe, handing him the paper. “Hughson’s going to pitch. McRae must have fixed it up with him yesterday.”
“Gallant old scout!” cried Jim, his eyes kindling. “I was sure he’d get into the scrap somewhere. The only way you could keep that old war horse out of the World Series would be to hit him with an axe!”
“Won’t this make Boston feel sore!” Baseball Joe exulted.
“You bet it will,” chuckled Jim. “That’s the one thing they were banking on more than anything else. With Hughson out, they thought we didn’t have a chance.”
“Let’s get through breakfast in a hurry and run up and see the old boy,” cried Joe.
Jim needed no urging and they were soon in a taxicab and on their way to Hughson’s home.
They were met at the door by Mrs. Hughson, who greeted them with a pleasant smile and ushered them into the living room, where they found the great pitcher stretched out at his ease and running over the columns of the morning paper.
He jumped to his feet when he saw who his visitors were, and there was a hearty interchange of handshakes.
“So Richard is himself again,” beamed Joe.
“Best news we’ve had in a dog’s age,” added Jim.
“Yes, I guess the old salary wing is on the job again,” laughed Hughson.
“How’s it feeling?” asked Joe, eagerly.
“Fine as silk,” Hughson responded. “I’ve been trying it out gradually, and I don’t see but what I can put them over as well as ever I did. It hurts me a little on the high, fast ones, but everything else I’ve got in stock seems to go as well as I could ask.”
“What does the doctor say about your pitching?” asked Jim.
“Oh, he’s dead set against it,” was the answer. “Tells me it isn’t well yet by any means, and that it may go back on me any minute. But you know how those doctors are. They always want to make a sure thing of it. But McRae and I have been talking it over, and we’ve concluded that in the present condition of things it might be well to take a chance.”
“That head of yours is all right, anyway, you old fox,” laughed Joe. “You’ve always pitched with that as much as with your arm. You’ll outguess those fellows, even if you have to favor your arm a little.”
“We’ll hope so, anyway,” was the reply. “That was hard luck the boys had in Boston on Saturday, wasn’t it? Pity we couldn’t have had it played here that day. It didn’t rain a drop in New York.”
“We were surely up against it,” replied Joe. “But to-day’s another day and we’ll hope it tells a different story.”
“By the way,” grinned Hughson, “an old friend of yours was up here yesterday.”
“Is that so?” asked Joe. “Who was it?”
“‘Bugs’ Hartley.”
The two young men gave vent to an exclamation of surprise.
“He’s a great friend of mine,” said Joe, dryly. “He met me on the street the other night and showed me that I was as popular with him as a rattlesnake at a picnic party.”
“He certainly is sore at you,” Hughson laughed. “He started in to pan you but I shut him up in a hurry. I told him that you’d always done everything you could to help him, and I hinted to him that we knew pretty well who drugged your coffee that day you pitched against the Phillies. He swore, of course, that he didn’t do it.”
“I know that he did,” Joe replied. “But still I’ve never felt so sore against poor old Bugs as I would have felt against any one else who did such a thing, because I knew that he was a little queer in the head. Even now I’d gladly do him a favor if I could. What did he come here for?”
“He wanted to get on to Boston but didn’t have the price,” answered Hughson. “He thought that if he could see Rawlings he might get a chance with the Braves for next season. And he might, at that. You know what Rawlings has done with a lot of cast-offs from other teams, and if he could keep Bugs from kicking over the traces he might get something out of him next year. You know as well as I do what Bugs can do in the pitching line if he’ll only brace up and cut out drink. So I coughed up enough to send him on and I hope he’ll get another chance.”
“I hope so,” rejoined Joe, heartily. “There are mighty few teams that can beat him when he’s right.”
“But keep your eyes open, Joe, just the same,” counseled Hughson. “He’s holding a grudge against you in that old twisted brain of his, and you’d be as safe with him as if you were on a battlefield.”
“I guess he’s done his worst already,” Joe laughed carelessly.
They talked a few minutes longer, and then, as the rubber came in to give Hughson’s arm its daily massage, they took their way downtown.
The whole city was alive with excitement at the news that the famous standby of the Giants was to be in the box that afternoon. Yet mingled with this was an under current of anxiety. Was he in shape to pitch? Would that mighty arm of his hold out, so soon after his injury?
If wild and long-continued cheering could have won the game, it would have been won right at the start when Hughson came out on the field a little while before the gong sounded.
It was a tribute of which any man might have been proud. For more than a dozen years he had been the mainstay of the team. His record had never been approached in baseball history.
Year in and year out he had pitched his team to victory. Several times they had won the pennant of the National League, and even when they failed they had always been up among the contenders. And more than to any single man, this had been due to Hughson’s stout heart and mighty arm.
And the affection showered upon him was due not only to his prowess as a twirler, but to his character as a man. He was a credit to the game. The fines and discipline, so necessary in the case of many brilliant players, had never been visited upon him. He had steered clear of dissipation in any form. He was sportsmanlike and generous. Players on opposing teams liked him, the umpires respected him, his mates idolized him, and the great baseball public hailed him with acclamations whenever he appeared on the field.
And to-day the applause was heartier than ever because of the importance of the game and also in recognition of his gameness in coming to the help of his team so soon after a serious accident.
“They’re all with you, Hughson,” smiled McRae, as the bronzed pitcher lifted his cap in response to the cheers that rose from every quarter of the field.
“They seem to be, John,” replied Hughson. “Let’s hope they won’t be disappointed.”
As the game went on, it seemed as though the hopes of the spectators were to be gratified.
The veteran pitched superbly for seven innings. His twirling was up to the standard of his best games. He mowed the opposing batsman down one after the other, and as inning after inning passed with only two scratch hits as the Bostons’ total, it began to look as though it would be a shutout for the visitors.
“They’ve got holes in their bats,” cried McRae, gleefully, as he brought his hand down on Robson’s knee with a thump.
“It sure looks like it!” ejaculated Robbie. “But for the love of Mike, John, go easy. That ham of yours weighs a hundred pounds.”
But the Boston pitcher, stirred up by the fact that he was pitted against the great Hughson, was also “going great guns.” Larry and Burkett had been the only Giants so far to solve his delivery. Each had hammered out a brace of hits, but their comrades had been unable to bring them in from the bags on which they were roosting.
“Get after him, boys,” raged McRae. “You’re hitting like a bunch from the old ladies’ home. Split the game wide open.”
They promised vehemently to knock the cover off the ball, but the Red Sox pitcher, Landers, was not a party to the bargain and he obstinately refused to “crack.”
In the first half of the eighth, Cooper, of the Bostons, knocked up an infield fly that either Larry or Denton could have got easily. But they collided in running for it and the ball fell to the ground and rolled out toward center. Iredell, who was backing up the play, retrieved it, but in the mix-up, Cooper, by fast running, reached second.
Though both men had been shaken up by the collision they were not seriously injured, and after a few minutes play was resumed.
But in the strained condition of the players’ nerves, the accident had to some degree unstrung them. So that when Berry chopped an easy roller to Denton that the latter ordinarily would have “eaten up,” he juggled it for a moment. Then, in his haste to make the put-out at first, he threw wild and the ball went over Burkett’s head. Before he could get it back, Cooper had scored and Berry was on third.
The Boston rooters howled like wild men, and their hats went sailing into the air.
Hughson, cool as an iceberg, brought his fadeaway into play and whiffed the next man up. Then Hobbs rolled one to the left of the box. Hughson made a great reach for it and got it, though he slipped and fell as he did so. He snapped the ball, however, to Mylert, nipping Berry at the plate.
Mylert returned the ball to Hughson who took his position in the box and began to wind up. But almost instantly his hand dropped to his side.
He tried again but fruitlessly.
McRae ran out to him in consternation.
“What’s the matter, Hughson?” McRae cried.
“The old arm won’t work,” replied the pitcher. “Guess I hurt it in the same old place when I fell.”
His fellow players crowded around him, and the umpire, who had called time, came up to ascertain the damage.
The club doctor also ran out from his seat in the stands near the press box and made a hurried examination.
“You’ve strained those ligaments again,” he remarked, “and as far as I can tell now one of them is broken. I told you that they weren’t healed enough for you to pitch.”
McRae groaned in sympathy with Hughson and in dismay for himself and his team. He had been congratulating himself that with Hughson in the fine form he had showed that afternoon the world’s pennant was as good as won.
“It’s too bad, old man,” he said to Hughson. “You never pitched better. You were just burning them over.”
“I’m fearfully sorry,” Hughson answered. “I did want to be in the thick of the fight with the rest of the boys. But I guess all I can do from now on is to root for them.”
He took off his glove and walked over to the bench, amid a chorus of commiserating shouts from the stands.
McRae beckoned to Joe.
“Jump in, Joe,” he directed briefly, “and hold them down. They’ve only got one run. I’m depending on you to see that they don’t get any more.”
Joe went into the box and tossed two or three to Mylert to get the range of the plate. He had a greeting from the fans that warmed the cockles of his heart.
There were two men out and Hobbs was dancing around first. Joe saw out of the corner of his eye that he was taking too big a lead, and snapped the ball like a bullet to Burkett. Hobbs tried desperately to get back but was nipped by a foot.
Joe had finished putting out the side without pitching a ball.
“Some speed that,” came from the stands.
“I guess Matson’s slow.”
“We don’t have to pitch to beat you fellows,” piped a fan and the crowd roared.
But nothing could hide the fact that the Red Sox were ahead. McRae brought all his resources into play and sent two pinch hitters to the plate. But though one of them, Browning, knocked out a corking three-bagger, the inning ended without results.
In the ninth, Joe had no trouble in disposing of the men who faced him. His slants and cross fire had them “buffaloed.” One went out on a foul, another was an easy victim at first, and he put on the finishing touch by striking the third man out.
McRae tore round among his men like an elephant on a rampage as they came in for their half of the ninth. They, however, needed no urging. They were as wild to win as he was himself, and they were almost frantic as they saw victory slipping from them.
They did do something, but not enough. By the time two men were out, there was a Giant on first and another on second. Larry, the slugger of the team, was at the bat. He picked out a fast one and sent it hurtling on a line to left. It looked like a sure hit, but Stock, the shortstop, leaped high into the air and speared it with his gloved hand, and the shout that had gone up from the stands ended in a groan.
Three games of the Series had been played and the Red Sox had won two of them!
It was a disgruntled band of athletes who went under the shower in the Giant clubhouse that afternoon, and when Joe and Jim joined their party at the Marlborough in the early evening, the air of jubilation they had worn on the day of the first game was conspicuous by its absence.
“If you had that band here you were talking about Friday, what do you suppose they would play?” Joe asked of Mabel, after the first greetings were over.
“They ought to play the ‘Dead March in Saul,’” Jim volunteered.
“Not a bit of it,” denied Mabel, cheerily.