The time had now come for the Giants’ invasion of the West, and they started out in fine fettle, although they knew they had hard work ahead of them.

This year there was to be no runaway race for the pennant. All the Western teams were up on their toes to bring the flag to their own section. Since Joe had come to the Giants that team had won the championship for several years in succession, and from the Western point of view that would never do. Each team, of course, wanted it for themselves, but at any rate if they could not win it they wanted it to go to some other Western team. So the slogan was: “Anything to beat the Giants.”

Their best pitchers were carefully groomed and kept in reserve for the games with the conquering New Yorkers, while the other pitchers did the bulk of the twirling in the less important games. In each series of four games the various managers maneuvered so that their king-pin pitcher worked in the first and fourth games, so that they could hurl their pitching star twice at least against the invaders. This was perfectly legitimate from the standpoint of shrewd management, but it can easily be seen that it made the Giants’ task a good deal harder than that of any other club.

But the Giants were a fighting club, made up for the most part of veterans of many a hard-fought campaign, and the stiffer the opposition the more their battling spirit rose to meet it. The very bitterness of the opposition was a compliment in itself, and with Joe and Jim pitching the game of their lives they faced the foe with confidence.

That confidence, to be sure, would have been still greater had it not been for the indifferent playing of Hupft and McCarney that was now becoming a matter of comment among all the players. McRae had his lines out for likely material to supplant those two, but he had not yet been able to land what seemed like major league material and so was forced to keep them on a little longer.

But the demon pitching done by Joe and Jim had thus far made up for the deficiencies at third and center, and the Giants started their swing around the Western circle at the head of the league and two games to the good. That, of course, was only a slender margin, and might be wiped out in a few days of hard luck, but it at least gave them an “edge” on their rivals. McRae was figuring on taking at least ten of the sixteen games to be played on the present trip, and if he could do that there was every prospect that the Giants would return home in the lead. Then, with a long series on their home grounds in prospect, there was a good chance that the Giants could get so far out in the lead that they would never be headed.

Their first series was with Cincinnati, and here they struck a snag in Hughson’s rejuvenated team. The Reds were playing championship ball and ran away with three games out of four. This was a setback, but the Giants evened the score when they made a similar killing with the Pittsburghs as the victims. At St. Louis the team met with rain on one of the days scheduled, and were able to play only three games. But as they annexed two of these, McRae, to use his own phrase, “had no kick coming.”

It was at Chicago that the real test came. The Windy City boys had their fighting togs on and neither gave nor asked for quarter. The games were for blood from the tap of the bell. Joe won the first by a shut out—won in a double sense by hitting a homer for the only run scored by his side. Jim was next and pitched superbly in a game that went for thirteen innings, and was only won by Chicago in the last by an error of McCarney. The Cubs repeated the dose on the following day, when a perfect deluge of hits came from their bats that drove Markwith to the showers and gave Chicago the game by a score of 11 to 5.

Chicago players, fans and newspapers were jubilant and implored the Cubs to put on the finishing touch by winning the last game of the series.

The Giants had now won seven and lost seven of their Western trip and the result of the final game would decide whether they should go back to New York with the tally on the right or wrong side of the ledger.

“Those fellows are calling themselves Giant-killers, Joe,” said McRae, as the teams were warming up in practice before a tremendous crowd that packed every inch of the stands and bleachers on the day of the final game. “I want you to go out and show them that you’re some little Cub-killer yourself.”

“I’ll try to bring their pelt back to the clubhouse,” responded Joe, with a grin.

The Cubs were relying on their great pitcher Axander, who was regarded as being only second to Joe himself in the National League, and the fans settled down to witness a battle royal.

The Giants, as the visiting club, were first at bat, and Axander made short work of them. Curry fouled out on the second ball pitched. Iredell sent up a twisting fly to short that Harker gathered in. The redoubtable Burkett was completely buffaloed and struck out.

Axander was received with a tempest of cheers as he went to the bench and was compelled to doff his cap in acknowledgment.

But Joe went him one better by setting down the Cubs on strikes in their half. The ball whizzed over the plate with the whine of a bullet. He had speed to burn and the Cub batsmen never had a chance.

It was evident that a pitching duel was impending, and this was what McRae was praying for. Let it come to a matter of twirling, and he was willing to bet on Joe against the world.

The second, third and fourth innings were also scoreless for either side. Wheeler had found Axander for a single and Joe had poled out a crashing triple, but their comrades were unable to bring them in.

Not a hit as yet had been scored on Joe. When the Cubs connected with the ball at all, they hit it on the under side for a fly to the outfielders or dribbled easy ones that were gobbled up by the infield. But his chief reliance was on strike-outs, as he wanted to give McCarney and Hupft as few chances as possible.

In the fifth, two singles in succession got Giants on bases, but Axander tightened up and they got no farther. Still they were finding that Axander could be hit, and that it itself was something.

But no such encouragement came to the Cubs. Try as they might, they could not solve Joe’s delivery. He mixed up his fast ones with an occasional slow one that they broke their backs reaching for, while Joe grinned at them tantalizingly. His hop ball was working to perfection and his fadeaway stood the Chicagos on their heads.

“You’re a lot of old women,” stormed the Chicago manager, Evans, as one after the other of his men came discomfited to the bench. “Why don’t you go in and knock his head off, you bunch of sand-lot boobs?”

“Aw, that feller ain’t a pitcher, he’s a wizard,” growled Burton, the Cub’s heaviest slugger. “He’s got the ball bewitched.”

“Here, let’s see that ball,” shouted Evans, walking out toward the box as Joe was winding up. “Come here, umps,” he added, motioning to the umpire. “I want you to examine this ball and make sure there’s nothing phony about it.”

Joe surrendered it with a laugh. He had never resorted to the tricks used by some pitchers of “roughening” or “shining” or putting resin on the ball so as to give it a peculiar motion. His arm and his head had been his only reliance.

The umpire and manager examined the ball with the utmost care but could find no fault with it. A huge guffaw came from the Giants, as Evans reluctantly handed back the ball, and even the Chicago fans gave him the laugh.

“Satisfied, Mr. Evans?” grinned Joe with elaborate politeness. “Now, just to show you that there are no hard feelings, trot out your rough-necks and I’ll strike them out in order—one, two, three, just like that.”

This he did in jig time and in such a masterly fashion that the Chicago rooters, eager as they were to see the home team win, could not refrain from applauding him. They were beginning to realize that they were watching the performance of the greatest pitcher that had ever walked into the box.

In the very next inning they realized also that they were watching the mightiest slugger that had ever swung a bat, when Joe, with one man on base, caught one of Axander’s fast ones on the end of his bat and sent it screaming over the center-field wall for the longest homer that had ever been clouted on the Chicago grounds. The ice was broken, and the score stood 2 to 0 in favor of the Giants.

“You’re a miracle man to-day, Joe!” exclaimed McRae, beaming on him. “You’re winning your own game with a vengeance. Now all you have to do is to hold those birds down and we’ll have bagged the game.”

One other thing was being borne in on the Chicago fans, and that was that they were possibly to see that rarest of things on the diamond—a no-hit game. Here it was the seventh inning, and not even the semblance of a hit had been scored on Joe. Axander had yielded five in all, of which Joe had gathered two. But Joe had an absolutely clean score. Could he keep it up?

The Chicago manager growled and raged and implored his men to do something. They tried desperately, but it was Joe’s day and he would not be denied. They resorted to all the tricks of the trade, tried to bunt, tried to get hit with the ball, anything to get on first. Their coachers roared from the side lines in an attempt to rattle Joe. But he was as cold as ice, as hard as steel.

He had never felt more sure of himself. He had thrown aside his cap and looked like a young Viking as he stood in the box, hurling the ball over with such tremendous speed that it defied the eye to follow it, or sending it in with such deceptive slants that he had the batsman striking wildly at the air. His control was perfect. The ball seemed inspired with almost human intelligence. It whizzed, it dodged, it jumped, it dropped, as though guided by a spring.

The seventh inning passed. Not a hit.

The eighth inning passed. Still no hit. Joe was simply toying with the batsmen. He held his enemies in the hollow of his hand.

Axander had also kept the Giants from scoring any more runs, and was pitching a brand of ball that would have won nine games out of ten.

In the last half of the ninth, the Chicagos came in for their final stand with the head of their batting order at the bat. Yells of encouragement came from the rooters as they implored them to stage a last-inning rally.

Burton came to the plate. “One strike.” “One ball.” “Foul strike.” “Three strikes.” “Out!”

Next came Gallagher. “One ball.” “Two balls.”

“Wait him out,” yelled Evans. “He’s getting wild. He’s weakening. We’ll get him yet.”

“One strike.” “Two strikes.” “Three strikes.” “Out!”

Weston, the Chicago’s last hope, came third.

“One strike.” “Two strikes.” “Three strikes.” “Out!”

The greatest game that Chicago had seen for years was over, and the Giants had won by a score of 2 to 0.

Not a run had been scored by Chicago. Not a Cub had touched a base. Not a man had been passed to first on balls. Not a Cub had made a hit!

It was a no-hit game without a blemish, the greatest that Joe had pitched in his whole great career. And to cap it all, his own homer had brought the Giants out at the big end of the score.

The jubilation of McRae and Robson and the rest of the Giants, with the exception of Hupft and McCarney, was beyond description. Their most formidable foe had been humbled, and the Giants could go back to New York in a blaze of glory.

Joe had been so pounded and knocked about by his hilarious comrades that he was later in dressing than most of his mates, many of whom had finished and drifted away from the clubhouse to get ready for the train ride home. By the time Joe had completed his bath, the only occupants besides himself and Jim were Hupft and McCarney.

Just as Joe stepped from under the shower Hupft came past him hurriedly and stepped on Joe’s bare foot with his own heavily shod foot. The pain was excruciating and Joe gave vent to an exclamation.

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

“Aw, what are you grouching about?” growled Hupft. “Do you think I did it on purpose?”

But Joe had caught a triumphant gleam in his eyes that belied his words.

“I know you did!” he cried. “Now, Reddy Hupft, I’m going to pay you something of what I owe you.”

His fist shot out with a terrific impact against Reddy’s jaw. The latter staggered and almost fell, but, recovering himself, rushed furiously at Joe.

The latter met him with a straight left that shook him from head to heels. Two others followed, delivered with such force that Hupft measured his length on the floor.

McCarney had made a move to rush to Hupft’s assistance, but Jim barred the way with blazing eyes.

“No, you don’t!” he cried. “One move, and I’ll smash you to bits!”

McCarney “curled up” promptly, while Jim with clenched fists kept guard over him.

“Come,” cried Joe, as he stood over his fallen antagonist. “Stand up so that I can knock you down again. I’m just getting warmed up.”

“I’ve had enough,” growled Reddy, spitting out a tooth. “But you can bet McRae will hear of this.”

“Tell him and welcome,” returned Joe, as he started to resume his dressing. “But pick yourself up now and get out of this clubhouse. If you’re here when I get my shoes on, I’ll kick you out.”

The precious pair slouched out of the house, their eyes burning with rage and malice.

“They’re bad medicine, Joe,” remarked Jim, as he watched them depart. “Be on the watch, for they’ll try to get even for this. But, gee, it warmed my heart to see the trimming you gave Hupft! Those smashes you handed him were beauties.”

Jim’s prophecy was quickly realized, for that night, as the chums were hurrying for the train that was to carry them to New York, a jagged piece of railroad iron came whizzing past Joe’s head, missing him by no more than a couple of inches. They looked about, but could see nobody, and as their time was limited they had no chance to hunt for their unknown assailant. But in their hearts they had no doubt as to the source of the attack.

“One more debt I owe to Hupft and McCarney,” commented Joe, as they settled into their train seats. “The account is getting pretty long, but heaven help them when the time comes for settling!”