With this ultimatum, the irate manager stalked off to join Robbie, while Iredell, his face like a thunder cloud, returned to the clubhouse.
Nor was his wrath at the “roasting” he had received at the hands of McRae lessened by the consciousness that it was deserved. He knew in his heart that he had neglected his duties, or, at least, had failed to take advantage of his opportunities. The game might have been won if he had been on the job. To be sure, the team had played like a lot of bushers, but that did not relieve him of his responsibility. It was when they were playing badly that it was up to him to step into the breach. And that was what he had lamentably failed to do.
“Look at the face of him,” whispered Larry to Wheeler. “The old man has been giving him the rough edge of his tongue.”
“And when that tongue gets going it can certainly flay a man alive,” remarked Wheeler. “I’msore yet from what he gave the bunch of us. Let’s hurry and get out of this. It’s too much like a funeral around here to suit me.”
McRae in the meantime was unburdening his heart to Robbie. The latter was his closest friend and adviser. They had been teammates in the early days on the old Orioles of Baltimore, when that famous team had been burning up the League. Both of them knew baseball from beginning to end. Together they had worked out most of the inside stuff, such as the delayed steal, the hit and run, and other clever bits of strategy that had now become the common property of all up-to-date major-league teams.
Yet, though as close friends as brothers, they were as different in temperament as two men could be. Robbie caught his flies with molasses. McRae relied on vinegar to catch his. Robbie knew how to salve the umpires. McRae was on their backs clawing like a wildcat. McRae ruffled up the feathers of his men, while Robbie smoothed them down. Each had his own special qualities and defects. But both were square and just and upright, and commanded the respect of the members of the team. Together they formed an ideal combination, whose worth was attested by the way they had led the Giants to victory. Into that wonderful team they had put the fighting spirit, the indefinable something that made them the “class”of the League and more than once the champions of the world. Even when they failed to win the pennant, they were always close to the top, and it was usually the Giants that the winning team had to beat.
Just now, however, the Giants were undeniably in the slump that at times will come to the best of teams, and both McRae and Robbie, who were hard losers, were at their wits’ end to know how to get them out of it.
“We’re up against it for fair, Robbie,” said McRae, as they walked to the gate on their way to the hotel at which the Giants were stopping. “Think of the way the Chicagos are giving us the merry ha ha! We just gave them that game to-day. Looked as though we had it sewed up for fair. People had started to leave their seats, thinking it was all over. Then we turn around and hand the game over to them.”
“It’s tough luck, to be sure,” Robbie agreed. “If Matson hadn’t been hurt, we’d have copped it sure. They couldn’t get within a mile of him. And now as the capsheaf, he’s probably out of the game for a week. But cheer up, Mac. The season’s young yet, and we’ve got out of many a worse hole than this.”
“It wasn’t so much the boys going to pieces in that one inning that makes me so sore,” returned the manager. “Any team will get a case of therattles once in a while and play like a lot of dubs. What gets my goat are the blunders that Iredell made. As a captain, supposed to use his brains, he did well—I don’t think.”
“It was rotten judgment,” agreed Robbie, thoughtfully. “And what makes it worse is that it isn’t the first time it’s happened. He’s overlooked a lot of things since we started on this trip. Some of them have been trifling and haven’t done much damage. Some of them the spectators wouldn’t notice at all. But you’ve seen them and I’ve seen them.”
“And what’s worse, some of the team have seen them,” returned McRae. “That’s taken some of their confidence away from them and made them shaky. A captain is a good deal like a pitcher. If he’s good, the team play behind him like thoroughbreds. If he’s poor, they play like a lot of selling platers. I shouldn’t wonder if that’s the whole secret of this present slump.”
“Perhaps you’re right, John,” assented Robbie. “We’ll have to coach Iredell, wise him up on the inside stuff, and see if he doesn’t do better.”
McRae shook his head.
“That won’t do the trick,” he replied. “A good captain is born, not made. He’s got to have the gray matter in his noddle to start with. If he hasn’t got it, all the coaching in the world won’t put it into him. It’s a matter of brains, first, lastand all the time. I’ve come to the conclusion that Iredell hasn’t got them. He’s got a ball player’s brains. But he hasn’t got a captain’s brains, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Well, admitting that that’s so, we seem to be up against it,” mused Robbie, ruefully. “Who else on the team is any better in that respect? Run over the list. Mylert, Burkett, Barrett, Jackwell, Curry, Bowen, Wheeler. I don’t know that any one of them has anything on Iredell in the matter of sense and judgment.”
“Haven’t you overlooked some one?” asked McRae, significantly.
Robbie looked at him in wonderment.
“Nobody except the substitutes,” he said. “And of course they’re out of the question.”
“How about the box?” asked McRae.
“Oh, the pitchers!” returned Robbie. “I didn’t take them into consideration. But of course a pitcher can’t be captain. That goes without saying.”
“Not with me it doesn’t go without saying,” said McRae. “Why can’t a pitcher act as captain?”
“Why—why,” stammered Robbie, “just because it isn’t done. I don’t remember a case where it ever was done.”
“That cuts no ice with me at all,” declared McRae, incisively. “Whatever success I’ve hadin the world has been got by doing things that aren’t done. How was it that we made the old Orioles the class of the League and the wonder of the baseball world? By doing the things that aren’t done—that no other team had thought of. They went along in the old groove, playing cut and dried baseball. We went after them like a whirlwind with a raft of new ideas, and before they knew where they were at, we had their shirts.”
“Wriggling snakes!” exclaimed Robbie, his face lighting up, as he gave his friend a resounding slap on the back. “Mac, you’ve got me going. You’re the same old Mac, always getting up something new. Matson, of course! Joe Matson, not only the greatest pitcher, but the brainiest man in all baseball! Matson, who thinks like lightning. Matson, that the whole team worships. Matson, who can give any one cards and spades and beat him out. Mac, you old rascal, you take my breath away. You’ve hit the bull’s-eye.”
McRae smiled his gratification.
“That’s all right, Robbie, but you needn’t go knocking me down with that ham of a hand of yours,” he grumbled.
“Have you mentioned the matter to Joe yet?” asked Robbie, eagerly.
“Not yet,” replied the manager. “I wouldn’t do that anyway until I had talked the matter overwith you and learned what you thought of it. And then, too, with that bruised leg and ankle of his, he won’t be in the game for a week or so, anyway. So you really cotton to the idea, do you?”
“I fall for it like a load of bricks,” was the response. “Of course, Matson’s yet to be heard from. It’s a pretty heavy responsibility to be placed on a man that’s already carrying the team along with his wonderful pitching. Perhaps he’ll think it’s a little too much to ask of him.”
“I’ll take a chance on that,” replied McRae, confidently. “He’s got a marvelous physique, and he always keeps himself in the best of condition. He’s strong enough to carry any load that he’s asked to bear. Then, too, you know how he’s wrapt up in the success of the team. He’s never balked yet at anything I’ve asked him to do. He’s playing baseball not only for money, but because he loves it. He talks baseball, thinks baseball, eats baseball, dreams baseball. He’s hep to every fine point in the game and he’s on the job every second. And when it comes to thinking fast and acting quickly—well, you know as well as I do that nobody can touch him.”
“He’s a wizard, all right,” agreed Robbie. “But here’s a point to be thought over, John. A captain’s got to be in every game. Joe pitches perhaps two games a week.”
“I’ve thought of that, too,” McRae replied. “On the days he’s not in the box, he can play in the outfield. And think of the batting strength that will add to the team. He’s liable to break up any game with one of the same kind of homers he knocked out to-day. He’s as much of a wonder with the bat as he is in the box, and that’s going some.”
“Better and better,” declared Robbie, exultantly. “Mac, I take off my hat to you. You’ve hit on an idea that’s going to win the pennant of the League this season, with the World Series thrown in for good measure. Who cares for to-day’s game? Who cares if the Giants are in a slump? Just make Joe Matson captain of the team and then see the Giants climb!”
“I hope you’re right, Robbie,” replied McRae, “and I believe you are. But not a word about this to anybody yet until we’ve mulled it over in our minds from every angle and are ready to spring it. I don’t want Iredell to get any inkling of it yet, for then perhaps he’d get sullen and indifferent and things will be even worse than they are now.”
“I’ll keep it under my hat,” promised Robbie. “How do you think Iredell’s going to take it? He’s an ugly sort of customer, you know, when he gets roiled.”
“I guess he’ll be easy enough to handle,” returned McRae. “I’ll let him down easy and heal his wounds with a little increase in salary. But whether he does or not, I’m not going to let any one’s personal ambitions stand in the way of the success of the team. That comes before anything.”
“Well now, to change the subject,” said Robbie,“who are we going to put in the box to-morrow? We’ve got to have that game, or the Chicagos will have a clean sweep of the series.”
“I guess we’ll have to depend on Markwith,” replied McRae. “The Chicagos have never been able to do much against his southpaw slants. Other things being equal, I’d put Barclay in the box. But he pitched the last part of to-day’s game, and perhaps it will be too soon to ask him to repeat. Even at that I may take a chance. I’ll see how they warm up before the game.”
“It’s too bad that Matson was hurt in to-day’s game,” remarked Robbie. “We were counting on him to take at least two games from St. Louis. Barclay, perhaps, could take another. Three out of four would help us some in winding up the trip. But if they trim us, too, as all the other Western teams have done, I’ll hate to go back and face the New York fans.”
“I’ll work Jim in two of them,” said McRae. “Markwith, Bradley and Merton will have to help him out. Possibly Joe will be in shape for the last game. And maybe the team will take a brace and wake up. At any rate, we can only hope. There isn’t much nourishment in hope, but it’s all we’ve got.”
In the meantime, Jim and Joe had finished their dressing and were preparing to leave the clubhouse.
Jackwell and Bowen were the only occupants left in the place. They were sitting in a corner engaged in earnest conversation.
“How is the leg, Matson?” asked Bowen, as the two chums passed near them.
“None too good,” returned Joe. “But it doesn’t feel as sore as I feel inside to see that game go flooey. Pity you fellows weren’t in it. McGuire and Renton weren’t so bad in the field, but they’re not as good stickers as you fellows, and your bats might have turned the tide. By the way, are you feeling any better now?”
“I’m all right,” answered Jackwell, a little confusedly.
“I’m not feeling exactly up to snuff,” said Bowen. “But I guess I’ll be able to go in to-morrow.”
“Ptomaine poisoning’s a pretty bad thing,” said Joe, looking at them rather quizzically. “It usually hangs on for days. You’re lucky to get over it so quickly.”
“You look fit as a fiddle,” added Jim, dryly. “Or is it the hectic flush of disease that gives you such a good color?”
“I guess it was only a slight attack,” said Jackwell. “Just enough to put us out of our stride for the day.”
“I’ve got to get to the hotel and get there quickly,” declared Joe, a twinge going throughhis foot as he stepped down from the threshold of the clubhouse. “Mabel will be at the hotel, wondering what on earth has happened to me.”
“By jiminy, that’s so!” cried Jim, turning to stare at his chum. “What will you think of me, old boy, if I confess that in the excitement of the game I’d forgotten about her coming?”
Joe grinned.
“You wouldn’t have been so quick to forget if Clara had been able to come along with her,” he said, as he walked along gingerly, favoring his injured leg.
“Say, Joe, that leg must be pretty bad,” said Jim, anxiously. “Better rest a while, don’t you think, before starting out?”
“I tell you I’ve waited too long already,” returned Joe. “Just call a taxi, will you? and we’ll spin down to the hotel in no time.”
Jim went personally in search of a conveyance. It was not hard to find one, and he returned almost immediately to find Joe limping toward him with the aid of a cane furnished by Dougherty. The latter had offered him his shoulder, but Joe, with a smile, refused.
“I may be a cripple, but I refuse to be treated as such,” he told Jim, in response to the latter’s protest. “Next thing you know, they’ll be offering to carry me on a stretcher.”
Nevertheless, Jim noted that Joe sighted thetaxicab with eagerness, and leaned back in its shabby interior with a sigh of relief.
“Hate to show myself to Mabel in this shape,” he said ruefully. “Looks as though I’d had the worst end of the fight.”
“Rather step up lively to the tune of ‘Hail the Conquering Hero Comes,’ I suppose?” said Jim, with an understanding grin. “I think I get your train of thought all right, old man. But I wouldn’t worry, if I were you. Nothing you could do would ever make Mabel think you anything but a hero.”
“Let’s hope you have the right dope,” said Joe.
He looked abstractedly from the dingy windows of the cab at the spectacle of the crowded streets. At that moment he really saw nothing but his young wife as she had looked the last time they had been forced to say good-bye. It had seemed to him then that he could never bear to part from her again. He was so eager to get to her that he had a ludicrous desire to get out and push the taxicab along.
“Thought it was to-night that Mabel was coming,” remarked Jim, interrupting his reverie. “You could have met her at the train then.”
“Reggie found that he would have to come to the city on business, and since it was necessary for him to come on an earlier train, Mabel decidedto change her own plans so that she could come along with him,” explained Joe.
“Oh, so we’re about to see our old friend, Reggie, again!” exclaimed Jim, with real enthusiasm. “Glad to see the old boy, though I can’t help wishing he’d mislay that monocle of his. ‘The bally thing makes me nervous, don’t you know?’” he finished, in perfect imitation of the absent Reggie.
Reginald Varley not only had the fact that he was Mabel’s brother to recommend him to Joe and Jim, but despite his affectation of a supposed English accent and the absurdity of a monocle, Reggie was a fine and likable fellow.
For his part, Reggie professed a great admiration for the chums, especially for his brother-in-law, Baseball Joe. When he could help it, he never missed an opportunity of following the exploits of the two, and, therefore, he had been grateful on this occasion to business for furnishing him an excuse for accompanying his sister to Chicago while the Giants were still there.
“Suppose we go light on this accident, Jim,” suggested Joe, indicating his injured leg and foot. “Just a slight sprain you know.”
“I get you,” returned Jim, adding, as his suddenly startled gaze leaped to the traffic that whirled past the rapidly moving taxicab: “Look at that car coming toward us. On the wrong sideof the street, too! That driver’s either drunk or crazy!”
Instantly Joe took in the danger. A big automobile, being driven at terrific speed, had rounded the corner on two wheels and was charging down upon them. It seemed that the driver of their taxicab would be a superman if he should prove able to avoid a terrible accident.
Jim had opened the door as though to jump, but Joe called to him.
“Sit tight, Jim,” he gritted. “It’s the only way.”
Lucky for them that the taxi man was keen witted. He saw the only thing that was possible to do in such an emergency, and did it without hesitation.
With a wild bumping of wheels and screeching of emergency brake, the car skidded up on the sidewalk, slithered along for a few feet and came to a standstill. The oncoming car had missed the rear wheels of the taxicab by the fraction of an inch!
Pedestrians, sensing the imminent peril, had scattered wildly, and now returned vociferously to view the curious spectacle of a taxicab planted squarely in the middle of the sidewalk.
Joe’s relief at the narrow escape from disaster changed immediately to impatience with the rapidly gathering and gaping crowd.
“More delay! Say, Jim, can’t we beat it out of here?”
“Fine chance! Especially with your game leg,” Jim retorted, adding with a chuckle: “Here comes a cop. Watch him get rid of the crowd.”
“More likely to arrest us for disorderly conduct and disturbing the peace,” said Joe, disconsolately. “Fine husband Mabel will think she has. She’ll think I’m mighty anxious to get to her.”
“Don’t be such a gloom hound,” laughed Jim. “This cop has a pleasant face. Wait till I give him some blarney.”
At that moment the policeman, having interviewed the sullen and angry chauffeur, opened the door of the cab. The constantly gathering crowd pressed forward curiously to get a glimpse of Joe and Jim.
The officer, a round-faced, good-natured-looking individual, stared at Joe for a moment and then broke into a broad grin.
“Begorry, if you ain’t the livin’ image of Baseball Joe, the greatest slinger in captivity, my name ain’t Denny M’Lean!”
“Sure, it’s Baseball Joe! And we owe the fact that he’s still living to the quick wits of our friend here,” broke in Jim, indicating the still furious chauffeur. “That fool in the other car was driving on the wrong side of the road, officer——”
“Sure he was!”
“I saw it myself!”
“Looked like a head-on collision, I’ll tell the world!”
These and other cries came from the crowd, among whom the news that the great Baseball Joe occupied the cab with another famous twirler had spread like wildfire.
“Do me a favor, will you, officer?” urged Joe, taking out his watch and glancing at it hastily. “I’m already late for an appointment. Clear the road, will you, and let us get going?”
“So far as I see, there ain’t no particular objection to that,” returned the bluecoat, with exasperating deliberation. “The sidewalk ain’t no proper parkin’ place for an automobile, as you know. But as you seem to be havin’ plenty of witnesses that say ye couldn’t have done no different, ’twill be easy to overlook yer imperdence. Now thin,” turning to the crowd, “did any one of ye notice the license plate of that law-breakin’ car?”
Several persons came forward with more or less reliable information. After making a note of this, while Joe fumed with increasing impatience, the officer returned and grinned at them, his eyes snapping with humor.
“Lucky for McRae of the Giants that Baseball Joe kept a whole skin on him this day. When Iget that truck driver I’ll be tellin’ him what I think of him in no unsartin terms. Good-bye to yez, and good luck.”
He thrust his huge paw inside the cab, and Joe gripped it heartily. For many years after this meeting with the great Giant twirler, Sergeant Dennis M’Lean was to exhibit proudly the hand that had been gripped by Baseball Joe.
They were off at last, crawling through the close-packed crowd, and with tremendous relief found themselves once more part of the traffic, speeding toward the Wheatstone Hotel where Mabel and Reggie were waiting for them.
“Suppose we’ll have a few blowouts now, just to make the thing real good,” grumbled Joe, and Jim laughed.
“Here we are before the Wheatstone now,” he said. “Just goes to show how sound your gloomy prophecies are!”
Joe’s heart leaped as he saw the great building which he was making his headquarters during the stay of the club in Chicago and where he had also engaged a room for Reggie. He started to leap from the cab, which had slowed at the curb, but a sharp twinge from his injured leg reminded him of his partly crippled condition.
“Take it easy, old man,” warned Jim. “If you don’t favor that foot, you may find yourself laid up for a month instead of a week.”
It was all very well for Jim to say “take it easy,” but when a young married man has been separated from his wife for weeks, the thing isn’t so easily done.
They rode in the elevator to the fifth floor where, leaning on his cane and refusing the help of Jim’s arm, Joe got out and hobbled down the corridor to the door of his apartment.
“Remember, I’m not really hurt, I just imagine I am,” he cautioned Jim once more, as he put his hand on the knob.
Instantly the door opened and a vision of bright hair and rosy face seized him by the hand and dragged him into the room.
“You too, Jim! Come in, do!” cried Mabel, breathlessly. “Reggie and I have been waiting ages for you. Joe—Joe, dear—that cane! You——”
“It’s nothing, nothing at all, little girl,” soothed Joe, his arms about her. “Just a little spill on the field. Be all right in a week. Ask Doc Dougherty, if you don’t believe me.”
Mabel held him off anxiously at arm’s length and looked appealingly at Jim.
“Is he telling me the truth? Is he?”
“Well, I like that!” said Joe, before Jim could answer. “As if I didn’t always tell you the truth?”
“You know, I never make it my business tointerfere in the quarrels of husband and wife,” drawled the familiar tones of Reggie, as, attracted by the sound of voices, he strolled in from the other room. “In fact, quarrels of any kind are foreign to my gentle disposition, don’t you know. But on this occasion, I really feel called upon to interrupt. Jim, my dear fellow, how is the old bean to-day? Rippin’, from the looks of it, what? My word, brother-in-law,” turning to Joe and adjusting his monocle so as to scrutinize him the better, “you have been indulging in a fisticuff of some sort, yes? Tried to do for the old teammates, did you?”
“Oh, leave him alone, Reggie, do!” protested Mabel, all tender solicitude, as she led Joe to a chair and forced him into it. “Can’t you see he is all tired out? Now don’t talk, dear, unless you want to,” she added to Joe, placing a cushion behind his head and looking at him anxiously, her pretty head on one side.
Joe heaved a contented sigh and smiled up at her.
“As long as you don’t tell me not to look at you, I don’t care!” he said.
“My word, I do believe they have forgotten us completely,” said Reggie, plaintively, as he placed his monocle in his eye and stared at the absorbed young couple. “Perhaps we had better be making ourselves scarce, Jim, old chap.”
“Nothing doing,” retorted Jim, moving a chair up toward Joe and Mabel and placing himself in it as though he intended remaining there indefinitely. “I don’t stir a step from this place until Mabel tells me all the news from home.”
“He means all the news about Clara,” laughed Joe, as Mabel obediently sat down beside him and turned her attention to Jim.
“Oh, Clara is all right,” said Mabel, but in spite of her cheerful words, the others saw that a cloud had darkened her face. “It is Mother Matson I am worrying about,” she added slowly.
Mrs. Matson, Joe’s mother, had lately been in poor health. Because of this fact, Mabel had stayed with her mother-in-law for a time after hermarriage to Joe. But recently she had yielded to the urging of her own family to visit them in Goldsboro, North Carolina, her old home. Although Mabel had been busy renewing old friendships there, she had kept in almost daily touch with Mrs. Matson and Clara through the mails. As a matter of fact, Jim had more than once complained that Mabel heard a great deal more from his fiancée than he did himself. Owing to the constantly changing address of the team, Jim’s mail, as well as Joe’s, was often delayed.
Because of Mrs. Matson’s illness, Clara had postponed her marriage with Jim, hoping for her mother’s restoration to health. Until that happy time came, nothing remained to Jim but to possess his soul in patience, which was often very hard to do.
Now, at Mabel’s mention of his mother, Joe started forward, fixing his anxious gaze upon his wife.
“What has happened to mother?” he demanded. “Is she—nothing serious, is it?”
“Oh, no, no!” said Mabel, patting his hand soothingly. “There is nothing fatally wrong. She is—oh, I might as well tell you at once, Joe dear, for you would only worry the more if I tried to keep things from you. It is feared that Mother Matson must undergo an operation, a rather serious operation, I am afraid.”
“What for?” asked Joe, quietly, although his face had become suddenly white.
“Clara didn’t say in her letter,” returned Mabel, soberly. “Your family doctor, Doctor Reeves, is calling a consultation. Clara will undoubtedly write more fully after that is over.”
“A consultation!” cried Joe, leaping to his feet, only to slump down again in his chair at the pain in his injured leg. “Why, this is horrible, girl! Do you know when they expect to—do it?”
“They certainly won’t operate right away, Clara says,” Mabel returned. “They think her heart is too weak to stand the ordeal just now. Dr. Reeves is going to put her through a special course of treatment, and he thinks that in a month or two she will be ready.”
“My poor mother!” groaned Joe. “How can I go on playing ball with that thing in prospect? I got a letter from mother a day or two ago,” he added, feeling in the pocket of his coat for the note from home. “She didn’t say anything about any trouble then.”
“Of course she wouldn’t, you old silly,” said Mabel, gently. “Don’t you know that mothers always worry about everybody else but themselves? Mother Matson never would take her illness seriously, you know, and if she had she would have been the very last one to worry you with it. It was Clara, not your mother, whodecided you ought to be told now and asked me to do it.”
“That sure is tough luck, Joe,” said Jim, gravely. “I had no idea your mother was as sick as that.”
“But, I say, don’t pull such a long face over it, old chap,” urged Reggie, trying to strike a cheerful note in the general gloom of the place. “People are operated on, you know, some of them again and again, and come up smilin’ in the end. It’s a bally shame and all that, but no need giving up hope altogether, you know. Hope on, hope ever, as the poet sings. Now, I knew of a person once who had a complication of diseases—most distressin’—and the doctors insisted that there must be an operation. But when the day came for the operation, old chap, they found——”
“Spare me the details, will you, Reggie?” urged Joe. “I can’t go them just now.”
“Certainly, old chap, certainly,” agreed Reggie, with swift compunction. “I might have known the subject would be, well, distasteful to you. To change the topic of conversation, just cast your eye for a moment in the direction of our old friend, Jim. He is dyin’ to learn more about Clara, you know, and can’t for the life of him decide how to tell you about it. How about it, old chap? Am I right?” Saying this, hetapped Jim playfully with his monocle, and the latter reluctantly smiled.
“You sure are a mind reader, old boy,” he said. “I must confess that a little first-hand news of Clara would be welcome, and Mabel’s seen her since I have.”
Joe, looking at Mabel at that moment, was again surprised to find her eyes shadowed and anxious. The expression passed in a moment, however, and she smiled upon Jim reassuringly.
“Clara was dreadfully disappointed at not being able to be here with Reggie and me, and of course she is worried to death about Mother Matson, but aside from that she’s all right.”
“No news of any kind?” urged Jim, regarding Mabel closely. It seemed to Joe that Jim also had noticed the faint hesitation that had crept into Mabel’s manner at mention of Clara’s name. “Even the smallest scrap of news, first hand, would be mighty welcome, you know.”
Mabel seemed to hesitate, then got to her feet and walked over to the window. The boys watched her uneasily, but when she turned back to them her face was bright and untroubled.
“I wish I had some news, Jim,” she said, in her normal tone. “But you must remember that I have been in Goldsboro for some time, and the only news I get of Clara is through the mails. But now I think I’ve been answering questionsenough,” she added lightly, a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “I think I will start asking a few in my turn. First of all, I want to know just how you happened to get hurt, Joe.”
Despite the fact that, just then, he wished to talk about nothing so little as about himself, Joe recounted as quickly as he could the details of his accident. From that the conversation turned to the condition of the team and the discouraging slump it had taken.
“We sure seem to be headed straight for the bottom,” remarked Jim, adding, as he looked ruefully at Joe: “And now with our champion twirler laid up for an indefinite period, things look pretty tough for the Giants. If only Jackwell and Bowen would quit looking over their shoulders and watch the ball, we might have a chance to rattle the jinx that’s after us.”
Both Mabel and Reggie—the latter was an ardent baseball fan and fairly “ate up” anything that concerned the game—demanded to know more about Jackwell and Bowen, and there ensued an animated discussion as to the meaning of the peculiar actions of the two men.
It was Reggie who finally repeated his suggestion that he and Jim “toddle on” in order to leave Joe and Mabel a few minutes of private conversation before joining them again for dinner.
Joe did not protest very hard, for he was achingto have Mabel to himself. He was very anxious about his mother, and more than a little curious to know what, if anything, was amiss with Clara.
Mabel came to him herself as soon as the door was closed behind Jim and Reggie. She held out her hands to him and Joe took them gently.
“What is it, little girl?” he asked. “You were holding back something about mother and Clara. Now suppose you tell me.”
“Oh, Joe, I am so worried. I’ve told you everything about poor mother. But Clara—well, I think she ought to be soundly scolded!”
For the first time since he had heard of his mother’s illness, Joe’s grave face relaxed in a smile.
“Who’s going to do it—you?” he chaffed. “You never scolded me but once, and then I liked it.”
“But you don’t take me seriously, and this really is serious, Joe,” said Mabel, her pretty forehead marred by an anxious frown. “If you could see this fellow with his handsome eyes and his beautiful clothes——”
“What fellow?” interrupted Joe, becoming suddenly interested. “You don’t mean——”
“Yes I do, just that!” returned Mabel, shaking her head solemnly. “This Adonis I’m talking about is pestering Clara with his attentions.”
“Give me his name,” cried Joe. “I’ll soon show this little cupid where he gets off——”
“He isn’t little, Joe. He’s broad-shouldered and six feet tall and he has a million dollars—maybe ten million for all I know——”
“What’s his name?” roared Joe again, with undiminished ire. “What do I care if he’s twenty feet tall and has a billion dollars? Hang around my sister, will he?”
“Oh, hush, Joe, hush!” cautioned Mabel, putting a finger to his lips and looking apprehensively toward the door. “Some one will be coming in to see where the fire is.”
Joe took her hand gently away and looked at her intently.
“What is there behind all this?” he asked quietly. “Clara doesn’t encourage this fellow, does she? She wouldn’t do that?”
Mabel looked troubled.
“I hope not, Joe. Oh, I hope not!” she said, and for a moment there was silence while the two studied the pattern of the rug upon the floor, busy with troubled thoughts. It was Joe who again broke the silence.
“You haven’t told me his name yet,” he reminded Mabel, quietly.
“His name is Tom Pepperil. He used to live near Riverside, but he went away for a long time and made a fortune. Now he has come back, and,according to Clara’s letters, is making desperate love to her.”
“But she has no right to listen to him! She’s Jim’s!”
Mabel glanced up at him swiftly and then down at the pattern of the rug again.
“No,” she said. Then, after a long minute, she came close to Joe and put her hand over his again.
“Wouldn’t it be dreadful,” she said, “if the worst we fear should happen, and she should give up good old Jim for that fellow, whose chief recommendation is his money?”
“I couldn’t bear to think of it,” groaned Joe. “I’d rather lose every cent I have in the world than have it happen. Tell me that you don’t think it will ever come to that!”
“I don’t know, Joe,” said Mabel, sadly. “She’s so tantalizingly vague. Perhaps it’s the strain she’s under on account of mother that makes her so different from her usual self. I can’t understand Clara any more.”
There was a long silence, and then Joe roused himself to ask dully:
“Do you think we ought to tell Jim?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t tell Jim!” exclaimed Mabel, in alarm. “In the first place, we’re not clear enough about what Clara means to do. Perhaps it won’t amount to anything after all. And if it does, it’ll be bad enough when it comes without our doing anything to hasten it.”
“I can’t understand it,” said Joe, gloomily. “There never seemed to be two people more perfectly made for each other than Jim and Clara—always excepting ourselves,” he hastened to add, as he pressed her hand—“and it will be one of the greatest blows of my life if there should be any break between them. Clara seemed to be dead in love with Jim; and as for him, he fairly worships the ground she walks on. When he gets one of her letters, he’s dead to the world. And he’s one of the finest fellows that ever breathed. I look on him as a brother. He hasn’t any bad habits, is as straight as a string, a splendid specimen of manhood, handsome, well educated—what onearth could any girl ask for more? And he’s making a splendid income too. Has Clara suddenly gone crazy?”
“It’s beyond me,” replied Mabel. “Clara is the dearest girl, but just now I’d like to give her a good shaking. Lots of girls of course are dazzled by millions, but I never believed Clara would be one of them. And perhaps she isn’t, Joe dear. We may be doing her a great injustice. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“Well, promise me, anyway, that you’ll write to her at once,” urged Joe. “I’d do it myself, but you girls can talk to each other about such things a good deal better than any man can. Try to bring her to her senses and urge her not to wreck her own life and Jim’s simply for money or social position. She’d only be gaining the shadow of happiness and losing the substance.”
“I’ll write to-morrow,” promised Mabel. “But now let’s dismiss all unpleasant thoughts and remember only that we’re together.”
While Joe was desperate at the injury to his foot that kept him out of the game just at a time he was sorely needed by his team, he found some compensation in the fact that he could spend more time with Mabel than would otherwise have been possible. He did not have to take part in the morning practice, and in the afternoons heand Mabel attended the games together as spectators.
On the other hand, Mabel was deeply disappointed that she could not see Joe pitch, as she had joyously counted on doing. She was intensely proud of her famous young husband, and was always one of the most enthusiastic rooters when he was scheduled to take his turn in the box. More than once Joe had won some critical game because of the inspiration that came to him from the knowledge that Mabel was looking on. But there was no use murmuring against fate, and they had to take things as they were, promising themselves to make up for their disappointment later in the season.
Reggie, too, felt that fate had treated him unfairly.
“Why, to tell the bally truth, old topper,” he declaimed to Joe, “I didn’t have to come to Chicago at all, don’t you know! I just drummed up the excuse that I ought to look over our branch in this city, and the guv’nor fell for it. It’s rippin’, simply rippin’, the way you’ve been pitchin’ and battin’ ever since the season opened, and I’d been countin’ on seem’ you stand the blighters on their heads. And just when I got here, the old leg had to go bad! It’s disgustin’!”
“Hard luck, old boy,” laughed Joe. “But you’ll see many a game yet through that blessedmonocle of yours. If you feel sore, think how much sorer I am and take comfort.”
The crowning disgrace of having the Cubs take four games in a row was happily spared the Giants. McRae put in Jim again, and this time the team gave him better support and he pulled out a victory.
“Great stuff, old man,” congratulated Joe, as Jim, after the game, came up to the box in which Joe and Mabel were sitting.
“You pitched beautifully, Jim,” was Mabel’s tribute, as she smiled upon him.
“Awfully nice of you to say so,” responded Jim, in a sort of lifeless way. “But most of the credit was due to the team. They played good ball to-day. Guess I’ll go and dress now and see you later.”
Joe and Mabel looked at each other, as Jim stalked away across the diamond to the clubhouse.
“Doesn’t seem very responsive, does he?” remarked Mabel.
“No, he doesn’t,” said Joe thoughtfully. “Generally he’s bubbling over with enthusiasm after the Giants have won. He’s been very quiet since our talk last night.”
“Do you think he suspected there was anything wrong?” asked Mabel, anxiously.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” answered Joe somberly.“He’s quick as a flash to sense anything, and I noticed a shadow on his face as he watched you when we were talking about Clara. Hang it all!” he burst out, with a vehemence that startled Mabel. “If Clara throws him down, I’ll never forgive her, even if she is my sister. What’s the matter with the girls nowadays, anyway? Haven’t they any sense?”
“Some of them have,” answered Mabel. “Myself, for instance. That’s the reason I married you, Joe dear.”
“For which heaven be thanked,” responded Joe, with a fervor that left nothing for Mabel to desire. “I’m the luckiest fellow on earth. And just because I am so happy, I want Jim to be happy too.
“Then, there’s another thing,” he went on, “which, while it’s infinitely less important than Jim’s happiness, is important, just the same. That is the effect it will have on the chances of the Giants. We never needed men to be in shape to do their best work as much as we need them now. And the most important men on any team are the pitchers. I’m not saying that because I’m a pitcher, but because it’s a simple fact that every one knows. Let the pitchers go wrong, and the best team on earth can’t win. And a pitcher that has a load of trouble on his mind can’t do his best work. How do you suppose Jim can keep up tohis standard if Clara does her best to break his heart?”
“I suppose that’s true,” assented Mabel. “And yet I thought he pitched well to-day.”
“He doesn’t know all we know,” replied Joe. “He just has a suspicion, and he’s trying to assure himself that it’s groundless. But even at that, he wasn’t in his usual form this afternoon. You may not have noticed it, but I did. He got by because the boys played well behind him and because the Cubs let down and played indifferent ball. But he wasn’t the old Jim. Already that thing is beginning to work on him. And if the worst happens, it will break him all up—at least, for the present season. If I had that sister of mine here this afternoon, I’ll bet she’d hear something that would make her ears burn.”
Mabel soothed him as best she could, but her own heart was heavy as she thought of the possibilities that the future held in store for poor Jim.
From Chicago the Giants went to St. Louis, the last stop on their Western schedule. Here they had some hopes of redeeming themselves and making up for their recent failures, for the Cardinals were going none too well. Mornsby, their famous shortstop, had had a quarrel with the manager, and was seeking to get his release to some other team, any one of which would have snapped him up at a fabulous price. There wererumors of cliques in the team, and their prospects for the season were none too flattering.
But no matter how poorly a team had been going, they always seemed to brace up when they were to meet the Giants. They reserved their best pitchers for those games, and the fans came out in droves in order to see the proud team of the Metropolis humbled.
So the clean sweep that the Giants had been hoping for did not materialize. Markwith, to be sure, carried off the first game by a comfortable margin. He was one of the pitchers who when he was good was very good indeed, and on that day his southpaw slants were simply unhittable.
But the St. Louis evened things up the next day by beating Bradley, one of the Giants’ second string pitchers, by a score of eight to five. On the following day, the pendulum swung again to the other side of the arc, and Jim chalked up a victory, despite some pretty free hitting by the home team.
The Giants pinned their hopes once again to Markwith in the last game of the series. He was not so good as on the opening day, but even then he might have won, had it not been for a stupid play by Iredell in the ninth inning.
One man was out in the Giants’ last half. The score was seven to six in favor of St. Louis. Iredell had reached first on a single, and on awild pitch had advanced to second. Burkett, the heavy hitting first baseman, was at the bat. A hit would probably bring Iredell in and tie the score.
Iredell was taking a pretty long lead off second and “Red” Smith, the Cardinal catcher, shot the ball down to second, hoping to catch him napping. Iredell, however, made a quick slide back to the bag and got there before Salberg, the Cardinal second baseman, could put the ball on him.
Iredell got up, grinned triumphantly at Salberg, dusted off his clothes, and again took a lead off the bag. Quick as a flash, Salberg, who had concealed the ball under his arm, ran up to Iredell and touched him out.
A groan of distress came from the Giants and their supporters and a roar of derision from the St. Louis crowd. That a big-league player could be caught by a trick that was as old as the hills seemed almost incredible. It was years since the moth-eaten play had been seen on a major-league diamond, and the crowd yelled itself hoarse.
Iredell stood for a moment as if stupefied, then he walked slowly into the bench, his face a flaming red. If McRae forebore to tell him what he thought of him, it was because he was so choked that the words would not come. But the glare that he turned on the luckless playerwas more eloquent than any words, even in his rich vocabulary.
Joe turned to Mabel, where he was sitting beside her in the stands immediately back of the pitcher.
“Did you see that?” he asked. “To think of a Giant player being caught by a sand-lot trick!”
“I didn’t quite get it,” answered Mabel. “I was looking at the batter at the time. Just what was it that happened?”
“Salberg hid the ball under his arm instead of throwing it back to the pitcher,” explained Joe. “Iredell took it for granted that he had thrown it, and was so busy dusting off his clothes that he didn’t make sure of it. Why, Shem tried that on Japhet when they came out of the ark. And to think that he chose this moment to pull that bonehead play! Look at that hit by Burkett. It would have brought Iredell home with the run which would have tied the score.”
Their eyes followed the flight of the ball, which was a mighty three-bagger that Burkett had lined out between right and center. It brought a rousing cheer from the Giant partisans, and hope revived that the game might yet be saved. But the hope was vain, for the fly that Wheeler sent out into the field settled firmly in the leftfielder’s hand, and the inning and the game were over, with the St. Louis having the big end of the score.
It was a hard game to lose, and it was a disgruntled lot of Giant players that filed off dejectedly to their dressing rooms. A sure tie, at least, had been within their grasp, and, as a matter of fact, a probable victory. For if Iredell had scored, as he could easily have done on the three base hit of Burkett, the latter would have been on third with only one man out instead of two and with the score tied. Then Wheeler’s long hit, even though an out, would have gone for a sacrifice and Burkett could easily have scored from third, putting the Giants one run ahead. To be sure, the St. Louis would still have had the last half of the ninth, but the Giants, fighting to hold their advantage, would have had all the odds in their favor.
But all the post mortems in the world could not change the fact that the game had gone into the St. Louis column and that the Giants, instead of taking three out of four, had had to be content with an even break. It was small consolation that that was better than they had been able to do with the other Western teams. The trip had been a terrible flivver, one of the worst that the Giant team had ever made while swinging around the circle.
“That’s the last straw that breaks the camel’s back,” growled McRae, savagely. “It’ll make us the laughing stock of the League. Why, at thisminute, the crowds before the bulletin boards all over the United States are snickering at the Giants. Not merely a Giant player—that would be bad enough—but the Giant captain—get me?—the Giant captain, supposed to show his men how the game should be played, gets caught by the oldest and cheapest trick in the game. It’s all we needed to wind up this trip. I want to go away somewhere and hide my head. I hate to go back and face the grins of the New York fans.”
“It sure is tough,” agreed Robbie. “Of course that finishes Iredell as captain.”
“That goes without saying,” replied McRae. “Even if I were disposed to overlook it and give him another chance, I couldn’t do it now. When a captain, instead of being respected by his men, becomes the butt of the team and a joke to the fans all over the circuit, he’s through.”
A little later the stocky manager sought out Iredell and found him alone.
“I know what you want to see me about,” Iredell forestalled him. “You want my resignation as captain of the team. Well, here it is,” and he handed over a paper.
“All right, Iredell,” returned McRae, after he had scanned the paper carefully and stowed it away in his pocket. “I’ll accept this, and I won’t say anything more about that play, because I know how sore you’re feeling and I don’t wantto rub it in. I’ll admit that at the time it happened, I saw red. But what’s past is past, and there’s no use crying about spilled milk.”
“You can have my resignation as shortstop too, if you want it,” growled Iredell, who was evidently in a nasty humor.
“I don’t want it,” said McRae, kindly. “You’re a good shortstop, and I’ve no fault to find with your work as such. And now that you’ve got nothing to think about except playing your position, I hope you’ll do better than ever. One thing I’m counting on, too, is that you cherish no grudges and give full loyalty to the man I’m going to make captain. Is that a go?”
Iredell grunted something that McRae chose to accept as an affirmative. But he would have changed his opinion if he had seen the ugly glare in Iredell’s eyes and the clenched fist that Iredell shook at the manager’s back as the latter walked away.
“Give me a dirty deal and expect me to take it lying down, do you?” he snarled. “You’ve got another guess coming, and don’t you forget it!”
Although Iredell had himself offered his resignation, he had only done it to take the wind out of McRae’s sails and put himself in a better strategic position. If worst came to worst, he could save his pride by saying that he had resigned of his own accord instead of being “fired.”
But he had hoped, nevertheless, that the resignation would be refused and that McRae, after perhaps giving him a lecture, would accord him another chance. The prompt acceptance had caught him off his balance, and he was full of rage at the conviction that McRae had sought him out for the express purpose of displacing him.
As Robbie had previously intimated, Iredell was a poor sport. The events of the last few days should have taught him that the duties of captain were too much for him. But like many other people, he was inclined to blame everything and everybody else for his own shortcomings.He had been intensely vain of his position as captain of the team. His nature was, at bottom, petty and vindictive, and from the moment it dawned upon him what had happened to him, he framed a resolution to do all that lay in his power to thwart the plans of his successor. If he had failed, he would try to prove that whoever took his place could do no better.
With his resentment was mingled curiosity as to the man that was to succeed him. Who could it be? He ran over in his mind the other members of the outfield and infield, never once thinking of the pitchers, who were assumed to be out of the question. The more he pondered, the more puzzled he became. Well, after all, it did not matter. He would know soon enough. And whoever it was would find his work mighty hard for him, as far as he, Iredell, could make it so.
That night the Giants shook the dust of St. Louis from their feet, and with a sigh of relief, not unmingled with apprehension, took the train for the long jump home. Relief that the disastrous Western trip was at last over. Apprehension at the reception they would meet from the newspapers and fans of New York.
Mabel was to accompany Joe back to New York and remain there for about two weeks before she returned for a while to Goldsboro. Joe looked forward to these as golden days, andthe outlook went far to console him for his chagrin at the Giants’ poor showing.
His leg and foot were mending rapidly, and he hoped to be in form again almost as soon as he reached New York and to be able to go in and take his regular turn in the box. And if ever the Giants needed his pitching and batting strength, it was now!
He and Mabel had just returned from the dining car to the Pullman that first evening on the train that was bearing them East, when McRae and Robbie came along.
They knew Mabel well, because, on the trip of the Giants around the world, she had gone along with Mrs. McRae and other married women as chaperons.
“Blooming as a rose,” said Robbie, gallantly. “When it comes to picking, we have to hand it to Joe.”
“Still as full of blarney as ever,” laughed Mabel. “I suppose you say that to every girl you meet.”
“Not at all, not-at-all!” disclaimed Robbie, his round face beaming.
“King of Northern pitchers and queen of Southern women,” put in McRae. “It’s a winning combination.”
“I’ll admit the part about the women,” agreed Joe.
“And I’ll admit the part about the pitchers,” said Mabel, her smile enhanced by a bewitching dimple.
“Then we’re all happy,” laughed McRae. “But now I’m going to ask the queen to let the king come along with Robbie and me into the smoking car for a while. I’ve got a little business to talk over.”
“Hold on to me, Mabel,” cried Joe, in mock alarm. “Mac wants to fire me, but he won’t do it as long as I’m with you.”
“I’m not very much worried,” responded Mabel, merrily. “For that matter, I shouldn’t wonder if you were honing to get rid of me. Go along now, and I’ll console myself with a magazine until you get back.”
The three men went into the smoking car and settled themselves comfortably. Then when the two older men had lighted cigars, McRae hurled a question.
“Joe, how would you like to be captain of the Giants?” he asked.
Joe was completely taken aback for a moment.
“Great Scott! You sure do hit a fellow right between the eyes, Mac,” he responded. “Just what do you mean? You’ve got a captain now, haven’t you?”
“I had an apology for a captain up to this afternoon,” was the reply. “But I haven’t eventhat now. Here, read this,” and he thrust Iredell’s written resignation into his hand.
Joe read it with minute attention.
“I’m sorry for Iredell,” he remarked, as he refolded the paper and handed it back. “But I won’t pretend that I’m surprised. But what strikes me all in a heap is your question to me. Remember that I’m a pitcher. As my brother-in-law, Reggie, would remark, ‘it simply isn’t done.’”
“You’re a pitcher, all right,” responded McRae, “and the best that comes. But you’re more than that. You’re a thinker. And that’s the kind of man I’ve got to have for captain. There’s no other man on the team that fills the bill. They’d rattle around in the position like a pea in a tincup. You’d fill it to perfection. That’s the reason I offer it to you. You know, of course, that it means an increase in your salary, but I know that isn’t the thing that would especially appeal to you. I want you to take the position because I think it will be the best thing for the Giants. Think it over.”
There was silence for a few minutes while Joe thought it over and thought hard. He knew that it would mean an immense addition to his work and his responsibilities. He would have to play every day, while now he played, at the most, only twice a week.
Without self-conceit, he knew that he could qualify for the position. Again and again he had groaned inwardly at baseball sins of omission and commission that he felt sure would not have occurred had he had the deciding voice on the field.
It finally simmered down to this: Would it help the Giants? Would it increase their chances for the pennant? He decided that it would. And the moment he reached that conclusion his answer was ready.
“I’ll take it, Mac,” he announced.
“Bully!” exclaimed McRae, as he reached over and shook Joe’s hand to bind the bargain. “Don’t think for a minute, Joe, that I don’t appreciate the immense amount of work that this will put upon you. I don’t want to ride a willing horse to death.”
“That’s all right, Mac,” answered Joe. “The only possible doubt in my mind was as to whether it might affect my pitching or hitting. I wouldn’t want to let down in those things. But if you’re willing to take a chance, I am.”
“I’ll take all the chances and all the responsibility,” replied McRae, confidently. “I haven’t watched you all these years for nothing. I’ve never asked you to do anything yet that you haven’t done to the queen’s taste. You’ve developed into the best pitcher in the game. You’vedeveloped into the best batter in the game. Now I look for you to develop into the best captain in the game.”
“I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that he will,” broke in Robbie, his rubicund face aglow with satisfaction. “Now we’ll begin to see the Giants climb.”
“I’m sure they will,” affirmed McRae. “We’ve added fifty per cent. to the Giants’ strength by this night’s work. You know as well as I do, Joe, that the class is there. All it needs is to be brought out. And you’re the boy that’s going to do it. Put your fighting spirit into them. I was going to say put your brains into them, but that couldn’t be done without a surgical operation. But you can teach them to use the brains they have, and that itself will go a long way.”
“How did Iredell take it when you saw him?” asked Joe, thoughtfully.
“Of course he was sore,” answered McRae. “But how much of that was due to his soreness over that bonehead play, and how much to the fact that I accepted his resignation so promptly, I can’t say. But I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with him.”
Joe, who knew Iredell’s nature a good deal better than McRae, was not at all sure, but he said nothing.
“As for the other members of the team,” wenton McRae, “they all think you’re about the best that ever happened, and I’m sure they’ll be delighted with the change. You’ll find them backing you up to the limit. The rookies, too, look up to you as a kingpin pitcher and batter, and they’ll be just clay in your hands. You can do with them whatever you will. We’ve picked up some promising material there, and you’re the one to bring out all that’s in them.”
“You can depend on me to do my best,” Joe responded warmly.
“That means that we’ll win the flag even with our bad beginning,” declared McRae. “And now just one other thing, Joe. I want you to feel perfectly free to discuss with Robbie and me anything you think will be for the best interests of the team. If you think any man ought to be fired, tell me so. If you think of any player we can go out and get, tell me that, too. We’ll welcome any suggestions. Have you anything of that kind now in mind? If so, let’s have it.”
“I certainly don’t want any one fired,” said Joe, with a smile. “At least, not for the present. As to getting any new players, I saw something in the evening papers a half an hour ago that set me thinking. Have you seen that the Yankees have determined to let Hays go?”
“No, I haven’t,” replied McRae with quickened interest. “I haven’t looked at to-night’spapers. But after all that won’t do us any good. Some other club in the American League will snap him up.”
“That’s what I should have thought,” answered Joe. “But the surprising thing is that all the other clubs in the American have waived claims upon him. That leaves us free to make an offer for him, if we want him.”
“That’s funny,” mused McRae. “Remember the way he played against us in the World Series? He had us nailed to the mast and crying for help.”
“He sure did,” agreed Robbie. “But he hasn’t been going very well since then. Rather hard to manage in the first place, and then, too, he seems to be losing his effectiveness. If no other club in the American League wants him, he must be nearly through.”
“That’s the way it struck me at first when I read the telegram,” said Joe. “Then I got to thinking it over. Why don’t the other clubs in the American League want him?”
“I’ll bite,” said McRae. “What’s the answer?”
“Perhaps it’s this,” suggested Joe. “Hays, as you know, has that peculiar cross-fire delivery that singles him out among pitchers. No other pitcher in either League has one just like it. It isn’t that it’s so very effective when you come toknow it. But because it’s so unlike any other, it puzzles all teams until they get used to it. That’s the way it was with us in the Series. The first two games we couldn’t do a thing to him. In the third we were beginning to bat him more freely.
“Now, what does that lead up to? Just this. The other teams in the American League have become so used to his pitching that it’s lost its terrors. If any one of them bought him from the Yankees, they’d have to stack him up against the seven other teams in their League who have learned to bat him without trouble.
“But with the National League it’s different. It would take them considerable time to get on to him. In the meantime, he might have won two or three games from each of them before they solved him. He might be good for fifteen or twenty victories before this season is over. He might——”
“By ginger!” interrupted McRae. “Joe, that think tank of yours is working day and night. I’ll get in touch with the Yankee management by wire at the next station.”