THERE WAS NO DOUBT OF THE WARMTH OF THAT WELCOME.THERE WAS NO DOUBT OF THE WARMTH OF THAT WELCOME.
THERE WAS NO DOUBT OF THE WARMTH OF THAT WELCOME.
Nor was Jim left out in the cold. Joe naturally had the center of the stage, but after the first rapturous greeting had passed, they all made Jim feel how delighted they were that he had comealong with Joe. In Clara’s eyes especially there was a look that Jim hoped he read aright. Her flushed and sparkling face was alive with happiness that might not be due altogether to the return of her brother, dearly as she loved him.
For a few minutes questions and answers followed close on each other’s heels, and it was Mrs. Matson at last who suggested that probably the boys were hungry. They agreed with her emphatically that they were. The girls flew about, and in a short time fresh coffee and hot biscuits and bacon and eggs were set before them in tempting profusion. Then while they ate like famished wolves, the others, who had been just finishing breakfast when they burst in upon them, sat about the table and talked and laughed and beamed to their hearts’ content. Perhaps in all the broad land there was no happier group than was gathered about that table in the little town of Riverside.
“You ought to have telegraphed that you were coming, Joe,” said Mrs. Matson. “Then we could have had a good breakfast ready for you.”
“What do you call this?” laughed Joe, as he helped himself to another biscuit, watching at the same time the bewitching way in which Mabel was pouring him another cup of coffee. “There couldn’t be anything better than this this side of kingdom come.”
“You’re right there, old man,” observed Jim, his own appetite keeping pace with that of his chum.
“Seems to me, Joe, that your clothes look a little seedy this morning,” Clara remarked, with a sister’s frankness, during a moment’s pause in the conversation. “The last time you came home you looked like a fashion plate. But now your shirt front is wrinkled, your collar is wilted, and the colors in your necktie have run together. Looks as though you’d got wet through and hadn’t dried out yet.”
“Perhaps they’ve been in the river,” laughed Mabel gaily, little thinking how near she came to hitting the nail on the head.
Mrs. Matson’s motherly heart was quick to take alarm.
“What’s that?” she asked. “Nothing really has happened to you, has it, Joe?” she inquired, looking anxiously at her son, who after one glare at the sister who had precipitated the topic, was trying to assume an air of nonchalance.
But this direct inquiry from his mother left him no recourse except to tell her a part of the truth, though not necessarily the whole truth.
“We did have a little spill this morning,” he returned indifferently. “I turned the car a little too much to the right and we went through a fence and into a little stream at the side of the road.Jim and I got wet, but after we got over being mad we had a good laugh over it. Neither one of us was a bit hurt, and it’s only our clothes that got the worst of it.”
“Oh, but you might have been killed!” exclaimed Mrs. Matson, clasping her hands together nervously. “You must be more careful, Joe. It would break my heart if anything happened to you.”
“Don’t worry a bit, Momsey,” replied Joe, placing his hand affectionately over hers. “Only the good die young, you know, and that makes me safe.”
They all pressed him for the details of the accident, and he and Jim both made light of it, making a joke out of their plight and their visit to the tailor, so that apprehension vanished, and after a while the matter was dropped.
Joe was eager for a chance to get alone with Mabel, and Jim was quite as keen for a tête-à-tête with Clara. The girls were quite as eager, but as there was no servant in the simple little household the girls flew around to clear the table, while Joe had a chance for a quiet talk with his mother, and Jim beguiled his impatience by going out on the porch with Mr. Matson for a smoke before the latter had to go downtown to business.
“How have you been feeling, Momsey?” Joe asked when they had settled down in a cosy cornerof the living room. “It seems to me that you’re a little thinner than you were.”
“I’m not feeling any too well,” replied Mrs. Matson. “I have trouble with my breathing whenever I go up or down stairs. But I’ll be all right pretty soon,” she added, with an attempt at brightness.
“I’m afraid you’ve been working too hard, Momsey,” replied Joe, patting her hand. “Why don’t you let me get you a maid to help out with the work? The money doesn’t matter, and you know how glad I’d be to bear the expense.”
“I don’t want any regular servant, Joe,” replied Mrs. Matson. “I haven’t been used to one, and she’d be more bother than help. We have a wash woman. There isn’t much to be done in this little house, and Clara is the dearest girl. If I did what she wanted, I’d just fold my hands and sit around in the living room. And Mabel, too, has spoiled me since she’s been here. She’s already like a second daughter to me.”
“She’ll be really your daughter before long, if I have anything to say about it,” replied Joe. “I’m going to put it right up to her to marry me while I’m here this time.”
Mrs. Matson was both delighted and flustered at the boldness of this announcement.
“You take my breath away, talking like that,” she replied. “But I’m afraid Mabel won’t let herselfbe carried off her feet in that way. A girl wants to get her trousseau ready. And then, too, she’ll want to be married in her father’s house. You’re a dear boy, Joe, but you’ve got a lot to learn about women.”
“Mabel will agree all right,” replied Joe confidently, though his masculine assurance had been slightly dashed by his mother’s prediction.
The opportunity to make sure about that important matter came a few minutes later, when Mabel came into the room looking more lovely, Joe thought, than he had ever seen her before. Mrs. Matson lingered only a moment longer, and then made an excuse to leave the room. The door had hardly closed behind her before Mabel was in Joe’s arms.
It was a long time before they were able to talk coherently, and when at last Mabel told Joe that he was too greedy and laughingly bade him be sensible, she was more rosy and beautiful than ever, and Joe was deeper in love than before, if that could be possible.
Joe was not long in putting his mother’s prediction to the test.
“Do you remember what Jim said when we said good-by to McRae after the World Tour was over?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.
The flush in Mabel’s cheeks deepened.
“Jim talks so much nonsense,” she countered.
“Think a minute.” Joe was jogging her memory. “Wasn’t it something about bells?”
“How should I remember?” asked Mabel, though she did remember perfectly.
“Well, I remember,” said Joe. “He said I’d soon be hearing wedding bells. Now do you remember?”
“Y-yes,” admitted Mabel at last, hiding her face on Joe’s shoulder, which was very close to her.
“I want to hear those wedding bells, very soon, dearest,” said Joe tenderly. “Next week—this week—to-morrow——”
Mabel sat up with a little scream.
“Next week—this week—to-morrow!” she repeated. “Why, Joe dear, we can’t!”
“Why can’t we?” asked Joe with masculine directness.
“Why—why—we just can’t,” replied Mabel. “I haven’t got my wedding clothes ready. And I’ll have to be married in my own home. What would my family think? What would my friends think? It would look like a runaway affair. People would talk. Oh, Joe dear, I’d love to, but I just can’t. Don’t you see I can’t?”
Joe did not see at all, and he renewed his importunities with all his powers of persuasion. But Mabel, though she softened her refusal with lover-like endearments, was set in her convictions,and Joe at last was forced to confess in his heart with a groan that his mother was right, and that he had a lot to learn about women.
He suggested in desperation that they go on at once to her home in Goldsboro and be married there, but although that would have taken away one of her arguments, the others still continued in full force, and she added another for good measure.
“You see, Joe, dear, your mother isn’t well enough just now to travel so far, and it would break her heart if she weren’t present at our marriage. By fall she may be better.”
“By fall!” echoed Joe in dismay. “Have I got to wait that long?”
“I think it would be better, dear,” said Mabel gently. “You see if we got married any time after the baseball season had commenced, you would find it hard to get away from your club. In any case, our honeymoon trip would have to be very short. Then, too, if I traveled about the circuit with you, you’d have me on your mind, and it might affect your playing. But I promise you that we shall get married in the fall, just as soon as the baseball season is over.”
And as she sealed this promise in the way that Joe liked best, he was forced to be content.
The days passed by, as though on wings, with Joe grudging every minute as it passed thatbrought him nearer to the day when he would have to rejoin his team. The hours were precious and he spent every one of them that he could with Mabel.
Jim, too, was finding his vacation delightful. He was getting on famously with Clara, and the latter’s heart was learning to beat very fast when she heard the step and saw the face of the handsome young athlete. The prospects were very good that two weddings would be celebrated in the fall, and that Baseball Joe would gain not only a wife but a brother-in-law.
During that week the moon was at its full, and almost every night saw the two couples out for a stroll. They would start out from the house together and walk down the village street, with only a few yards separating them. However, they usually lost sight of each other before they had gone far.
Joe was happy, supremely happy. Mabel had never been so dear, so affectionate. He knew that he possessed her heart utterly. Yet there was a faint something, a mysterious impression to which he could scarcely give a name, that at times marred his happiness and caused him to feel depressed. He chased the feeling away, and yet it returned.
There were moments when Mabel grew quiet and seemed as though brooding over something.Her face would become sad, and only brighten with a gayety that seemed a little forced, when she saw that he was studying her and seeking to learn what troubled her. At times she would cling to him as though she feared he was to be taken from her. Once or twice he questioned her, but she laughed his fears away and declared that there was nothing the matter. Despite her denials, he remained vaguely uneasy.
The day before his brief vacation came to an end there was a ring at the bell of the Matson home. Mabel, who happened to be in the hall at the time, opened the door. There was an exclamation of surprise and delight as the newcomer threw his arms about her.
“Reggie!”
“Mabel!”
There was a fond embrace, and then Mabel came into the living room where the family were assembled, while close behind her came Reggie Varley, her brother, the same old Reggie, monocle, cane, lisp, English clothes, English accent, fancy waistcoat, fitted in topcoat, spats and all—a vision of sartorial splendor!
All rose to their feet in hearty welcome. It was not the first time Reggie had visited the Matson home, and all were fond of him. Joe and Jim especially gave him a hilarious greeting.
“Hello, Reggie, old man,” cried Joe, as he shook hands. “I’m tickled to death to see you. What good wind blew you down this way? I didn’t think you were within a thousand miles of here.”
“Well, old top,” explained Reggie, as he gracefully drew off his gloves and divested himself of his topcoat, “it was so beastly quiet in Goldsboro, don’t y’know, that I got fed up with it and when the guv’nor suggested that there was a bit of business I could attend to in Chicago I just blew the bally town and ran out there. Then bein’ so near, I thought I’d run down and see Sis and the rest of you. It’s simply rippin’ to see y’all again, don’t y’know.”
He sat down in a chair, carefully adjusting his trousers so as not to mar the creases in the legs,and beamed blandly upon the friendly faces that surrounded him.
Joe and Reggie had first met under rather unpleasant circumstances, that bore no promise of a close friendship later on. Reggie had left his bag in a seat of a railroad station while he went to buy his ticket. Upon his return he missed his bag, which had been left in a seat adjoining the one in which Joe had in the meantime seated himself, and had practically accused Joe of taking it. As may be readily imagined, Joe was not the one to take lightly such an accusation, and Reggie had to apologize. It was only after Joe had met Mabel that he again encountered Reggie and learned that he was the girl’s brother. But apart from his relationship to Mabel, Joe had found further reason for liking Reggie, as time wore on and he became better acquainted with him.
Reggie had never been restrained much by his father, who was rich and indulgent. He had an inordinate love of fine clothes and an affectation of English customs and manner of speech. But these, after all, were foibles, and at heart Reggie was “true blue.” He was a staunch friend, generous, kindly and honorable. He idolized his charming sister, who in return was devotedly attached to him.
Another thing that strengthened the friendship between Joe and Reggie was that they were bothardent lovers of the great national game. Reggie was a “dyed-in-the-wool fan,” and though his general information was none too great he had the records of individual players and the history of the game at his tongue’s end, and could rattle on for an hour on a stretch when he once got started on his favorite theme. He was a great admirer of Joe as a player, and intensely proud that he was going to be his brother-in-law. Whenever the Giants played and Joe was slated to pitch, the latter could be perfectly certain that Reggie, even if he chanced to be at the time in San Francisco, was “rooting” for him to win.
Jim also had met Reggie frequently and liked him thoroughly. The other members of the Matson family liked him, both for Mabel’s sake and his own. So it was a very friendly circle into which Reggie had come so unexpectedly.
“But I didn’t expect to see you two chaps here,” said Reggie, as he looked from Joe to Jim. “I thought you were down in the training camp, or else on your way to New York with the rest of the Giants.”
“It was just a bit of luck that we are here,” replied Joe. “McRae thought that we were trained fine enough, and might go stale if we worked out in practice any longer. He wants us to be at the top of our form when the bell rings at the Polo Grounds.”
“Bally good sense, I call it, too,” replied Reggie, looking admiringly at their athletic forms. “Just now you look fit to fight for a man’s life, don’t y’know.”
“Never felt better,” admitted Joe. “Nor happier either,” he added, as he glanced at Mabel, who dropped her eyes before his ardent look.
“You came just in time to see the boys,” put in Mrs. Matson. “They’re starting to-morrow for New York.”
“Bah Jove, I’d like to go with them,” said Reggie. “I’d give a lot to see that opening game on the Polo Grounds. But this beastly business in Chicago will make it necessary for me to go back there in a few days. In the meantime I thought that perhaps you might put me up here for a little while, don’t y’know?”
He looked toward Mr. Matson as he spoke, and both he and Mrs. Matson hastened to assure the young man that they would be only too glad to do so.
All had a lot to talk about, and the evening passed quickly, until at last Mrs. Matson excused herself on the plea that she wanted to see about Reggie’s room. Mr. Matson soon followed, and the young people were left to themselves.
“Well, what do you think the chances are of the Giants copping the flag again, old top?” asked Reggie, as he pulled down his cuffs and put up hishand to make sure that his immaculate tie was all right.
“The Giants look mighty sweet to me,” answered Joe. “They’ve had a good training season and shown up well in practice. They’ve won every game they’ve played with the minor leaguers so far, and haven’t had to exert themselves. Of course that doesn’t mean very much in itself, as the bushers ought to be easy meat for us. But we’ve got practically the same team with which we won the pennant last year, and I can’t see why we shouldn’t repeat. Jim here has been coming along like a house afire, and he’ll make the fans sit up and take notice when they see him in action.”
“Oh, I’m only an also ran,” said Jim modestly.
“Indeed you’re not,” Clara started to say indignantly, but checked herself in time. Not so quickly, however, that Jim failed to catch her meaning and note the flush that rose to her cheek.
“Funny thing happened when I was in Chicago,” mused Reggie. “I heard a chap say in one of the hotels that there was heavy betting against the Giants winning this year. Some one, he didn’t know who, was putting up cash in great wads against them, and doing it with such confidence that it almost seemed as though he thought he was betting on a sure thing. Taking ridiculous odds too. Queer, wasn’t it?”
“A fool and his money are soon parted,” remarked Joe. “That fellow will be a little wiser and a good deal poorer when the season ends, or I miss my guess. Who’s going to beat us out? Nothing short of a train wreck can stop us.”
“Now you’re talking!” cried Jim.
“Another thing that’s going to help us,” said Joe, “was that trip we had around the world. We had some mighty hot playing on that tour against the All-Americans, and it kept the boys in fine fettle.”
“Speaking about that trip, old chap,” put in Reggie, “reminds me of another thing that happened in Chicago. I was going down State Street one afternoon, and almost ran into that Braxton that you handed such a trimming to over in Ireland.”
“Braxton!” cried Joe.
“Braxton!” echoed Jim.
“Sure thing,” replied Reggie, mildly puzzled at the agitation that the name aroused in the two chums. “I’m not spoofing you. Braxton it was, as large as life. The bounder recognized me and started to speak, but I gave him the glassy eye and he thought better of it and passed on. Funny what a little world it is, don’t y’know.”
“It surely is a little world,” replied Jim, as a significant glance passed between him and Joe.
“I glanced back,” Reggie went on, “and sawhim getting into a car drawn up at the curb. As classy a machine as I’ve seen, too, for a long time. Built for speed, y’know. If he hadn’t driven off too quickly, I’d have made a note of the make. My own is getting rather old, and I’ve been thinking about replacing it.”
The conversation turned into other channels and finally began to drag a little. The others made no sign of being ready to retire, and at last Reggie woke to the fact that he would have to make the first move. He looked at his watch, remarked that he was rather tired after his journey, and thought that he would “pound the pillow.”
Joe showed him to his room, chatted with him a few minutes, and then returned to the living room where he found Mabel alone, as Clara and Jim had drifted into the dining room. It was the last night the boys would have at home, and the two young couples had a lot to talk about. To Jim especially the time was very precious, for he had made up his mind to ask a very momentous question, and there is little doubt but that Clara knew it was coming and had already made up her mind how it should be answered.
It was an exceedingly agitated Jim that asked Mr. Matson for a private interview the next morning, and it was an exceedingly happy Jim that emerged from the room a few minutes later and announced to the family already seated at thebreakfast table that Clara had promised to be his wife. There was a stampede from the chairs, to the imminent danger of the coffee being upset, and Clara was hugged and kissed by Mabel and hugged and kissed and cried over by her mother, while Jim’s hand was almost wrung off by Joe and Reggie in the general jubilation. For Jim was a splendid fellow, a Princeton graduate, a rising man in his chosen calling, and an all round good fellow. And there was no sweeter or prettier girl than Clara in all Riverside, or, as Jim stood ready to maintain, in the whole world.
Needless to say that for the rest of that morning Reggie and Joe had no other masculine society than each could furnish to the other, for Jim had shamelessly abandoned them. Soon Reggie, too, had to chum with himself, as Joe and Mabel had found a sequestered corner and seemed to be dead to the rest of the world.
Just before noon, however, when Mabel had gone in to help Mrs. Matson to prepare lunch, Joe had a chance to talk with Reggie alone.
“Mabel’s looking rippin’, don’t you think?” remarked Reggie, as he caught a glimpse of his sister passing the door of the room in which they sat.
“Most beautiful girl that lives,” returned Joe, with enthusiasm.
“I guess she’s stopped worrying about——”began Reggie, and then checked himself as though he had said more than he intended to.
“Worrying about what?” asked Joe, with the quick apprehension of a lover.
“Oh, about—about things in general,” replied Reggie, in some confusion and evading Joe’s searching eyes.
“Look here, Reggie,” said Joe with decision. “If anything’s worrying Mabel, I’ve got a right to know what it is. I’ve noticed lately that she seemed to have something on her mind. Come now, out with it.”
Reggie still tried to put him off, but Joe would have none of it.
“I’ve got to know, Reggie,” he declared. “You’ve simply got to tell me.”
Reggie pondered a moment.
“Well, old top,” he said at last, “I suppose you have a right to know, and perhaps it’s best that you should know. The fact is that Mabel got a letter a little while ago telling her that it would be a sorry day for her if she ever married Joe Matson. Threatened all sorts of terrible things against you, don’t y’know.”
“What!” cried Joe, wild with rage and leaping to his feet. “The scoundrel! The coward! Who signed that letter? What’s his name? If I ever lay my hands on him, may heaven have mercy on him, for I won’t!”
“That’s the worst of it,” replied Reggie. “There wasn’t any name signed to it. The bounder who wrote it took good care of that.”
“But the handwriting!” cried Joe. “Perhaps I can recognize it. Where is the letter? Give it to me.”
“I haven’t got it with me,” Reggie explained. “It’s at my home in Goldsboro. The poor girl had to confide in somebody, so she sent it to me. And even if you had it, it wouldn’t tell you anything. It was in typewriting.”
“But the postmark!” ejaculated Joe. “Perhaps that would give a clue. Where did it come from?”
“There again we’re stumped,” responded Reggie. “It was postmarked Chicago. But that doesn’t do us any good, for there are two million people in Chicago.”
“Oh!” cried Joe, as he walked the floor and clenched his fists until the nails dug into his palms. “The beastliness of it! The cowardice of it! An anonymous letter! That such a villain should dare to torture the dearest girl in the world! But somewhere, somehow, I’ll hunt him out and thrash him soundly.”
“Don’t take the beastly thing so much to heart,” returned Reggie. “Of course it’s just a bluff by some bally bounder. Nobody ought to do anything with such a letter but tear it up and think nomore about it. Some coward has done it that has a grudge against you, but he’d probably never have the nerve to carry out his threats.”
“It isn’t that I care about,” answered Joe. “I’ve always been able to take care of myself. I’d like nothing better than to have the rascal come out in the open and try to make his bluff good. But it’s Mabel I’m thinking about. You know a woman doesn’t dismiss those things as a man would. She worries her heart out about it. So that’s what has been weighing on her mind, poor, dear girl. Oh, if I only had my hands on the fellow that wrote that letter!”
And here he yielded again to a justified rage that was terrible to behold. It would have been a bad day for the rascally writer of that anonymous letter if he had suddenly stood revealed in the presence of Joe Matson!
Just then Mabel came in with her hands full of flowers that she meant to arrange for the table. She stopped short in consternation as she saw the thundercloud on Joe’s brow. For a moment she thought that he and Reggie had been quarreling.
“Oh, Joe, what is it?” she asked in alarm.
Joe looked at her lovingly and his brow cleared.
“Nothing, honey,” he said, as he came up to her and slipped his arm around her. “It’s only that I’ve just found out from Reggie what it is that’s been worrying you.”
Mabel shot a reproachful glance at Reggie, who looked a little embarrassed.
“Joe got it out of me, Sis,” he explained. “Said he had a right to know and all that sort of thing, don’t y’know. And ’pon honor, Sis, I don’t know but what he’s right about it.”
“Of course I’m right about it,” affirmed Joe. “There can’t be anything now that concerns Mabel that doesn’t concern me. Don’t you agree with me, dearest?”
“I suppose so,” returned Mabel, as Joe drew her closer. “But, oh, Joe, I didn’t want to distress you about it. I was afraid that it would weigh on your mind and affect your work this season, and I knew how your heart was set on making a record. It was just for your sake, dearest, that I kept it to myself. Of course I would have told you sooner or later.”
“Well, now Mabel, listen to me,” said Joe, as he placed a chair and sat down beside her. “I don’t know what fellow has done this. But whoever he is, he is a coward as well as a rascal, and will never dare to carry out his threats against me. And even if he should, you know that I am perfectly able to take care of myself. You know that others have tried to injure me, but I always came out on top. Fleming tried it; Braxton tried it, and you know what happened to them. Now what I want you to promise me is to banish this beastly thing entirely from your memory. Treat it with the contempt it deserves. Will you promise me this?”
“I will promise, Joe,” answered Mabel. “I’ll try to forget that it ever happened.”
“That’s the girl,” commended Joe. “And to set your mind at rest I’ll promise on my part to take especially good care of myself. That’s a bargain.”
But while Joe had secured the promise of Mabelto forget the letter, he had made no such promise himself, and he vowed that if he could ever get any trace of the writer of that letter he would give him the punishment he so richly deserved.
The train Baseball Joe and Jim Barclay would take was to leave late that afternoon.
Somehow general knowledge of that fact had got abroad, and the boys were dismayed, on reaching the station, to find that half the population of the little town had gathered there to say good-by and wish them luck. To many of the townspeople, Joe was a bigger man than the President of the United States. He had put Riverside “on the map,” and through the columns of the papers they followed his triumphs and felt that in a sense they were their own.
Of course Joe appreciated this affectionate interest, but just at the moment all he wanted was to be alone with Mabel. He had already bidden his mother a loving farewell at the house, as she was not well enough to go to the station. Jim also had eyes and thoughts only for Clara.
But there was no help for it, and they had to exchange greetings and good wishes with the kindly friends who clustered around them. At the last minute, however, the young folks had a chance to say a few words to each other, and what they did not have time to say was eloquent in their eyes.
The train moved off, and the boys leaned far out of the windows and waved to the girls as long as they were in sight. Then they settled back in their seats, and for a long time were engrossed in their thoughts. Usually they were full of chaff and banter, but to-day it was some time before they roused themselves from reverie and paid attention to the realities around them.
It was after they had come back from the dining car after supper that Joe told Jim about his interview with Reggie and the anonymous letter. Jim’s wrath was almost as great as that which had shaken Joe himself.
“And the worst of it is,” said Joe, “that there doesn’t seem the slightest chance of getting hold of the cowardly fellow that did it. You might as well look for a needle in a haystack.”
“Yes,” agreed Jim, “that’s the exasperating feature of it. It may be the work of gamblers who have bet against the Giants and want to worry you so that you won’t pitch your best ball. Some of those fellows will do anything for money. Or it may have been done by some enemy who chose that way of striking in the dark.”
“If it’s an enemy,” mused Joe, “that narrows it down. There’s old Bugs Hartley, but I don’t think he has intelligence enough to write a letter. Then there’s Fleming, with whom I’m just about as popular as poison ivy. Add to that Braxtonand a few old-time enemies, and you’ve about completed the list.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Braxton,” remarked Jim thoughtfully. “That fellow’s a rattlesnake. He wouldn’t stop at anything to get even with you.”
“I hate to think he’d stoop as low as to try to strike me through a woman,” replied Joe. “But, by Jove!” he went on, as a thought struck him, “do you remember what Reggie said about meeting Braxton in Chicago? You know while we were on the trip he mentioned Chicago as his home town. And that letter had the Chicago postmark.”
“Oh, well, you couldn’t hang a yellow dog on that,” Jim replied. “But what struck me was what Reggie said about the speedy car that Braxton had. It must have been a mighty speedy car that got the fellow who laid that trap on the road from the training town to Hebron. Of course those things are only straws, of no value separately, though straws show which way the wind blows. One thing is certain. We’ve got to keep one man in our mind and guard against him. And that man’s name is Braxton.”
They reached New York without incident the day before the opening game, and found the city baseball mad. The front pages of the newspapers had big headlines discussing the opening of the season. The sporting pages overflowedwith speculation and prophecy as to the way the different teams would shape up for the pennant race. In the street cars, in the subways, in the restaurants, in the lobbies of the theatres, wherever men congregated, baseball was the subject of discussion. The long winter had made the populace hungry for their favorite game.
On the following day, the migration toward the Polo Grounds began long before noon. Every train was packed with eager, good-natured humanity on its way to the game. By noon the bleachers were packed, and an hour before the game was scheduled to begin, every inch of the grandstands were packed to overflowing.
The Bostons were to be the Giants’ opponents in the opening game. The team had finished poorly the year before, but many winter trades had strengthened the weak spots, and the spring training of the nine had been full of promise. A close game was looked for, with the chances favoring the Giants.
McRae was anxious to win the opening game, and had selected Joe to “bring home the bacon.” Hughson’s arm was not yet in shape, and the prospects were that Joe would have to bear the heft of the pitcher’s burden if the Giants were to carry off the flag.
Both teams were greeted with hearty cheers as they came out on the field. The Bostons as thevisiting team, had the first chance at practice, and they uncovered a lot of speed in their preliminary work. Then the Giants took their turn in shooting the ball across the diamond and batting long flies to the outfielders.
The bell rang and the field was cleared, while a hush of expectation fell on the crowds. The blue-uniformed umpire stepped to the plate.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bawled, “the batteries for to-day’s game are Albaugh and Menken for Boston, and Matson and Mylert for New York. Play ball!”
Neale, the heavy hitting center fielder of the Bostons, who led off in the batting order, came to the plate, swinging three bats. He discarded two of them and took up his position, after having tapped his heel for luck.
Joe looked him over for a moment. Then he wound up and whipped one over the plate. It was a high fast one, and Neale swung at it, his bat missing the ball by fully three inches.
“Strike one!” called the umpire, and the crowd roared in approval. It was an auspicious beginning.
The next one was wide, and Neale refused to “bite.” Again Joe tempted him with a bad one, and again Neale was too wary. The next ball was a swift incurve that broke so suddenly that it buffaloed Neale completely. The lunge he made at it swung him round so that he almost lost his balance, and he looked rather sheepish as Mylert, the burly catcher of the Giants, grinned at him.
“Had that in my mitt before you swung at it,” taunted Mylert. “Gee, but you’re slow.”
Neale glared at him, but made no reply and tightened his grip on the bat.
This time Joe floated up a slow teaser that looked as big as a balloon as it sailed lazily for the plate. Neale, who was all set for a fast one, nearly broke his back reaching for it.
“You’re out,” declared the umpire, while shouts and laughter came from the crowded stands, as Neale, flinging down his bat disgustedly, went back to the dugout.
Kopf, the next man up, dribbled a slow one to the box that Joe had no trouble in getting to first on time. Mitchell lifted a towering fly that Iredell gobbled up without moving in his tracks.
“Classy work, old man!” cried out Robbie, his face glowing with satisfaction, as Joe drew off his glove and came in to the bench. “The old wing seems to be working as well as ever.”
The Giants did a little better in the first inning, though not well enough to chalk up a run. Curry started well by lining to center for a single, the ball just escaping Warner’s fingers, as he leaped into the air for it. Iredell tried to sacrifice, but the ball went too quickly to the pitcher, who turned and caught Curry at second. Iredell tried to get down on the first ball pitched, but Menken showed that his throwing arm was right and nipped himby three feet. Burkett lifted one between right and center that had all the earmarks of a home run, but Mitchell, by a great run, got to it with one hand and froze on to it. It was a remarkable catch, and the sportsmanlike New York crowd applauded it as heartily as though it had been made by one of their favorites.
“Highway robbery,” growled Burkett, who had almost reached second before the ball was caught, and was cherishing hopes of having knocked out the first home run of the season.
It seemed clear that the Bostons were not to be trifled with, at least as far as their fielding was concerned, and the crowd settled down in expectation of a close struggle.
The second inning for the Bostons was short. Douglas sent up a pop fly to Willis at third. Barber fouled to Mylert. Warner tapped a little one in front of the plate that Mylert heaved to first. Each had offered at the first ball pitched, so that only three balls had been thrown for the entire inning.
The hard hitting that the Giants had done in the first session had resulted in nothing, but it had shown them that Albaugh could be hit, and they faced him with confidence when they next went to the bat.
But Albaugh had braced in his short breathing spell, and he set the Giants down in short order.The best that Wheeler could do was to lift a high fly behind second that nestled comfortably in Douglas’ hands. Willis got to first base on an error by Warner, but Denton hit into a double play, Ellis to Douglas to Kopf, and the inning was over.
In the third inning, the Bostons swung their bats in vain. Joe struck out Ellis, Menken and Albaugh, one after the other. His fast ball shot over the plate as though propelled by a gun. It came so swiftly that the Boston batsmen either winced and drew back, or struck at it after the ball had passed. His outcurve had a tremendous break, and Mylert had all he could do to get it. It was a superb example of pitching, and Joe had to remove his cap in response to the thunderous applause of the stands.
“Isn’t that boy a wonder, Mac?” asked Robbie in exultation. “He’s simply standing those fellows on their heads. They just can’t touch him.”
“He’s the goods all right,” agreed the less demonstrative McRae. “But don’t let’s crow too loud. The game isn’t over yet by a long shot, and anything can happen in baseball.”
Allen was the first man up in the Giants’ half, and he went out on a grasser to Warner, who got him at first by yards. It was Joe’s turn next.
“Win your own game now, Joe,” said Jim, as his chum left the bench for the plate. “None ofthe other boys seem to be doing much. Show them one of the clouts you made at the training camp.”
Joe grinned in reply and went to the plate. Albaugh looked at him and thought he sensed an easy victim. He seldom had much trouble with pitchers.
The first ball was wide and Joe let it go by. The second and third also went as balls.
“Good eye, Joe,” sang out Robbie, who was coaching at third. “Make him put it over.”
Albaugh now was “in a hole.” Three balls had been called on him, and he had to get the next one over the plate. He wound up carefully and sent over a swift straight one about waist high.
Joe timed it perfectly and caught it near the end of his bat. The ball went on a line straight toward the right field stands. On and on it went, still almost in a line. Neale and Barber had both started for it from the crack of the bat, but it stayed so low and went so fast that it eluded them and struck just at the foot of the right field bleachers.
Joe in the meantime was running like a deer around the bases, while his comrades leaped about and howled, and the crowds in the stands were on their feet and shouting like madmen. He had rounded second and was well on toward third before Neale retrieved the ball. He relayed it to Douglas like a shot. By this time Joe had turnedthird and was dashing toward the plate. It was a race between him and the ball, but he beat the sphere by an eyelash, sliding into the rubber in a cloud of dust.
For a few moments pandemonium reigned, as Joe, flushed and smiling, rose from the ground and dusted himself off while his mates mauled and pounded him and the multitude roared approval.
“Jumping jiminy!” cried Jim, “that was a lallapaloozer! It was a longer hit than you made off of me this spring, and that’s going some. And on a line too. I thought it was never going to drop.”
“It was a dandy, Joe,” commended McRae, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’s only a pity that there weren’t men on bases at the time for you to bring in ahead of you. But we’ve broken the ice now, and perhaps the rest of the boys will get busy.”
Albaugh was rather shaken by the blow, and gave Mylert his base on balls. Curry too was passed to first, advancing Mylert to second. The stage seemed set for more Giant runs, but Iredell hit a liner to Ellis who took it at his shoe tops and made a smart double play by getting it to second before Mylert could scramble back.
Still the Giants were a run to the good, and as the fourth and fifth innings went by without a score that run began to look as big as a meetinghouse. Albaugh had stiffened up and was pitching superbly, while his mates were giving him splendid support. He mowed down the heavy batters of the Giants one after another, and McRae began to fidget about uneasily on the bench. One run was a slender margin, and he was intensely eager to win this first game, not only because of the enormous crowd that had turned out to see their favorites win, but because of the moral effect on his players of “getting the jump” on at least four of the other teams by winning the first game of the season.
When Joe came to the bat for the second time, there was a short consultation between Albaugh and his catcher, in which the astute manager of the Braves, Sutton, joined. Then Albaugh deliberately pitched four wild balls, and Joe trotted down to first.
There was a chorus of jeers and catcalls from the crowds.
“Got you rattled by that homer, did he?”
“You’re a sport—I don’t think!”
“Don’t blame you for being afraid to let him hit it!”
“He’ll lose the ball next time!”
“Crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after you!”
But although it was not exactly sportsmanlike, it was within the rules of the game, and whenMylert went out on a fly a moment later, making the third out and leaving Joe stranded at first, Albaugh took off his glove and waved it mockingly at his tormentors.
In the sixth inning the Bostons took their turn at scoring. Kopf sent an easy grounder to Iredell, who ordinarily would have eaten it up. This time, however, he fumbled it for a moment, and then in his haste to make up for the mishap threw wild to first. Burkett made a great jump for it, but it went high over his head to the right field fence, and before Burkett could regain it Kopf was on third. Mitchell tried to bring him home, but his efforts resulted in a weak grounder along the third base line. It looked as though the ball would roll over the foul line, and Willis waited too long. It proved to be fair, and by this time Mitchell was legging it for second. Willis threw low and the ball hit the bag, bounding out into center field. Wheeler ran in and got it, making a superb throw to the plate. But it was too late, and both Kopf and Mitchell had scored, putting Boston in the lead by two runs to one.
Joe put on steam and struck out the next three batters. But the mischief had been done. Two miserable errors had given them as many unearned runs. Now all they had to do was to keep the Giants scoreless and the game would be won.
Poor Iredell and Willis were disconsolate asthey came in to the bench and their discomfiture was not lessened by the tongue lashing that McRae gave them. Joe, too, might naturally have been angered at the wretched support accorded to him in a game where he was showing such airtight pitching, but he was too fair and generous to find fault with comrades for a blunder that all athletes make more or less often.
“Never mind, boys,” he said to them in an undertone, as he sat beside them on the bench. “Just get busy with your bats and we’ll pull the game out of the fire yet.”
Although the Giants made a desperate rally and in each of the next two innings got men on second and third, the score was unchanged and the game still “in the fire” when the eighth inning ended. Joe in the meantime had pitched with such effect that in the two innings not a man reached first.
The ninth inning came, and the Giants took the field for the last time.
“Now Joe,” said McRae, as the former picked up his glove to walk out to the box, “hold them down just for one more inning, and we’ll have a chance either to tie or win, if our boobs can wake up enough to do a little batting. The head of their batting order is coming up, but the way you’ve been pitching up to now they all look alike to you.”
“I’ll pitch my head off if necessary,” Joe assured him.
The twirling that Joe did in that last inning was phenomenal. His control of the ball was almost uncanny. It writhed and twisted about the bats like a snake. Neale, the slugger of the Braves, struck out on the first three balls pitched. Kopf lifted a foul that came down straight over the plate, where Mylert gathered it in. Mitchell drove the ball straight over Joe’s head, but the latter leaped high in the air and speared it with his gloved hand, while the stands rocked with applause.
McRae gathered the Giants about him as they came in from the field.
“Now you fellows listen to me,” he commanded. “You’ve got to cop this game. No excuses. You’ve got to. Show these bean-eaters where they get off. Make them look like thirty cents. Knock the cover off the ball. Go in and win!”
Willis was first to the bat, and he strode to the plate with blood in his eye. He was still smarting from the sharp words of the manager and was anxious for a chance to redeem himself. A hit would help to wipe out the memory of his error.
The first ball was an outshoot that just cut the corner of the plate. Willis struck at it and missed. The next one was a straight ball about knee high. Willis gave it a resounding clout, and it soared out toward the flagpole in left field.
Willis was off with the crack of the bat, footing it down to first, while a roar went up from the stands. It looked like a sure home run, and it was clear that the Boston left fielder could not get under it. The runner was well on his way to second before the ball touched the ground.
“Foul ball!” called the umpire.
There was a groan from the Giant rooters, and Robbie rushed from the dugout to protest. The umpire coldly waved him off.
“I said foul and that settles it,” he declared, at the same time waving to Willis to come back to the plate.
It was a very disgruntled Willis that complied, and he took up his bat mumbling something about “blind” and “robber.”
“What’s that?” asked the umpire sharply.
“Nothing,” growled Willis, as he squared himself to meet the next ball. It was a bad one, and he let it go by. The next suited him, and he sent a sizzling grounder between second and third, on which he might have made a double, had he been quicker on his feet. But he was of the “ice wagon” type and had to be content with a single.
Still it was a hit, and it put all the Giants on their toes in an instant. Their coachers at first and third began a chattering designed to rattle the pitcher. McRae hustled Denton out of the dugout with directions to sacrifice. The latter did his best, but Albaugh pounced on the ball and shot it to second, putting Willis out. Douglas whipped the ball to first in an endeavor to complete a double play, but Denton beat the ball by a step.
With one man out and the tail end of the Giant batting order coming up the outlook was decidedly gloomy. Hope revived, however, when Allen laced a single to left. It was a clean hit, but Mitchell ran in on it and fielded so smartly that Denton was held at second.
With two men on bases, Joe came to the bat, while the great throng gave him an ovation.
“Win your own game, Matson,” was shouted at him from thousands of throats.
“Give the ball a ride!”
“Another homer, Joe!”
“Give the ball a passport and send it out of the country!”
These and other encouraging cries greeted Joe as he waited for the ball. Albaugh looked at him with some apprehension. His respect for him as a batter had grown considerably since the beginning of the game.
Joe refused to offer at the first ball, which was high and wide. Menken caught it and instead of returning it to the pitcher shot it down to second. Denton had taken too long a lead off the base and was trapped. His first impulse was to slide back to the bag, but he saw that he was too late for that and set out for third. The whole Boston infield joined in running him down, and despite his doubling and twisting, he was run down and put out near third. During the fracas, Allen reached second, but this was poor consolation, for now two men were out.
Albaugh grinned as he picked up the ball and stepped on the mound. Baseball Joe resolved to knock that grin off his face.
The ball came toward the plate like a bullet.Joe timed it perfectly, and poled a tremendous hit out toward center.
“A homer! A homer!” yelled the crowd, wild with excitement.
By the time Allen had galloped over the plate, Joe had rounded second, running like a frightened jackrabbit. But in the meantime, Mitchell, by a herculean effort, had managed to knock down the ball, after it had struck the ground and was speeding toward the fence. He straightened up and threw it in a line to third. It came plump into the waiting hands of the guardian of the bag. But Joe had already pulled up there, panting a little, but with his heart full of exultation.
“Jumping Jehoshaphat, how that boy can hit!” cried McRae, while Joe’s comrades jigged about and threw their caps into the air.
“As pretty a three-bagger as I ever saw,” declared Robson. “That ties the score anyway. Now if Mylert can only bring him in, the game’s ours.”
Albaugh, though sore and enraged, still maintained perfect control of the ball. Twice in succession he sent it whizzing over the plate, and twice Mylert missed it by inches. Perhaps he was too anxious, but it was evident that his batting eye was off.
Albaugh sensed this, and felt so sure of his victim that he paid little attention to third. Suddenly,as Albaugh began to wind up for his pitch, Joe darted down the line for the plate. A warning cry from Menken and a roar from the crowd told Albaugh what was happening. He stopped his windup and threw to Menken, who was covering the rubber and yelling to him to throw. He threw high in his excitement. Menken caught the ball and bent down, just as Joe slid over the plate in a cloud of dust. Menken dabbed frantically at him, and they rolled on the ground together.
“Safe!” cried the umpire.
The game was won and the Giants had “got the jump.”
The crowd went mad. By thousands they rushed down from the stands and swarmed down over the field. Joe saw them coming and made a dash for the clubhouse. But before he had reached it, the crowd had closed in about him, and it was only by the assistance of his mates, who cleared a way for him, that he could get away from their wild enthusiasm and slip into its welcome shelter.
In a few minutes more the whole team had gathered there, laughing and shouting and going over the details of the game, while they took the showers and changed into their street clothes. There too came Robbie and McRae, as full of glee and happiness as the rest.
“You old rascal!” chortled Robbie, as heslapped Joe on the back. “What are you trying to do? Be the whole team—gyp the other fellows out of their jobs? Such pitching, such batting—and then to cap it all by stealing home! Joe, old boy, I’ve seen lots of ball games, but your work to-day takes the cake.”
McRae, though less demonstrative, was not a whit less delighted.
“Great work, Matson,” he said. “Keep that up and there isn’t a man in either league will be able to touch you.”
Jim too was fairly stuttering with his pride in his chum’s achievements.
“Picked the game right out of the fire,” he exulted. “Tied it first and won it afterward. Joe old fellow, you’re in a class by yourself. And that steal home! They’ll talk about it all the season.”
“Well,” replied Baseball Joe, with a grin, “I got rather homesick on third, and that home plate looked mighty good to me.”
Then Hughson came along with his congratulations, and these perhaps were the greatest reward that Joe could have asked for his day’s work.
For Hughson had been Joe’s baseball idol for the last ten years. For at least that period of time, Hughson had been confessedly the greatest pitcher that baseball had ever seen. During that decade he had been the mainstay of the Giantteam. When Hughson was slated to pitch, his mates were ready to chalk that game up in advance as won. And on the other hand, the opposing team was almost ready to concede the game before it was played. He had speed, curves and everything. At the most critical stage of a game he never lost his head. There might be three men on bases and none out, but that never disturbed Hughson. He would bring his wonderful “fadeaway” into action and the batters would go down like ninepins. He had brawn—plenty of it—but in addition he had brain, and when it came to strategy and quick thinking there was no one to be compared with him.
But it was not merely his remarkable skill that had made him the hero of the baseball world. He was a gentleman through and through. He had had a college training and could meet and talk with educated men on equal terms. He was upright in his principles, clean in his living, quiet, plain, and unassuming. He was hail fellow well met with the other members of his team, and in fact with baseball players everywhere. Everybody liked him, and those who knew him best had a warm affection for him.
Nor was there the slightest touch of jealousy about him. If any one else could take his laurels by showing that he was a better pitcher, Hughson welcomed the opportunity to give him everychance to do so. He was wholly wrapped up in the success of his team, and was only too glad to see any one helping to gain that success. His treatment of Joe since the latter had joined the team had been cordial in the extreme. He coached him, encouraged him, and did everything in his power to make him the star pitcher he saw he was destined to become.
Hughson had been hurt in a collision just before the final games of the previous year, and had not been able to take part in the World Series. His arm had become better, but he was still in no condition to pitch. So that it had been merely as a spectator that he had witnessed the triumph of the Giants in this opening game of the season.
Joe’s eyes lighted up as he saw Hughson coming toward him with extended hand.
“Put her there, Matson!” cried Hughson, his face beaming with pleasure. “I never saw better pitching than you showed us to-day.”
Joe’s face flushed. He shook Hughson’s hand heartily.
“Oh, it’s nothing compared with lots of games you’ve pitched, Hughson,” he said. “I’m only in the infant class yet.”
“A mighty husky infant,” laughed Hughson. “At least that’s what the Bostons think. It was a hard game for them to lose, just when they thought they had it tucked away in their bat bag.”
“I feel rather sorry for Albaugh,” said Joe. “He pitched a peach of a game and deserved to win.”
“He sure did,” conceded Hughson. “And nine times out of ten that kind of pitching would have won. But to-day he had the hard luck to be pitted against a better man. They got only oneclean hit off of you. The other was a scratch. A little more and you’d have pitched a no-hit game. And that’s going some for the first game of the season, I’ll tell the world.
“Another thing that tickled me,” he went on, “was to see him pass you to first rather than give you a chance to hit the ball. That’s a compliment to all the boxmen of the country. As a rule we’re easy meat. The other pitchers are glad to see us come up to the plate. It has got to be a proverb that pitchers can’t hit. But you gave the lie to that proverb to-day. Those two hits of yours were ticketed for the fence. And that steal home was the classiest thing I’ve seen for a blue moon. That’s the kind of thinking that wins ball games. Do the thing the other fellow doesn’t expect you to do.”
“It was a case of touch and go,” replied Joe. “I knew that I had touched the plate before Menken put the ball on me, but I wasn’t sure the umpire would see it the same way. But he did, and that’s all that matters. By the way, Hughson, how is that arm of yours coming along?”
“Not as well as I should like,” responded Hughson, while a touch of gloom came into his face. “There are days when it feels all right, and other days when I can’t lift it without pain. I’ve been down to see Reese again about it, and he can’t see anything radically wrong with it. Says I’ll haveto be patient and give it time. But it’s mighty hard to have to sit on the bench when I’m fairly aching to get in the box again.”
“I know just how you must feel,” returned Joe sympathetically. “The boys are all rooting for you to get back into harness again. It doesn’t seem the same old team with you out of the running.”
“I’ll be back with bells on before long,” answered Hughson with a smile, as he moved on to have a chat with Robbie.
“Isn’t he a prince?” Joe remarked admiringly to Jim, as they watched the back of the tall figure.
“He sure is an honor to the game,” returned Jim. “Here’s hoping that he’ll soon be on deck again.”
The next day the New York papers were full of the story of the game. There was a general feeling of jubilation over the auspicious start by the Giants, a feeling that was the more pronounced, because of the feeling that had previously prevailed that Hughson’s continued disability would be a serious handicap to the chances of again winning the pennant.
One great subject dwelt upon in all the accounts was the marvelous pitching that Joe had shown. The sporting reporters “spread themselves” on the way he had held the Bostons in the hollow of his hand. To allow only two hits in the openinggame, and one of them a scratch, was a feat that they dwelt upon at length.
But scarcely less space was devoted to his batting. Although it was recalled that in the previous year he had had a creditable average at the bat, considering that he was a pitcher, his power as a twirler had kept his other qualities in the shade. Comment was made on the perfect way he had timed the ball and of the fact that his homer had gone nearly to the end of the grounds almost on a straight line, a fact that attested the tremendous power behind the hit. One of the papers headed its article: “Is There to Be a New Batting King?” and went on to say among other things: