“It is an extraordinary thing to pitch a two-hit game at the beginning of the season. But it is still more extraordinary that, despite the strain on the muscles and nerves of the pitcher who achieves that distinction, he should also have a perfect batting average for the day. That is what occurred yesterday. In four times at the bat he was passed twice and the other times poled out a triple and a home run. And this was done against heady and effective pitching, for Albaugh has seldom showed better form than in yesterday’s game.“One might have thought that with this record Matson would have called it a day and let it go at that. But he was still not satisfied. In the ninth,with two men out and two strikes called on Mylert, he put the game on ice by stealing home from third—as unexpected and dazzling a play as we shall probably be fortunate enough to see this year. It was the climax of a wonderful game.“McRae never made a shrewder deal than when he secured this phenomenal pitcher from St. Louis. We said this last year, when Matson’s great pitching disposed of Chicago’s chances for the pennant. We said it again when in the World Series he bore the heft of the pitcher’s burden and made his team champions of the world. But a true thing will bear repeating twice or even thrice, and so we say it now with added emphasis.”
“It is an extraordinary thing to pitch a two-hit game at the beginning of the season. But it is still more extraordinary that, despite the strain on the muscles and nerves of the pitcher who achieves that distinction, he should also have a perfect batting average for the day. That is what occurred yesterday. In four times at the bat he was passed twice and the other times poled out a triple and a home run. And this was done against heady and effective pitching, for Albaugh has seldom showed better form than in yesterday’s game.
“One might have thought that with this record Matson would have called it a day and let it go at that. But he was still not satisfied. In the ninth,with two men out and two strikes called on Mylert, he put the game on ice by stealing home from third—as unexpected and dazzling a play as we shall probably be fortunate enough to see this year. It was the climax of a wonderful game.
“McRae never made a shrewder deal than when he secured this phenomenal pitcher from St. Louis. We said this last year, when Matson’s great pitching disposed of Chicago’s chances for the pennant. We said it again when in the World Series he bore the heft of the pitcher’s burden and made his team champions of the world. But a true thing will bear repeating twice or even thrice, and so we say it now with added emphasis.”
All of the comment was in the same laudatory strain, although in reference to his batting, one paper cautioned its readers that not too much importance was to be attached to that. It was probably one of Matson’s good days, and one swallow did not make a summer. But whether he kept up his remarkable batting or not, the New York public would ask nothing more of him than to keep up his magnificent work in the box.
Joe would not have been human if he had not enjoyed the praise that was showered upon him in the columns that he and Jim read with interest the next morning. It was pleasant to know that his work was appreciated. But he was far too sensibleto be unduly elated or to get a “swelled head” in consequence. He knew how quickly a popular idol could be dethroned, and he did not want the public to set up an ideal that he could not live up to.
It was for that reason that he read with especial approval the article that warned against expecting him to be a batting phenomenon because of his performance of yesterday.
“That fellow’s got it right,” he remarked to Jim, as he pointed to the paragraph in question. “I just had luck yesterday in straightening out Albaugh’s slants. Another time and I might be as helpless as a baby.”
“Luck, nothing!” replied Jim, who had no patience with Joe’s depreciation of himself. “There was nothing fluky about those hits. You timed them perfectly and soaked the ball right on the nose. And look at the way you’ve been lining them out in training this spring. Wake up, man. You’re not only the king of pitchers, but you’ve got it in you to become the king of sluggers.”
“Oh, quit your kidding,” protested Joe.
“I’m not kidding,” Jim affirmed earnestly. “It’s the solemn truth. You’ll win many a game this year not only by your pitching but by your batting too. Just put a pin in that.”
At this moment a bellboy tapped at the door, and being told to come in, handed Joe two telegrams.He tore them open in haste. The first was from Reggie and read:
“Keep it up, old top. Simply ripping, don’t you know.”
“Keep it up, old top. Simply ripping, don’t you know.”
Joe laughed and passed it on to Jim.
“Sounds just like the old boy, doesn’t it?” he commented.
The second one was from Mabel:
“So proud of you, Joe. Not surprised though. Best love. Am writing.”
“So proud of you, Joe. Not surprised though. Best love. Am writing.”
Jim did not see this one, but it went promptly into that one of Joe’s pockets that was nearest his heart, the same one that carried the little glove of Mabel’s that had been his inspiration in all his victorious baseball campaigns.
After a hearty breakfast, the chums went out for a stroll. Neither was slated to pitch for that day, and they had no immediate weight of responsibility on their minds. Markwith, the left-handed twirler of the Giants, would do the box work that day unless McRae altered his plans.
“Hope Red puts it over the Braves to-day the way you did yesterday,” remarked Jim, as they sauntered along.
“I hope so,” echoed Joe. “The old boy seems to be in good shape, and they’ve usually hadtrouble in hitting him. They’ll be out for blood though, and if they put in Belden against him it ought to be a pretty battle. Markwith beat him the last time he was pitted against him, but only by a hair.”
It was a glorious spring morning, and as they had plenty of time they prolonged their walk far up on the west side of the city. As they were approaching a corner, they saw a rather shabbily dressed man slouching toward them.
Jim gave him a casual glance, and then clutched Joe by the arm.
“Look who’s coming, Joe!” he exclaimed. “It’s Bugs Hartley!”
Baseball Joe started as he looked at the man more closely.
“Bugs Hartley!” he ejaculated. “I thought we’d seen the last of that fellow. I imagined that by this time he’d be in jail or in a lunatic asylum.”
“He’ll get there some time likely enough,” replied Jim. “But just now he’s here. That’s Bugs as sure as shooting.”
It was evident that the man had recognized them also, for he stopped suddenly, as though debating whether to advance or retreat. He decided on the former course, and with an air of bravado came toward them. Joe and Jim would have passed him without speaking, but he planted himself squarely in their path, a malignant look glowing in his bleary eyes.
“So here you are again,” he snarled, addressing himself to Joe.
“Sure thing,” answered Joe coolly. “You see me, don’t you?”
“I see you all right,” replied Hartley, as hiseye took in Joe’s well-dressed form. “All dolled up too. The man who took the bread and butter out of my mouth. Oh, I see you all right, worse luck.”
Bugs Hartley had been a well known character in baseball for some years. He had gained his nickname from his erratic habits. He had never been any too strong mentally, and his addiction to liquor had still further contributed to throw him off his balance. But he had been a remarkable pitcher, with a throwing arm that made up for some of his mental deficiencies, and had played in several major league clubs. For some years he had been a member of the Giants, and was still a member when Joe joined the team. His vicious habits and utter failure to obey the rules of discipline had made him a thorn in his manager’s side, but McRae had tolerated him because of his unusual skill in the box.
Joe had felt sorry for the man, and had done all he could to help him along. Once he had found him wandering intoxicated in the streets on the eve of an important game, and had got him off quietly to bed so as to hide the matter from McRae. But there was no gratitude in Hartley’s disposition, and besides he was consumed with envy at seeing Joe’s rapid progress in his profession, while he himself, owing to his dissipation, was going backward.
On one occasion, he had tried to queer Joe by doping his coffee just before the latter was scheduled to pitch in a game with Philadelphia. His hatred was increased when, after being knocked out of the box during a game, Joe had taken his place and won out. McRae at last lost patience with him and gave him his walking papers. Hartley’s twisted brain attributed this to Joe, though as a matter of fact Joe had asked McRae to give Bugs another chance.
Hartley’s reputation was so bad as a man and it was so generally understood that he was through as a pitcher that no other club cared to engage him. This increased his bitterness against the supposed author of his misfortunes. On one occasion he had tried to injure Joe in a dark street by hurling a jagged bolt of iron at his head, and the only thing that saved Baseball Joe was that at the moment he had stooped to adjust his shoelace. At that time Joe might have handed him over to the police, but instead he let him go with a warning. Now he had again met this dangerous semi-lunatic in the streets of New York.
“Now look here, Bugs,” said Joe quietly and decidedly. “I’m just about tired of that kind of talk. I’ve done everything I could for you, and in return you’ve doped me and otherwise tried to hurt me. You’ve been your own worst enemy. I’m sorry if you’re hard up, and if you need moneyI’ll give it to you. But I want you to keep away from me, and if there’s any more funny business you won’t get off as easily as you did last time.”
“I don’t want your money,” snapped Bugs. “I’m after you, and I’ll get you yet.”
“I don’t think you’d better try it. It won’t get you anywhere, except perhaps in jail.”
“There’s ways of doing it,” growled Hartley. “Ways that you ain’t dreamin’ of.”
A sudden thought struck Joe.
“Do you mean anonymous letters?” he asked, looking keenly into Hartley’s eyes.
“Anon-non—what do you mean?” the man asked sullenly. He was an illiterate man and had probably never heard the word before.
“Letters without any name signed to them,” persisted Joe.
“Aw! what are you giving me?” snapped Hartley. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His mystification was so genuine that Joe knew that his shot, fired at random, had missed the mark. He could eliminate Hartley at once as a possible author of the anonymous letter Mabel had received.
“Never mind,” said Joe. “Now one last word, Bugs. Twice you’ve tried to do me up and twice you’ve failed. Don’t let it happen a third time. It will be three strikes and out for you if you do.”
He made a move to pass on. Hartley seemed for a moment as though he would bar the way, but the steely look in Joe’s eyes made him think better of it. With a muttered imprecation he stepped aside, and the two friends moved on.
“A bad egg,” remarked Jim, as they walked along.
“I don’t know whether he’s just bad or is mad,” replied Joe regretfully. “A combination of both I suppose. He’s got the fixed idea that I’ve done him a wrong of some kind and his poor brain hasn’t room for anything else. It’s too bad to see a man that was once a great pitcher go to the dogs the way he has. I suppose he picks up a few dollars now and then by pitching for semi-professional teams. But most of that I suppose is dissipated.”
“Well, you want to keep on your guard against him, Joe,” warned Jim, in some anxiety. “A crazy man makes a dangerous enemy.”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s any need of worrying about Bugs,” rejoined Joe carelessly. “The chances are ten to one we’ll never run across him again.”
The encounter had rather spoiled their morning, and they hailed a taxicab to take them back to their hotel. There they had lunch and then rode up to the Polo Grounds for the game.
As Joe had predicted, the Bostons that afternoonwere out for blood and they evened up the score. Markwith pitched a good game except for one bad inning when he lost control, and hits, sandwiched in with passes and a wild pitch, let in three runs. He braced up after that, but it was too late, and the Giants had to take the little end of the score.
In the next two weeks the Giants met the rest of the Eastern teams, and, taking it as a whole, the result was satisfactory. They had no trouble in taking the Phillies into camp, for that once great team had been shot to pieces. The majority of the Boston games also went to the Giants’ credit. They met a snag, however, in Brooklyn, and the team from over the bridge took four games out of six from their Manhattan rivals. But then the Brooklyns always had been a hoodoo for the Giants, and in this season, as in many others, they lived up to the tradition.
Still the Giants wound up their first Eastern series with a percentage of 610, which was respectable if not brilliant. But now their real test was coming. They were about to make their first invasion of the West, where the teams were much stronger than those of the East. Cincinnati was going strong under the great leader who had once piloted the Phillies to a championship. Chicago was quite as formidable as in the year before, when the Giants had just nosed them out at thefinish. St. Louis, though perhaps the least to be feared, was developing sluggers that would put the Giants’ pitchers on their mettle. But most of all to be feared was Pittsburgh, which had been going through the rest of the Western teams like a prairie fire.
“Pittsburgh’s the enemy,” McRae told his men, and Robbie agreed with him. “Beat those birds and you’ll cop the flag!”
The first jump of the team was to Cincinnati, and there they found their work cut out for them. The Reds had just lost three out of four to Pittsburgh, and they had got such a talking to from their manager, from the fans, and from the press of the city that they knew they had to do something to redeem themselves. They knew that if they could hold the Giants even, it would be something; if they could take three out of four they would be forgiven; while if they could make a clean sweep of the series they would “own the town.”
It was a singular thing what delight all the Western teams, and for that matter all the teams of the League, took in beating the Giants. A victory over them, of course, did not count any more in the final score than a victory over one of the tailenders; but there was a fiendish satisfaction in taking the scalps of the team from the “Big Town.” So that the managers always saved theirbest pitchers for the games with the Giants, while they took a chance with their second string pitchers against the other teams. This of course was a compliment; but it was a compliment that the Giants did not especially appreciate, for it made their task harder than that of any other team in the League.
So when the Giants learned that Dutch Rutter was to try his prowess against them in the opening game, they were not surprised. Rutter was a left-hander who had made a phenomenal record the preceding year, and he had been especially rested up and groomed with the Giant series in view. Meran, the manager, had figured that if he could win the first game with Rutter he could come back with him in the fourth, and thus have at least a chance of getting an even break on the series.
But McRae, anticipating such a move, had so arranged his own selection of pitchers that Joe was in line for the first game, and he was not afraid to pit his “ace” against the star boxman of the Cincinnatis.
His confidence was justified, for Baseball Joe won out after a gruelling struggle. In Rutter he had found an opponent worthy of his steel. For six innings neither team broke into the run column. Rutter had superb control for a left-hander, and he showed a most dazzling assortment of curves and slants. But Joe came back athim with the same brand of pitching that he had shown in the opening game, and the Cincinnati batsmen were turned back from the plate bewildered and disgruntled. In vain their manager raved and stormed.
“Why don’t you hit him?” he asked of his star slugger, as the latter came back to the bench, after having been called out on strikes.
“Hit him!” Duncan came back at him. “What chance have I got of hitting him, when I can’t even hit the ball he pitches?”
Still the Giants had a scare thrown into them when in the ninth inning, by a succession of fumbles and wild throws, the Cincinnatis had three men on bases and none out. As they themselves had only one run, scored in the seventh inning by a three base hit by Joe, aided by a clean single by Mylert, the chances looked exceedingly good that the Cincinnatis might tie the score or win the game. A clean single would have brought in one run and probably two.
But Baseball Joe was always at his best when most depended on him. While the coachers tried to rattle him and the crowds frantically adjured Thompson, who was at the bat, to bring the men on bases in to the plate, Joe was as cool as a cucumber.
He threw a swift high one to Thompson which the latter missed by three inches. Mylert threwthe ball back to Joe, who stopped it with his foot and stooped as though to adjust his shoe lace. He fumbled an instant with the lace, and thensuddenly picking up the ball hurled it to secondlike a shot. Emden, who was taking a long lead off the base, tried to scramble back, but Denton had the ball on him like a flash. Mellen who was on third made a bolt for the plate, but Denton shot the ball to Mylert, and Mellen was run down between third and home. While this was going on, Gallagher had taken second, and profiting by the running down of Mellen, kept on half way to third. He did not dare go all the way to third, because Mellen still had a chance to get back to that base. But the instant Mellen was touched out, Joe, who had taken part in running him down, shot the ball to Willis at third and Gallagher was caught between the second and third bags. Three men were out, the game was over, and the Giants had begun their Western invasion with a 1 to 0 victory.
SUDDENLY PICKING UP THE BALL HE HURLED IT TO SECOND.SUDDENLY PICKING UP THE BALL HE HURLED IT TO SECOND.
SUDDENLY PICKING UP THE BALL HE HURLED IT TO SECOND.
Joe’s quick thinking had cleared the bags in a twinkling. It had all come so suddenly that the crowd was dumbfounded. Meran, the Cincinnati manager, sat on the bench with his mouth open like a man in a daze. His men were equally “flabbergasted.” Thompson still stood at the plate with his bat in hand. It seemed to him that a bunco game had been played on him, and he was still trying to fathom it.
Then at last the crowd woke up. They hated to see the home team lose, but they could not restrain their meed of admiration and applause. The stands fairly rocked with cheering. They had seen a play that they could talk about all their lives, one that happens perhaps once in a generation, one that they would probably never see again.
McRae and Robbie for a moment acted like men in a trance. Over Robbie’s rubicund face chased all the colors of the chameleon. It almost seemed as though he might have a stroke of apoplexy. Then at last he turned to McRae and smote him mightily on the knees.
“Did you see it, John?” he roared. “Did you see it?”
“I saw it,” answered McRae. “But for the love of Pete, Robbie, keep that pile driver off my knees. Yes, I saw it, and I don’t mind saying that I never saw anything like it in my thirty years of baseball. I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”
“A miracle man, that’s what he is!” ejaculated Robbie. “That wing of his is wonderful, but it’s the head on him that tops any other in the league. He wasn’t behind the door when brains were given out.”
Meran, the Cincinnati manager, who was a good sport, after he had recovered from hisastonishment, came over to the Giants’ bench and shook hands with McRae and Robson.
“It was a hard game to lose, John,” he said to the Giants’ manager. “I thought we had it sewed up in the ninth. But there’s no use bucking against that pitcher of yours. I’m only glad that you can’t pitch him in all your games.”
Joe, flushed and smiling, was overwhelmed with congratulations, but he made light of his feat, as was his custom.
“It was simple enough,” he protested. “I had the luck to catch Emden off second and the boys did all the rest.”
“Simple enough,” mimicked Jim. “Oh, yes, it was simple enough. That’s the reason it happens every day of the week.”
It was a good beginning, but the old proverb that “a good beginning makes a bad ending” was illustrated in this Western tour. For some reason most of the Giant pitchers could not “get going.” Jim pulled out a victory in the Cincinnati series, but Markwith lost his game, and Hughson, who tried to pitch one of the games, found that he was not yet in shape.
That series ended two and two. In Chicago the Giants had to be content with only one victory out of the series. They hoped to make up for this in St. Louis. But they found that the fame of “Murderers’ Row” had not been exaggerated,and there was a perfect rain of hits from the Cardinals’ bats that took two games out of three, the fourth that had been scheduled being held up by rain.
When the team swung around to Pittsburgh, there were some added wrinkles between McRae’s brows.
“If we can only break even with Cincinnati and get the little end of it in Chicago and St. Louis, what will Pittsburgh do to us?” he asked Robbie, with a groan.
“What Pittsburgh will do to us, John,” replied Robbie soberly, “is a sin and a shame!”
The Smoky City was all agog over the games. It had won championships before, but that was in the days of Fred Clarke and Honus Wagner and other fence breakers. It had been a good many years since it had seen a pennant floating over Forbes Field, and old-timers were wont to shake their heads sadly and say they never would see it again.
But this year the “dope” pointed in the right direction. The management of the team had strengthened the weak point in the infield by a winter trade that had brought to them “Rabbit” Baskerville, the crackerjack shortstop of the Braves. The benefit of the change had been manifested in the spring practice when the Rabbit had put new pep and ginger in the team. And in the regular games so far they had had little difficulty in winning a large majority from their rivals. How they would hold out against the Giants wasthe problem that yet remained to be solved. But unless the Giants showed a decided reversal from the form in which they had been playing recently, it would not be so very hard to take them also into camp.
The Giants themselves felt none too much confidence, as they prepared for this important series. One bit of luck came to them, however, in the return at this juncture of Larry Barrett to the team. He had been down with an attack of intermittent fever that had kept him out of part of the spring practice and had prevented him thus far from playing in any of the regular games. But on the team’s arrival in Pittsburgh, they found Barrett waiting for them, looking a little lighter than usual, but declaring himself in excellent condition and fit to play the game of his life.
The previous year he had guarded the keystone bag, and by general consent was regarded as the best second baseman in the League. His batting too was a powerful asset to the team, as season after season he ranked among the .300 hitters. Apart from his superb playing at bat and in the field, he also helped to keep the boys in good spirits. His wit and love of fun had gained him the nickname of “Laughing Larry,” and no team of which Larry was a member could stay long in the doleful dumps.
His coming made necessary a change in theteam. Allen, who had not made a success in playing the “sun field,” was benched, and Denton, whose batting could not be spared, was shifted to right field in his place, while Larry resumed his old position at second.
On the morning of the day of the first game, McRae called his players together for a few words of counsel. At least he called it counsel. The players were apt to refer to it as roasting.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “that I’ve got the greatest collection of false alarms of any manager in either of the big leagues.”
This was not an especially encouraging beginning, but each of the men tried to look as though the manager could not by any possibility be referring to him. Some of them hoped that he would not descend from generalities to particulars.
The manager’s keen eyes ranged around the circle as though looking for contradiction. There was a silence as of the tomb.
“You fellows haven’t been playing baseball,” he went on. “You’ve been playing hooky. Look at the way you’ve let the other teams walk over you. The Chicagos took three out of four from you. The Cardinals grabbed two out of three, and it’s only the mercy of heaven that rain kept them from copping another. Look at the way you’ve been batting. Every team in the League except the Phillies has a better average. You’vegot enough beef about you to knock the ball out of the lot, and you’ve been doing fungo hitting, knocking up pop flies. What in the name of seven spittin’ cats do you mean by it? Every time you collect your salaries you ought to be arrested for getting money on false pretenses.”
He paused for a moment, and some of the more hopeful players thought that perhaps he was through. But he was only getting his breath. He faced them scornfully.
“Giants!” he exclaimed with sarcasm. “Giants you call yourselves. Get wise to yourselves. If you’re Giants, I’m a Chinaman. It’s dwarfs you are, pygmies. Now I want you boobs to get one thing into your heads. Get it straight. You’ve got to win this series from Pittsburgh. Do you get me? You’ve got to! If you don’t, I’ll disband the whole team and start getting another one from the old ladies’ home.”
Much more he said to the same effect, with the result that when the men, with heightened color and nerves rasped by his caustic tongue lashing, left the clubhouse, they were in red-hot fighting mood. Pygmies were they? Well, on the ball field they’d prove to McRae that he didn’t know what he was talking about.
An immense crowd was present that filled Forbes Field to capacity when the bell rang for the beginning of the game. Joe had pitched only twodays before, and McRae decided to send Markwith into the box.
In the first inning, Dawley, the Pittsburgh pitcher, found it hard to locate the plate, and Curry was passed to first. On the hit and run play, Iredell popped to the pitcher, and Curry had all he could do to get back to first. Burkett lined a clean hit over the second baseman’s head, but by sharp fielding Curry was kept from going beyond the middle bag. On the next ball pitched, Curry tried to steal third but was thrown out. Burkett in the meantime had got to second, but he was left there when Wheeler sent a long fly to center that Ralston captured after a hard run.
The Pittsburghs were not long in proving that they had their batting clothes on. Ralston landed on the first ball that Markwith sent up for a home run. The crowd chortled with glee, and the Giants and the few supporters they had in the stands were correspondingly glum. The blow seemed to shake Markwith’s nerve, and the next batter was passed. Bemis sent a sizzling grounder to Iredell and it bounced off his glove, the batter reaching first and Baskerville taking second on the play. Astley dribbled a slow one to Markwith, who turned to throw to third, but finding that Baskerville was sure of making the bag, turned and threw high to Burkett at first. The tall first baseman leaped high in the air and knocked itdown, but not in time to get his man. With the bases full Brown slapped a two bagger to center that cleared the bases, three men galloping over the plate in succession.
It was evidently not Markwith’s day, and McRae beckoned him to come in to the bench while the crowd jeered the visitors and cheered their own favorites. Poor Markwith looked disconsolate enough, and after a moment’s conference with McRae, which he was not anxious to prolong, he meandered over the field to the showers.
“Bring on the next victim!” taunted some of the spectators. “All pitchers look alike to us to-day. Next dead one to the front.”
McRae held a brief consultation with Robbie, and then nodded to Jim.
“Go to it, Jim,” encouraged Joe. “I’m rooting for you, old man. Pull some of the feathers out of those birds. It’s a tough job bucking against a four run lead, but you’re the boy to do it.”
“I’ll do my best,” answered Jim, as he put on his glove and went into the box.
It was the cue for the crowd to try to rattle him. The coachers began chattering like a lot of magpies, and the man on second began to dance about the bag and shout to Garrity, the next batsman, to bring him in.
Jim sent one over the plate that cut it in half, but the batsman had orders to wait him out, underthe supposition that he would be wild. So he let the second one go by also.
“Strike two!” called the umpire.
Garrity braced. This was getting serious. This time Jim resorted to a fadeaway that Garrity swung at with all his might. But the ball eluded him and dropped into Mylert’s mitt.
“You’re out!” snapped the umpire, waving him away from the plate.
“Good boy, Jim!” cried Joe, as his chum came in to the bench. “You put the Indian sign on that fellow all right. Just hold them down and trust to the boys to bat in some runs to even up the score.”
But if the boys had any such intentions they certainly took their time about it. Larry, to be sure, poled out a long hit to right that had all the signs of a homer, but Astley backed up and fairly picked it off the wall. Denton cracked out a single between first and second. Jim hit sharply to third, and O’Connor by a superb stop got the ball to first in time, Denton in the meantime reaching second. Mylert swung savagely at the ball, but it went up straight in the air and Dawley gathered it in.
In their half of the second, the Pittsburghs increased their lead to five. O’Connor struck out on the first three balls pitched, but Jenkins caught the ball on the nose for a single to center. Currythought he had a chance to make a catch, and ran in for it, instead of waiting for it on a bound. By this mistake of judgment the ball got past him, and before it could be retrieved Jenkins by fast running had crossed the plate. Dawley was easy on a bounder to Willis, and Ralston, in trying to duck away from a high incurve, struck the ball with his bat and sent it rolling to Burkett for an out.
“Not much nourishment for us in that inning,” muttered McRae, as he watched the man chalking up another run for Pittsburgh on the big scoreboard at the side of the field.
“No,” agreed Robbie. “But you’ll notice that the run wasn’t earned. If that hit had been played right, Jenkins would have been held for a single.”
“Give them a row of goose eggs, Dawley,” was the advice shouted to the Pittsburgh pitcher, as he stepped into the box.
Dawley grinned with supreme confidence. And for the third and fourth inning his confidence seemed justified. The ball came zipping over the plate with all sorts of twists and contortions, and the Giants seemed helpless before him. They either struck out or put up feeble flies and fouls that were easily gathered up. Only one hit went outside the diamond and that plumped square into the hands of the waiting center fielder.
But in the meantime, the Pittsburghs were getting a little uneasy about the kind of pitching that Jim was sending across. His fast ball went so swiftly that the eye could scarcely follow it. He had perfect control, and the “hop” on the ball just before it got to the plate was working to perfection. The way he worked the corners of the plate was a revelation. And in the fourth inning, when he struck out the side on nine pitched balls, a ripple of applause was forced from the spectators, despite their desire to see the home team win.
“You’re going like a house afire, old man,” exclaimed Joe, as the Giants came in for their turn.
“That’s what he is,” agreed Robbie, who had overheard the remark. “But it won’t do any good unless our boys wake up and do something with their bats. That five run lead is bad medicine.”
It did not look any better to the Giants than it did to Robbie, and in the fifth inning they began to come to life. Dawley, for the first time, seemed to be a little shaky in his control. He passed Iredell and then tried to fool Burkett on a slow ball. But the latter timed it exactly and poled it out between left and center for a beautiful three-bagger. Iredell scored easily and a roar went up from the men in the Giants’ dugout as he crossed the plate.
“Here’s where we start a rally, boys!” criedRobbie. “Every man on his toes now. Here’s where we send this pitcher to the showers.”
Wheeler went to the plate with directions to sacrifice, which he did neatly by sending a slow roller to first, on which Burkett scored. Willis clipped out a liner to right, which was really only good for a single, but in trying to stretch it to a two baser he fell a victim at second. Then Larry came to the bat.
“Show them that your layoff hasn’t hurt your batting eye, Larry,” sang out McRae.
The first ball was wide, and Larry held his bat motionless. On the second offering he fouled off. The third was about waist high, and Larry swung at it. The ball soared off to right field and landed in the bleachers. It was a clean home run and Larry trotted easily around the bases, a broad grin on his good-natured Irish face.
“We’re finding him!” shouted McRae. “We’ve got him going! Now, Denton, put another one in the same place.”
Denton did his best, but it was not good enough. Dawley had tightened up and was sending the ball over the plate as though thrown from a catapult. Two strikes were called on Denton, and then he put up a fly just back of second which Baskerville caught in good style.
The inning was over, but the Giants felt better. There was a big difference between five to noneand five to three. Besides, they had learned that Dawley could be hit.
“Keep them down, Jim, and we’ll put you in the lead next inning,” prophesied Larry, as he passed him on his way out to second.
Jim proceeded at once to keep them down. He had never been in better form. The three runs that his mates had scored had put new heart in him and he made the Pittsburghs “eat out of his hand.” They simply could not get going against him.
His sharp breaking curve had their best batters completely at sea. They were swinging in bewilderment at balls that they could not reach. For the next three innings not a man reached first base and in the eighth inning he mowed them down on strikes as fast as they came to the plate.
“Oh, if we’d only started the game with him!” groaned McRae, as the eighth inning ended with the score unchanged.
For in the meantime Larry’s prophecy had not been fulfilled that the Giant batsmen would gain the lead. They had been hitting more freely than in the early part of the game, but had been batting in hard luck. Every ball they hit seemed to go straight to some fielder, and the Pittsburghs were giving their pitcher magnificent support. There was one gleam of hope in the eighth, when withtwo men out, a Giant was roosting on second and another on third. But hope went glimmering when Burkett’s hoist to center was easily gathered in by Ralston.
“We can win yet,” crowed Robbie, with a confidence he was far from feeling, as the Giants entered on their last inning. “There’s many a game been won in the ninth. Go in now and knock him out of the box.”
Wheeler started in with a single that just escaped the outstretched hands of Baskerville. McRae himself ran down to first to coach him. Willis followed with another single on which Wheeler went all the way to third. It looked as though the long-hoped for rally had at last commenced.
But a groan went up from the Giant dugout when Willis, on the next ball pitched, started for second and was nailed by three feet. Still Larry was next at bat, and his comrades, remembering his last home run, urged him to repeat.
Larry was only too eager to do so, and on the second ball pitched laced it to right field for what looked to be a homer but went foul by a few feet only. The next was a missed strike. Two balls followed in quick succession and then, with the count three to two, slapped out a rattling two-bagger to center. Wheeler scored and the tally was five to four in Pittsburgh’s favor.
Then to Joe’s surprise McRae beckoned him from the dugout.
“What’s the big idea?” Joe asked, as he came up to his manager.
“I’m going to put you in as a pinch hitter,” answered McRae. “I’d rather take a chance on you than Denton. Get in there now and knock the cover off the ball.”
There was a gasp of surprise from the stands. In their experience it was usually a pitcher who was taken out to make room for a pinch hitter. It was almost unheard of that the procedure should be reversed. To them it seemed a sign that McRae was at the end of his rope, and there were catcalls and shouts of derision as Joe came to the plate. And these redoubled in volume as he missed the first ball that Dawley sent over.
“What did I tell you, boys?”
“Nit, on that!”
“Matson is all right as a pitcher, but as a batter, nothing doing.”
“Give him two more like that, Dawley!”
“Take your time, Joe!”
“Make him give you the kind you want!”
“Here is where Pittsburgh chews the Giants up!”
“Maybe you can do it somewhere else, but you can’t do it here!”
“One, two, three, Dawley, remember.”
So the calls ran on as Joe waited for the pitcher to deliver the sphere again.
The Pittsburgh rooters thought they had Joe’s “goat” and they were prepared to make the most of it. They began a chorus of yells and groans that grew louder and louder.
They stopped suddenly as Joe caught the next ball about a foot from the end of his bat. There was a mighty crack and the ball soared up and up into the sky over right field. The fielders started to run for it and then stopped short in their tracks, throwing up their hands in despair. The ball cleared the bleachers, cleared the wall, and went through the window of a house on the other side of the street.
Joe had started running like a deer at the crack of the bat, but as he rounded first McRae shouted at him to take his time, and he completed the rest of his journey at a jog trot, Larry of course having preceded him. There was a wild jubilee at the plate. Robbie threw dignity to the winds and danced a jig, and Joe was sore from the thumping of his mates.
“The longest hit that’s ever been made on Forbes Field!” cried Larry exultingly.
“Old Honus Wagner in his best days never made such a clout,” joined in Jim. “Joe, old boy, you’ve saved the game.”
“It isn’t over yet,” cautioned Joe smilingly;“but if you keep up the same brand of pitching you’ve been showing us, they won’t have a Chinaman’s chance.”
The next two batters were easy outs and the Giants’ half was over. The Pittsburghs came in for their last chance, determined to do or die. It was exasperating for them to have the game snatched from them when they were just about to put it on their side of the ledger. But Jim put out the first one on a puny fly and sent the last two back to the bench by the strike-out route—and the game was over.
In their first clash with the redoubtable Pittsburghs, the Giants had won by six to five!
It was a highly elated crowd of Giants that chattered away excitedly in the clubhouse after the finish of the game. Jim and Joe came in for the major share of the honors, the first because of his superb pitching and the latter for the glorious home run that had clinched the victory.
“Some pitching, Barclay,” said Hughson, clapping Jim on the shoulder. “Do you realize that only thirty-two batters faced you and that eleven of them went out on strikes? That’s what I call twirling.”
“It’ll take some of the chestiness out of these Pirates,” laughed Larry. “They thought we were going to be as easy meat for them as the rest of the teams. And, begorra, it looked as though we would from the way the game started.”
“You did your share all right, Larry,” replied Jim. “That home run of yours was a beauty. And that two-bagger was no slouch.”
“But that clout of Joe’s was the real cheese,” said Denton generously. “Gee, Joe, I was a littlesore when McRae put you in to take my turn at bat. But when I saw that old apple clear the fence I knew that the old man had the right dope. I haven’t made a hit like that since I’ve been in the game.”
“Who has?” queried Curry. “I’ll bet it comes pretty close to being a record. If that house hadn’t been in the way the ball would be going yet.”
“Don’t forget, Joe, that you’ll have to pay for that broken window,” laughed Wheeler.
“I guess McRae would pay for a hundred broken windows and never say a word,” chuckled Iredell.
He would have been still more sure of this had he been able to see McRae’s face at that moment and overheard what he was saying to Robson.
“You’ve had a real bit of luck to-day, John,” the latter had remarked, his broad face radiant with satisfaction. “You’ve discovered that you have another first string pitcher. That work of young Barclay was simply marvelous.”
“You said it, Robbie,” agreed McRae. “It was a rough deal to give a young pitcher the job of beating the Pittsburghs after they had a four run lead. But he stood the gaff and came through all right. From this time on he’ll take his regular turn in the box. But it isn’t that that pleases me most in this day’s work.”
“What is it then?” asked Robbie.
“It’s the batting of Matson,” replied McRae thoughtfully. “I’ve been in the game thirty years, and I’ve seen all the fence-breakers—Wagner, Delehanty, Brouthers, Lajoie, and all the rest of them. And I tell you now, Robbie, that he’s the king of all of them. The way he stands at the plate, the way he holds his bat, the way he times his blow, the way he meets the ball—those are the things that mark out the natural batter. It’s got to be born in a man. You can’t teach it to him. All the weight of those great shoulders go into his stroke, and he makes a homer where another man would make a single or a double. Now mark what I’m telling you, Robbie, but keep it under your hat, for I don’t want the kid to be getting a swelled head. In Baseball Joe Matson we’ve got not only the greatest pitcher in the game, but the hardest hitter in either league. And that goes.”
“Oh, come now, John,” protested Robbie, “aren’t you going a little too strong? The greatest pitcher, yes. I admit that. There’s no one in sight now that can touch him, now that Hughson’s laid up. And between you and me, John, I don’t believe that even Hughson in his best days had anything on Matson. But when you speak of batting, how about Kid Rose of the Yankees?”
“He’s all to the good,” admitted McRae.“He’s got a wonderful record; the best record in fact of any man that has ever broken into the game. He topped the record for home runs last season, and by the way he’s starting in this year he’ll do it again. Up to now we haven’t had anyone in the National League that could approach him. But I’m willing to bet right now that he never made so long a hit as Matson made this afternoon. Of course Rose has had more experience in batting than Matson, and for the last two or three years he’s hardly done any pitching. But if I should take Matson out of the box right now and play him in the outfield every day, I’ll bet that by the end of the season he’d be running neck and neck with Kid Rose and perhaps a wee bit ahead of him.”
“Well, maybe, John,” agreed Robbie, though a little doubtfully. “But what’s the use of talking about it? You know that we can’t spare him from the box. He’s our pitching ace.”
“I know that well enough,” replied McRae. “But all the same I’m going to see that he has many a chance to win games for us by his batting as well as by his pitching. On the days he isn’t pitching, I’ll use him as a pinch hitter, as I did to-day. Then, too, when he is pitching, I’m going to make a change in the batting order. Instead of having him down at the end I’m going to put him fourth—in the cleanup position. If that oldwallop of his doesn’t bring in many a run I’ll miss my guess.”
The very next day McRae had a chance to justify his theories. Hughson had told the manager that he thought he was in shape to pitch, and McRae, who had great faith in his judgment, told him to go in. The “Old Master,” as he was affectionately called, used his head rather than his arm and by mixing up his slow ball with his fast one and resorting on occasion to his famous fadeaway, got by in a close game. In the sixth, Joe was called on as a pinch hitter, and came across with another homer, which, although not as long as that of the previous day, enabled him to reach the plate without sliding and bring in two runs ahead of him.
Two homers in two consecutive days were not common enough to pass without notice, and the Pittsburgh sporting writers began to feature Joe in their headlines. There was a marked increase in the attendance on the third day when Joe was slated to pitch. On that day he “made monkeys” of the Pittsburgh batters, and on the two turns at bat when he was permitted to hit made a single and a three-bagger. In two other appearances at bat, the Pittsburgh pitcher deliberately passed him, at which even the Pittsburgh crowd expressed their displeasure by jeers.
On the final day, Markwith was given a chanceto redeem himself, and pitched an airtight game. But Hooper of the Pittsburghs was also at his best, and with the game tied in the ninth Joe again cracked out a homer to the right field bleachers, his third home run in four days!
Markwith prevented further scoring by the enemy, and the game went into the Giants’ winning column.
“Four straight from the league leaders,” McRae chuckled happily. “The break in the luck has come at last.”
“Well, we wound up the trip in a blaze of glory, anyway,” remarked Jim to Baseball Joe, as they sat in the Pullman coach that was carrying them and the rest of the team back to New York.
“Yes, and we just saved our bacon by doing it,” replied Joe. “Those last four games gave us eight out of fifteen for the trip. Not so awfully bad for a team on a trip, and yet not good enough to win the championship. But even at that I guess McRae won’t supplant us with a team from the old ladies’ home,” he added, with a laugh.
“We’ve got a long series of games on the home grounds now,” put in Larry, the optimist. “We’ll show these other fellows how the game ought to be played. Just watch us climb.”
“Here’s hoping you’re right,” chimed in Burkett. “A slice of the World Series money this year would look mighty good to me.”
“That’s looking pretty far ahead,” said Curry. “Still, if Joe keeps up the batting he’s been showing us in Pittsburgh, I’ll bet we cop the flag.”
“That may be just a flash in the pan,” cautioned Joe. “I may have had just a few good days when everything broke just right for me. I’m a pitcher, not a batter.”
“Not a batter, eh?” remarked Larry, in feigned surprise. “How surprised Dawley and Hooper and the other Pittsburgh pitchers will be to hear that. They seemed to think you could pickle the pill all right.”
The players found the baseball circles of New York in a ferment of interest and excitement over the team. There had been considerable despondency over the poor showing of the Giants in the first three series they had played on the trip. But the four rattling victories they had gained over Pittsburgh had redeemed them in the minds of their followers, and hopes for the pennant had revived.
But the one thing that obscured everything else was the tremendous batting that Joe had done in that last series. The sporting columns of the newspapers had headlines like: “The New Batting Star;” “A Rival to Kid Rose;” “Is There to Be a New Home-Run King?” and “The Colossus of Swat.” Joe found his footsteps dogged by reporters eager to get interviews telling how he did it. Moving picture operators begged the privilege of taking him in all positions—as he gripped his bat—the way he stood at the plate—as hedrew back for his swing. Illustrated weekly papers had full page pictures of him. Magazines offered him large sums for articles signed with his name. He found himself in the calcium light, holding the center of the stage, the focus of sporting interest and attention.
Joe was, of course, pleased at the distinction he had won, and yet at the same time he was somewhat uneasy and bewildered. He was not especially irked at the attention he was attracting. That had already become an old story as to his pitching. He was hardened to reporters, to being pointed out in the streets, to having a table at which he happened to be dining in a restaurant or hotel become the magnet for all eyes while whispers went about as to who he was. That was one of the penalties of fame, and he had become used to it.
But hitherto his reputation had been that of a great pitcher, and in his own heart he knew he could sustain it. The pitching box was his throne, and he knew he could make good. But he was somewhat nervous about the acclamations which greeted his batting feats. He was not at all sure that he could keep it up. He had never thought of himself as any more than an ordinary batter. He knew that as a pitcher he was not expected to do much batting, and so he had devoted most of his training to perfecting himself in the pitchingart. Now he found himself suddenly placed on a pedestal as a Batting King. Suppose it were, as he himself had suggested, merely a flash in the pan. It would be rather humiliating after all this excitement to have the public find out that their new batting idol was only an idol of clay after all.
He confided some of his apprehension to Jim, but his chum only laughed at him.
“Don’t worry a bit over that, old man,” Jim reassured him. “I only wish I were as sure of getting a million dollars as I am that you’ve got the batting stuff in you. You’ve got the eye, you’ve got the shoulders, you’ve got the knack of putting all your weight into your blow. You’re a natural born batter, and you’ve just waked up to it.”
“But this is only the beginning of the season,” argued Joe. “The pitchers haven’t yet got into their stride. By midsummer they’ll be burning them over, and then more than likely I’ll come a cropper.”
“Not a bit of it,” Jim affirmed confidently. “You won’t face better pitching anywhere than we stacked up against in Pittsburgh, and you made all those birds look like thirty cents. They had chills and fever every time you came to the bat.”
The matter was not long left in doubt. In the games that followed Joe speedily proved that the Pittsburgh outburst was not a fluke. Home runs rained from his bat in the games with the Brooklyns,the Bostons and the Phillies. And when the Western teams came on for their invasion of the East, they had to take the same medicine. All pitchers looked alike to him. Of course he had his off days when all he could get was a single, and sometimes not that. Once in a long while he went out on strikes, and the pitcher who was lucky or skilful enough to perform that feat hugged it to his breast as a triumph that would help him the next season in demanding a rise in salary. But these occasions were few and far between. The newspapers added a daily slab to their sporting page devoted to Joe’s mounting home run record, giving the dates, the parks and the pitchers off whom they were made. And there was hardly a pitcher in the league whose scalp Joe had not added to his rapidly growing collection.
In the business offices of the city, in restaurants, at all kinds of gathering places, the daily question changed. Formerly it had been: “Will the Giants win to-day?” Now it became: “Will Baseball Joe knock out another homer?”
And the fever showed itself in the attendance at the Polo Grounds. Day by day the crowds grew denser. Soon they were having as many spectators at a single game as they had formerly looked for at a double-header. The money rolled into the ticket offices in a steady stream, and the owners and manager of the club wore the “smilethat won’t come off.” The same effect was noted in all the cities of the circuit. The crowds turned out not so much to see the Giants play as to see if Baseball Joe would knock another home run. Joe Matson had become the greatest drawing card of the circuit. If this kept up, it would mean the most prosperous season the League had ever known. For the Giants’ owners alone, it meant an added half million dollars for the season. Already, with not more than a third of the games played, they had taken in enough to pay all expenses for the year, and were “on velvet” for the rest of the season.
Nothing in all this turned Joe’s head. He was still the same modest, hardworking player he had always been. First and all the time he worked for the success of his team. Already the Giants’ owners had voluntarily added ten thousand dollars to his salary, and he was at present the most highly paid player in his League. He knew that next year even this would be doubled, if he kept up his phenomenal work. But he was still the same modest youth, and was still the same hail fellow well met, the pal and idol of all his comrades.
What delighted Baseball Joe far more than any of his triumphs was the information contained in a letter he wore close to his heart that Mabel was coming on to New York with her brother Reggiefor a brief stay on her way to her home in Goldsboro. They had been in almost daily correspondence, and their affection had deepened with every day that passed. Jim also had been equally assiduous and equally happy, and both players were counting the days that must elapse before the wedding march would be played at the end of the season.
Luck was with Joe when, in company with Jim, he drove to the station to meet Mabel and Reggie. The rain was falling in torrents. Ordinarily that would have been depressing. But to-day it meant that there would be no game and that he could count on having Mabel to himself with nothing to distract his attention.
Jim was glad on his friend’s account, but nevertheless was unusually quiet for him.
“Come out of your trance, old boy,” cried Joe, slapping him jovially on the knee.
Jim affected to smile.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking about,” charged Joe. “You’re jealous because I’m going to see Mabel and you’re not going to see Clara. But cheer up, old man. The next time we strike Chicago we’ll both run down to Riverside for a visit. Then you’ll have the laugh on me, for you’ll have Clara all to yourself while Mabel will be in Goldsboro.”
Jim tried to find what comfort he could fromthe prospect, but the Chicago trip seemed a long way off.
They reached the station ahead of time and walked up and down impatiently. The rain and wet tracks had detained the train a little, but at length its giant bulk drew into the station. They scanned the long line of Pullmans anxiously. Then Joe rushed forward with an exclamation of delight as he saw Reggie descend holding out his hand to assist Mabel—Mabel, radiant, starry-eyed, a vision of loveliness.
Jim had followed a little more slowly to give Joe time for the first greeting. But his steps quickened and his eyes lighted up with rapture as behind Mabel Joe’s sister Clara came down the steps, sweet as a rose, and with a look in her eyes as she caught sight of Jim that made that young man’s heart lose a beat.