Baseball circles had rarely been more deeply stirred than by the issue of the game, by winning which the Giants had tied their record. It was not merely the winning, but the sensational way in which Baseball Joe’s home run had turned the scales in the last minute and snatched victory from defeat that excited the fans.
But now that the record was tied, would the Giants be able to hang up a new one? That was the question on every lip, the question whose discussion filled column after column of the sporting pages of the newspapers.
All agreed that the Giants had been lucky to win. If it had not been for the error of the pitcher on Denton’s slow dribble, they would have lost. But it was conceded that it was not luck that had secured that mighty home run that Joe had hammered out to the bleachers. That was ball playing. That was muscle. That was determination. Once again his cool head and quick eyeand powerful arm had shown that the game was not over until the last man was out.
It was Joe’s turn to pitch, and it was upon that fact more than anything else that the vast crowd that stormed the Polo Grounds relied for annexing the twenty-seventh game. The Pittsburghs too were holding out their star pitcher, Hooper, for that critical game, and it was certain that they would put forth superhuman efforts to win.
In more senses than one, the game was an important one. The last two victories of the Giants had wiped out the lead that the Pirates had had over them, and the two teams were now on even terms in games won and lost for the season, so that the Pirates had a double incentive to win. If they took the game they would not only prevent the Giants from breaking their own record for a winning streak, but would also once more stand at the head of the League.
“It’s up to you, Joe,” McRae said, just before the bell rang for the game to begin. “How are you feeling? Are you tired at all from pitching those last two innings yesterday?”
“Not a bit tired,” replied Joe promptly. “That little work yesterday was just the practice I needed to get into form. I’m feeling as fine as silk.”
“You look it,” said the manager admiringly, as his eye took in the strong, lithe figure, the bronzed face and clear eyes of his star pitcher. “Well goin now Joe and eat them up. Hooper will be in the box for them, and I’m not denying that he’s some pitcher. But he never saw the day that you couldn’t run rings around him. Go in and win.”
It was evident from the start that there would be no such free hitting that day as there had been the day before. Both boxmen were in superb form, and by the time the first inning for each side was over, the spectators had settled down to witness a pitcher’s duel.
Hooper was a spitball artist, and his moist slants kept the Giants guessing in the early part of the game. But while he depended chiefly on this form of delivery, he had other puzzlers in his assortment, and he mixed them up in a most deceptive manner. In the first three innings he had four strike-outs to his credit, and when the Giants did connect with the ball it went up into the air and into the hands of some waiting fielder. His control of the slippery sphere also was excellent, and he issued no passes.
In the fourth inning, the Giants began to nibble at his offerings. Curry rapped one out to right for the first single of the game. Iredell was robbed of a hit by a great jumping catch of O’Connor, who speared the ball with his gloved hand. Burkett lined out a two-bagger that carried Curry easily to third, but in trying to stretch the hit, he was caught by Ralston’s magnificent throwto the plate. Burkett in the meantime had made a dash for third, but thought better of it, and scrambled back to second just in time. The next man up went out from short to first and the inning ended without scoring. But the Giants had proved to themselves that Hooper could be hit, and it was with renewed confidence that they took their places in the field.
Joe in the meantime was mowing his opponents down with the regularity of a machine. His mighty arm swung back and forth like a piston rod. He had never cared for the spitball, as he knew that sooner or later it destroyed a pitcher’s effectiveness. But in his repertoire of curves and slants he had weapons far more deadly. His fast straight one whizzed over the plate like a bullet. He mixed these up with a slow, dipping curve that the Pirates endeavored in vain to solve. Only with the head of the Pittsburgh batting order did he at times resort to the fadeaway. That he kept in reserve for some moment when danger threatened. Twice in the first five innings he set down the side on strikes, and not a man reached first on balls. It was wonderful pitching, and again and again Joe was forced to doff his cap to the cheers of the crowd, as he came into the bench.
In the sixth inning, the Giants got busy. Wheeler lashed out a whale of a three-bagger to left. Willis laid down a neat sacrifice, bringingWheeler home for the first run of the game. Larry hit the ball on the seam for a single, but was caught a moment later in trying to purloin second. The next batter up went out on strikes and the inning ended with the Giants one run to the good.
The seventh inning came and passed and not a hit had been made by the Pirates. Then it began to be realized that Joe was out for a no-hit game, and the crowd rooted for him madly.
Joe himself was about the only cool man on the grounds. He measured every man that came to the plate and took his time about pitching to him. Man after man he fanned or made him hit feeble grounders to the infield. And that wonderful control of his forbade any passes. The Pirates did not dare to wait him out. It was a case of strike or be struck out, and so they struck at the ball, but usually struck only the empty air.
That ball! Sometimes it was a wheedling, coaxing ball, that sauntered up to the plate as though just begging to be hit. Again it was a vanishing ball that grew smaller from the time it left Joe’s hand until it became a mere pin point as it glinted over the rubber. Still again it was a savage ball that shot over the plate with a rush and a hiss that made the batter jump back. But always it was a deceptive ball, that slipped by, hopped by, loafed by, twisted by, dodged by, andthe Pirate sluggers strained their backs as well as their tempers in trying to hit it.
McRae and Robbie on the bench watched with fascination and delight the work of their king pitcher.
“It’s magic, I tell you, John, just magic!” blurted out Robbie, as another victim went out on strikes and threw down his bat in disgust.
“It sure looks like it,” grinned McRae. “He has those fellows jumping through the hoops all right. I’m free to say I never saw anything like it.”
“He’s got the ball trained, I tell you,” persisted Robbie, rubbing his hands in jubilation. “It’s an educated ball. It does just what Joe tells it to.”
Almost uncontrollable excitement prevailed as the Pirates came in for their last inning. Their heaviest sluggers were coming to the bat, and now if ever was the time to do something. They figured that the strain must have told on Joe and that a crack was due.
Their hope grew dimmer, however, when Ralston, after fouling off two, fanned on the third strike. But it revived again when Baskerville rolled an easy one to Larry, that the latter fumbled for a moment and then hurled to first a fraction of a second too late.
There was a roar of glee from the Pirates, andthey began to chatter in the hope of rattling the pitcher. Bemis, the next man up, came to the plate swinging three bats. He discarded two of them and glared at Joe.
“Here’s where you meet your finish,” he boasted, as he brandished his bat.
Joe merely smiled and put one over. Bemis drove it straight for the box. Joe leaped into the air, caught it in his ungloved hand and shot it like lightning to first, catching Baskerville before he could get back.
It was as pretty a double play as had ever been made on the New York grounds!
The play had been so swift that the eye could scarcely follow the ball, and it was a few seconds before the majority of the spectators could grasp what had happened.
Then a tremendous shout went up that rolled across the field in increasing volume as the crowds realized that they had seen what would probably never be seen again in a single game. They had seen the New York team break its own record for straight wins, and in addition they had witnessed that rarest of pitching exploits, a no-hit game. Not even a scratch hit had marred Joe’s wonderful performance, nor had he given a single base on balls. It was a red-letter day for the Giants and for Joe, and the people who had been there would talk about that game for years.
If any one should have been elated by the marvelous result of that day’s work, it was Joe. He had never stood on a higher pinnacle, except perhaps when he had won the last game of theWorld Series the preceding year. He was more than ever a hero in the eyes of the baseball public of New York, and within five minutes after the game was over the wires had flashed the news to every city of the country. But despite his natural pride in his achievement and his pleasure in knowing that he had won this critical game for his team, it was a very subdued and worried Joe that hurried to the clubhouse after the game was over. There his mates gathered, in the seventh heaven of delight, and there was a general jubilee, in which McRae and Robson joined.
“We did it, we did it!” cried Robbie, bouncing about like a rubber ball in his excitement. “We broke the record! Twenty-seven games in a row!”
“Where do you get that ‘we’ stuff, you old porpoise,” grinned McRae, poking him jovially in the ribs. “Seems to me that Joe had something to do with it. Put it there, Matson,” he went on, extending his hand. “You pitched a game that will go down in baseball history and you saved our winning streak from going up in smoke.”
Joe put out his left hand, and McRae looked a little surprised. Then he glanced down at Joe’s right hand, and a look of consternation swept over his face.
“Great Scott!” he cried. “What’s the matter with your hand?It’s swelled to twice its usual size.”
“GREAT SCOTT!” HE CRIED. “WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOUR HAND?”“GREAT SCOTT!” HE CRIED. “WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOUR HAND?”
“GREAT SCOTT!” HE CRIED. “WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOUR HAND?”
“It was that drive of Bemis’, I guess,” replied Joe. “When I nabbed it, I seemed to feel something crack in the hand. Perhaps, though, it’s only strained. It will probably be all right by to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” roared McRae, as all crowded around anxiously. “There’ll be no waiting till to-morrow. That hand is worth a half million dollars to the New York club, to say nothing of its worth to yourself. Where’s the trainer? Where’s the doctor? Jump, some of you fellows, and get them here quick!”
There was a general scurrying around, and in a few minutes both of those men were examining the injured hand with the greatest solicitude. They looked grave when they had finished.
“It’s hard to tell just what has happened until the swelling has been reduced,” pronounced the doctor, as he busied himself with splints and lotions. “I’m afraid, though, that it’s more than a sprain. When it swells as much as that it generally means that a bone has been broken.”
There was a general groan.
“That means, does it, that he will be out of the game for the rest of the season?” asked McRae, in notes of despair.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the doctor hastened to reassure him. “It may be only a trifling fracture, and in that case he will have to be out onlyfor a short time. But for the next few weeks anyway, he isn’t likely to do any more pitching.”
“Who’s the best specialist in New York?” demanded McRae.
The doctor named a surgeon of national reputation.
“’Phone him to come at once,” commanded McRae. “Or, better yet, Joe, you’d better come right with me now. My car’s outside and I’ll get you up there in fifteen minutes. Every minute counts now.”
Joe hurriedly finished dressing, and McRae bundled him into his automobile. It was a speedy machine, and it was to be feared that the traffic laws were not strictly observed as it made its way downtown. But the traffic policemen all knew McRae and Joe, and there was nothing to prevent their getting to their destination in record time.
A telephone call from the clubhouse had already notified the eminent surgeon that the pair were coming, and he was waiting for them. Without a moment’s delay, they were ushered into his inner office, where he stripped off the bandages from the hand and made a thorough examination.
“There is a small dislocation,” he said when he had finished. “But I think it will yield readily to treatment. It will not be a permanent injury, and in a little while the hand will be as good as ever.”
Both drew a sigh of immense relief.
“A little while,” repeated McRae. “Just what do you mean by that, Doctor? You know we’re fighting for the pennant, and we’re depending on this king pitcher of ours more than on any one else to win out. Every day he’s out of the race weakens our chances.”
“I can’t tell that definitely until to-morrow morning,” the doctor replied. “But offhand I should say for two or three weeks at least.”
“Two or three weeks!” repeated McRae in tones of mingled dismay and relief. “In those two or three weeks we may lose the flag. But thank heaven it’s no worse.”
After making an appointment for the next morning, McRae drove Joe to his hotel.
“It’s bad enough, Joe,” he said to him in parting. “I don’t know how we’re going to spare you while we’re in the thick of the fight. But when I think of what it would mean to the team if you were knocked out altogether, I’ve got no kick coming. We’re ahead of the Pittsburghs now, anyway, thanks to your splendid work, and if we can just hold our own till you get back, we’ll pull out all right yet.”
Joe found Jim waiting for him, full of anxiety and alarm. But his face lighted up when he learned that the injury was not a permanent one.
“It would have been a mighty sight better to have lost the game to-day than to have bought itat such a price,” he said. “But after all, nothing matters as long as your hand is safe. That hand is your fortune.”
“To-day was my unlucky day,” remarked Joe ruefully, as he looked at his bandaged hand.
“In one sense it was,” replied Jim, “but in another it wasn’t. To-day you hung up a record. You saved the Giants’ winning streak and you pitched a no-hit game!”
The pain in his injured hand was intense that night, and Joe paced the floor for hours before he was able to get to sleep. By morning, however, the hand had yielded to treatment, and the swelling had greatly decreased. At the earliest hour possible Joe, accompanied by Jim, was at the surgeon’s office.
The doctor’s face expressed his satisfaction, as, after an examination, he rendered his verdict.
“It isn’t as bad as I feared,” he said while he deftly rebandaged the injured member. “This dislocation is slight and you’ll soon be as right as ever. But you’ve got to take good care of it. It will be some time before you can pitch.”
“But how about batting?” asked Joe anxiously. “That isn’t a steady strain, as I’d only have to do it three or four times in the course of the game.”
“I don’t know,” replied the doctor with a smile. “I’m not familiar enough with the game to tellwhere the strain comes in that case. I can imagine, however, that it would be chiefly in the arm and shoulder. It’s possible that you may be able to bat before you can pitch. But I can tell more about that later on, as I see how your hand mends. For the present, you’ll have to go slow.”
The sporting writers had no reason to complain of the dullness of news for that day’s issue. The papers were ringing with the stirring events of the day before. Columns of space were devoted to the story of the game, and there was unstinted praise of Joe for his wonderful exploit.
But mingled with the jubilation was a strain of apprehension. The accident that had befallen the great pitcher was a subject of the keenest anxiety. It was recognized that a great blow had been struck at the Giants’ hope for the pennant. To have the greatest twirler of the team put out of the game just in the hottest part of the fight was a disaster that might prove fatal. Pittsburgh stock took a decided upward bound in consequence.
The effect on the Giants themselves, as far as their morale was concerned, was almost certain to be hurtful. The tremendous strain under which they had been, while compiling their twenty-seven consecutive wins, had brought them to a point where a sudden blow like this might make them go to pieces.
As a matter of fact, that is just what did happento them that very afternoon. The whole team was depressed and had a case of nerves. They played like a lot of schoolboys, booting the ball, slipping up on easy grounders and muffing flies that ordinarily they could have caught with ease.
The Pittsburghs, on the other hand, played with redoubled skill and courage. Their hopes had been revived by the misfortune that had befallen their most dangerous opponent. Joe was personally popular with all the players of the League, and they were sorry that he was hurt. But that did not prevent them from taking advantage of the chance to make hay while the sun shone.
The game developed into a farce after the third inning, and from that time on it was only a question of the size of the score. When the game ended, the Giant outfielders were leg-weary from chasing hits, and the visitors were equally tired from running bases. The Pittsburghs won by a score of 17 to 3, and the Giants’ winning streak came to an end.
But for once the team escaped a roasting from McRae. The team had done wonderful work, and any nine that wins twenty-seven games in succession has a right to lose the twenty-eighth. Besides the break was due, and the manager hoped that with this one bad game out of their systemsthe team would pull itself together and start another rally.
For the next week or two, the race see-sawed between the two leading teams. By this time it had become generally recognized that the pennant lay between them. The other contestants had occasional spurts, when great playing for a short period would revive the waning hopes of their admirers, but they soon fell back again in the ruck. It was quite certain that the flag would fly either over Forbes Field or over the Polo Grounds.
In the meantime, Joe’s hand was mending rapidly. His superb physical condition helped him greatly, and the doctor was visibly surprised and gratified by the progress of his patient. But it was hard work for Joe to be laid off just at the time that his team needed him most. Still he believed in the proverb “the more haste the less speed,” and he tried to be patient, even while he was “chafing at the bit.”
About ten days after the accident, the doctor delighted him by telling him that he need not come to see him any more. But he still ordered him to refrain from pitching. As to batting, he said cautiously that Joe could try that out a little at a time. If he found that after easy batting practice his hand did not hurt him, he might be permitted to bat in an actual game.
Joe was quick to avail himself of the permission.Very cautiously he tried batting out fungo hits. While at first the hand felt a little sore and stiff, this soon passed off. Then Joe had Jim pitch him some easy ones in practice, and found that he could line them out without ill effects. Finally he let Jim put them over at full speed, and was delighted to find that he could lift them into the right field stands and not suffer much of a twinge. At last he was himself again, as far at least as batting was concerned.
His recovery came just in time to be of immense benefit to the team. The men had slumped considerably in batting, though they still held up to their usual form in fielding. But fielding alone cannot win games. Defensive work is all very well, but combined with it must be the offensive work on the part of the batsmen. The best fielding in the world cannot put runs over the plate.
Joe’s return put new spirit into the team at once. The batting picked up noticeably, with Joe leading the way. At first he was a little cautious about putting his whole strength into his blow, and for a few days when he was used in emergencies as a pinch hitter, he gathered a crop of singles with an occasional double and triple. But with every successive day he let out a new link, and at length he put his whole strength into his swing. Home runs became again a common feature, and the Giants started in joyously on a new upward climb.
The season was to end this year in the West, and by the time the Giants started on their last swing around the circuit, they had a lead of four games over the Pirates. It was not necessarily a winning lead, but it was very comforting just the same to have those four games as a margin. Still, the Pittsburghs were hanging on gamely, ready to forge to the front on the least sign of weakening shown by their competitors. It was one of the hottest races that had ever been seen in the National League, and there was a chance that it would not be decided until the last day of the season.
“The last lap,” remarked Jim, as the team started on its trip. “Here’s where we win or lose.”
“Here’s where we win,” corrected Joe.
The Giants opened at Chicago, and the results were none too good. The Cubs, who just then were in the midst of a spurt, clawed and bit their way to victory in two games of the four, and the Giants were lucky to break even. As it was, the two games they won were annexed by the terrific batting of Joe, who was hitting like a demon. In the four games he made three home runs, and two of them were lined out when there were men on bases. All pitchers looked alike to him, and he played no favorites. The rest he had had from pitching had made him all the more effective as a batsman.
His fame as a hitter had spread through all the cities of the League, and the Chicago grounds were filled to their capacity during the Giants’ visit. Most of the spectators were as eager to see him hit one of his mammoth homers as they were to see the home team win. Cheers greetedhim every time he came to the bat. He was the greatest drawing card that the Giants had or ever had had.
Opinion was divided as to whether he or Kid Rose of the Yankees was the greatest hitter. Each had his partisans. Rose had been longer in the limelight, and those who had made up their minds that he was the greatest hitter that ever lived were reluctant to see their idol replaced by a newcomer. Many confidently predicted that Joe would not last, that his work was only a flash in the pan. Others declared that he did not have to bat against as good pitching in the National League as was shown in the American, and that therefore Rose’s work was superior. But as Joe kept on, day in and day out, lacing out tremendous hits that landed in the bleachers and at times sailed over the fence, the doubters grew silent, or joined in the wild applause as Joe jogged around the bases and crossed the plate standing up.
The keenest interest was manifested in the race that the Yankees were making to land the flag in the American League. If they should come out on top, the World Series would be held between New York teams, and Rose and Joe could be seen in action against each other. That would help to settle the question as to which had a right to wear the batting crown of the world. It would be a battle of giants, and it was certain that, if such acontest took place, there would be delegations to see it from all parts of the country.
McRae was no longer content to use Joe simply as a pinch hitter. He wanted to take full advantage of his marvelous hitting, and so he put him in the regular line-up and played him every day. Wheeler was relegated to the bench and Joe took his place in the field. The manager also changed his batting order, putting Joe fourth in the cleanup position. And again and again his judgment was vindicated by the way Joe cleaned up with homers, sending his comrades in ahead of him.
The day the third Chicago game was played was a very hot one, and Joe and Jim were tired and warm. Jim had pitched that day and won, after a gruelling contest, and Joe had varied his ordinary routine by knocking out two home runs instead of one.
Joe was seated in his hotel room, writing a letter to Mabel. Jim had stepped down to the office to get some stationery, for he had the pleasant task on hand of writing to Clara.
A knock came at the door, and in answer to his call to enter, a bellboy stepped into the room, bearing a pitcher and glasses.
“Here’s the lemonade you ordered, boss,” he said, as he put his burden on a convenient stand.
“Lemonade?” repeated Joe in some surprise. “I didn’t order any.”
“Clerk sent me up with it, sir,” said the bellboy respectfully. “Said it was for Mr. Matson, room four-seventeen. This is four-seventeen, isn’t it?” he asked as he glanced at the number on the door, which he had left open.
“This is four-seventeen, all right, and I’m Mr. Matson,” Joe answered. “But I didn’t order anything. I’ll tell you how it is though,” he added, as a thought struck him. “My friend who is sharing the room with me has just gone down to the lobby, and he’s probably told the clerk to send it up. That’s all right. Leave it there.”
“Shall I pour you out a glass, sir?” asked the boy, suiting the action to the word.
“If you like,” responded Joe carelessly, taking a quarter out of his pocket as a tip.
The boy thanked him and withdrew, closing the door behind him. Joe finished the paragraph he was writing, and then picked up the glass. He took a sip of it and put it down.
“Pretty bitter,” he said to himself. “Not enough sugar. Still it’s cooling, and I sure am warm.”
Again he lifted the glass to his lips, but just then Jim burst into the room.
“Whom do you think I saw just now?” he demanded.
“Give it up,” replied Joe. “But whoever it was, you seem to be all excited about it. Who was it?”
“Fleming!” answered Jim, as he plumped down into a chair.
“Fleming!” repeated Joe with quickened interest. “What’s that fellow doing here? I thought he hung out in New York.”
“That’s what I want to know,” replied Jim. “Wherever that fellow is, there’s apt to be dirty work brewing. And the frightened look that came into his eyes when he saw me, and the way he hurried past me, made me uneasy. He acted as if he’d been up to something. I don’t like the idea of a pal of Braxton being in the same hotel with us.”
“I don’t care much for it myself,” answered Joe. “Still, a hotel is open to anybody, and this is one of the most popular ones in the city. It isn’t especially surprising that you should happen to run across him.”
“Not surprising perhaps, but unpleasant just the same,” responded Jim. “It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”
“Well,” laughed Joe, “take the bad taste out with a glass of this lemonade you sent up. It isn’t very good—it has a bad taste of its own—but it will cool you off.”
He raised his glass to his mouth as he spoke. But in an instant Jim was on his feet and knocked the glass from his hand. It fell on the floor and splintered in many pieces.
Joe looked at him in open-eyed amazement, too astonished to speak.
“Don’t touch the stuff!” cried Jim. “What do you mean by saying I sent it up?”
“Didn’t you?” asked Joe. “The bellboy said he had been told to bring it to me, and as I hadn’t ordered it, I jumped to the conclusion that you had.”
“Not I!” replied Jim. “But I can guess who did!”
“Who?”
“Fleming.”
The two friends looked fixedly at each other.
“Do you mean,” asked Joe, after a moment in which surprise and indignation struggled for the mastery, “that that lemonade was doped?”
“Doped or poisoned, I’ll bet my life,” affirmed Jim. “Let’s get to the bottom of this thing. Quick, old man! Perhaps Fleming is still somewhere in the hotel.”
“Not a chance,” replied Joe, jumping to his feet. “If he’s mixed up in this, he’s getting away as fast as his legs or a car can carry him. But we’ll go down and see what we can learn from the clerk.”
They went to the head clerk, whom they knew very well. He was an ardent fan, and his face lighted up as he saw the friends approaching.
“Saw you play to-day, gentlemen,” he said.“Those two home runs of yours were whales, Mr. Matson. And your pitching, Mr. Barclay, was all to the mustard.”
“Sorry to beat your Chicago boys, but we needed that game in our business,” laughed Joe. “But what I want to see you about just now is a personal matter. Did you get an order from me or from my room to send up any lemonade?”
The clerk looked surprised.
“No,” he replied. “I didn’t get any such request. Wait a moment until I see the telephone operator.”
He consulted the girl at the telephone, and was back in a moment. “No message of any kind came from your room to-night,” he announced.
“But one of your bellboys brought it up,” persisted Joe.
“Which one of them was it?” asked the clerk, pointing to a group of them lounging about.
“None of them,” responded Joe, as he ran his eye over them.
“There are three more of the bellboys doing various errands about the hotel,” replied the clerk. “If you gentlemen will wait around they’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“All right, we’ll wait,” said Joe.
Before long, all the bellboys were back, and Joe had had a good look at the entire staff. Not one resembled the boy who had come to his room.
“I can’t understand it,” mused the clerk, to whom the boys had been careful not to impart their suspicions. “It must have been sent in by somebody from the outside. It’s certain that it wasn’t sent up from here.”
“Oh, well,” said Joe carelessly, “it doesn’t matter. I just wanted to find out, so that I could thank the one who did it. Sorry to have troubled you.”
They strolled off indifferently and returned to their room.
“‘Thank’ is good,” said Jim, as soon as they were out of earshot.
“I’ll thank him all right,” replied Joe grimly. “In fact I’ll thank him so warmly that it will stagger him.”
“May I be there to see!” replied Jim gruffly. “I can figure out the whole thing now. Fleming had had that lemonade doped and it was meant to put you out of business. It was easy to find out what hotel you were stopping at, as that’s been in all the papers. Then it was a simple thing to glance over the register and get the number of your room. He’s either got a bellboy from some other hotel or dressed up somebody in a bellboy’s uniform. He’s probably bribed him well, and it’s been all the easier because he didn’t have to let on to the boy that there was anything crooked about it. Told him perhaps that he was just playing a little joke on a friend or something like that. There’s the whole story.”
“I guess that’s about right,” agreed Joe. “Gee, Jim, it’s mighty lucky that you knocked that glass out of my hand. I had noticed that it tasted rather bitter, but put that down to too little sugar.”
“Let’s send some of the stuff to a chemist and have it analyzed,” suggested Jim.
“No,” objected Joe, “that wouldn’t do any good. The thing would be apt to get into the papers, and that’s the very thing we mustn’t let happen for the sake of the folks at home. Weknow enough about the stuff to be sure that it was doctored in some way. Everything about the incident tells of crookedness. Fleming was probably the master hand, although he may have simply been the tool of Braxton. Those fellows are running up a heavy account, and some day I hope we’ll get the goods on them. We’ll just dump the stuff out so that nobody else will be injured. Then we’ll lay low but keep our eyes open. It’s all that we can do.”
“Gee, that was one dandy homer, Joe,” said the catcher some time later.
“Best ever,” added the first baseman.
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered the young ball player modestly. “I think I have done better. But it was great to carry it along to eleven innings,” he added, with a smile.
“That tenth had me almost going,” said the shortstop. “We came close to spilling the beans,” and he shook his head seriously.
“Well, ‘all’s well that ends well,’ as Socrates said to General Grant,” and Joe grinned.
From Chicago the Giants jumped to St. Louis, where, despite the stiffest kind of resistance, they took three games out of four. They were not quite as successful in Cincinnati, where the best they could get was an even break. The Reds saw a chance to come in third, in which case they would have a share in the World Series money, and theywere showing the best ball that they had played all season. The Giants had all they could do to nose them out in the last game, which went to eleven innings and was only won by a home run by Joe in the wind-up.
Seven games out of twelve for a team on the road was not bad, but it would have been worse if the Pirates, in the meantime, had not also had a rocky road to travel. The Brooklyns had helped their friends across the bridge by taking the Pittsburghs into camp to the tune of three games out of four and the Bostons had broken even. With the Phillies, however, the Pirates had made a clean sweep of the four games. So when the Giants faced their most formidable foes, they still had the lead of four games with which they had begun their Western trip.
This, of course, gave the Giants the edge on their rivals. The Pittsburghs would have to win the whole four games to draw up on even terms with the leaders. In that case a deciding game would be necessary to break the tie. On the other hand all the Giants had to do was to win one game of the four and they would have the championship cinched. And that they would do at least that seemed almost a certainty.
But nothing is certain in baseball, as soon became evident. Perhaps it was overconfidence or a sense of already being on easy street that causedthe Giants to lose the first game. That, however, could not be said of the second, when the Giants “played their heads off,” Jim said, and yet could not win against the classy pitching and stonewall defense put up by the Smoky City team. Things were beginning to look serious for the Giants, and some of their confidence was vanishing.
Still more serious did they become when the third game went into the Pirates’ basket. Jim pitched in that game and twirled wonderful ball, but his support was ragged, and several Pirate blows that ought to have been outs were registered ultimately as runs. They were unearned runs, but they counted in the final score as much as though they had been due to the team’s hitting. The Giants were long-faced and gloomy.
McRae was clearly worried. If the next game were lost, the leaders would be tied, and the Pirates would still have a chance to win. It would be a bitter pill to swallow if the Giants lost the flag just when it had seemed that all was over except the shouting.
Moreover, the manager was in a quandary. All his first string pitchers had been beaten. His best one in active service at the present time, Jim, had pitched that day and it would not do to ask him to go into the box again to-morrow. In his desperation he turned to Joe.
“Joe,” he said, “we’re up against it unless youcan help us out. How is your hand feeling? Would you dare to take a chance with it?”
“I think it’s all right now, or nearly so,” replied Joe. “I’ve been trying it out in practice right along, and it seems to me it’s about as good as ever. I was putting them over to Mylert yesterday, and he told me he couldn’t see any difference between them and those I threw before I was hurt. The only thing I’m a little skittish about is my fadeaway. That gives me a little twinge when I try it. But I guess I can leave that out and still pull through.”
“That’s good!” ejaculated McRae, with great relief. “Go in then, old boy, and show these pesky Pirates where they get off. We simply must win this game.”
There was a startled murmur among the spectators who thronged Forbes Field that afternoon when they saw Joe go into the box. They had been gloating over the supposition that McRae would have to use again one of the pitchers whom the Pirates had already beaten in that series, and the way their pets were going, they looked for a sure victory. Now they saw the man who had always baffled the Pittsburghs again take up the pitcher’s burden, and their faces took on a look of apprehension.
The Pirate players too shared in that apprehension. They had a profound respect for Joe’sability, and had always had a sinking of the heart when they saw him draw on his glove. Still, they comforted themselves with the hope that his long layoff had hurt his effectiveness, and they braced to give him the battle of his life.
Joe himself felt a thrill of exultation when he stepped on the mound. That was his throne. There he had won the laurels that crowned him as the greatest pitcher of his League. Now he was back again, back to buoy up the spirit of his team, back to justify the confidence of his manager, back to uphold his fame, back to bring the championship of the National League once more to New York.
He still carried in his pocket Mabel’s glove, that he had come to regard as his mascot. He touched it now. Then he wound up for the first pitch and split the plate for a strike.
It was an auspicious beginning of one of the greatest games he had ever pitched in his whole career. The Pirates simply did not have a chance. All through the game they were swinging wildly at a ball that seemed to be bewitched, a ball that dodged their bats and appeared to be laughing at them. Angered and bewildered, they tried every device to avoid impending defeat. They bunted, they put in pinch hitters, they called the umpire’s attention to Joe’s delivery in the hope of rattling him, they tried to get hit with the ball.
Through it all, Joe kept on smiling and mowing them down. Only three men got to first. Not one got to second. Thirteen men went out on strikes. And then, to cap the climax, Joe sent a screaming homer into the right field bleachers, sending in two men ahead of him.
The final score was 8 to 0. The Giants had won the championship of the National League. Now they were to battle for the championship of the world!
It was a happy team of Giants that left Pittsburgh that night on the sleeper for New York. The season’s strain was over. The coveted flag was theirs. They had fought their way through many discouragements, had stood the gaff, and now they were at the top of their League, with none to contest their title as champions.
“Some victory, eh, Joe?” remarked Jim to his chum.
“Right, Jim,” was the ready reply.
To be sure a great battle loomed up ahead of them, but they welcomed that with eagerness. It meant thousands of dollars to every member of the team, win or lose. But they had no thought of losing. The return of their king pitcher to the box that afternoon, and the proof that he was in magnificent form, had filled them chock full of confidence.
And they were doubly glad that the Yankees were to be their opponents. That had been settledthree days before, when the American League season had closed with the Yankees just nosing out the Clevelands at the finish. It was settled that every game of the World Series would be played in New York.
This meant that there would be no long, tiresome, overnight journeys between cities. But it meant more than that. It meant that the question would now be settled once for all as to which of the New York teams was the better.
This had been a mooted question for a good many years past. Each team had its warm friends and admirers, who were ready to back it through thick and thin. The Giants, of course, had been established longer, and had gained a strong place in the affections of the metropolis. Their games, as a usual thing, drew many more spectators than those played by their rivals. But of late the acquisition of Kid Rose by the Yankees had drawn the greater attention to that team, and the Giants had been cast in the shade. They were not used to this and did not relish it. They knew the Yankees were a strong team, but at the same time they believed that they could take their measure if it ever came to a showdown. Now that showdown was at hand, and the Giants were glad of it.
The public, too, were eager to have the question of supremacy settled. The metropolis was fairly seething with excitement over the series, and thehotels already were filling up with visitors from as far off as the Pacific Coast. Not only columns but whole pages of the newspapers were filled with comments and prophecies respecting the chances of the respective teams.
More than anything else in the public mind was the coming duel between Kid Rose and Joe Matson as home run hitters. Which would make the longer hits? Which would make the more home runs? These were the questions that were on the lips of the fans wherever two or more of them met. And the sporting pages of the daily newspapers were full of it.
The series this year was to consist of nine games if so many should be necessary. The team that first won five games would be the champions of the world. The members of the teams were to share in the money taken in at the first five games played, so that there would be no inducement to spin out the series. After certain percentages had been deducted sixty per cent was to go to the winners and forty per cent to the losers. The outlook was that each member of the winning team would get about five thousand dollars and each member of the losing team between three and four thousand, a difference great enough to make each player do his best, apart from his loyalty to his team.
Reggie had come up from Goldsboro, bringingMabel with him, a charge of which Joe promptly relieved him. She seemed to Joe more distractingly beautiful than ever, and his heart thumped as he realized that in less than a month she would be his own. That had been arranged in their correspondence. The wedding would take place in Mabel’s home in Goldsboro, and after their honeymoon they were to go to Riverside, to witness the marriage of Jim and Clara. The latter had hoped to come on to see the World Series, but Mrs. Matson was not well enough to come along, and Clara did not want to leave her. So poor Jim had to exercise patience and not be too envious of the almost delirious happiness of Joe and Mabel at being together.
A more exciting World Series than that which now began between the Giants and Yankees had never been known in the history of the game. Both teams were out for blood. Every man was on his toes, and the excited spectators were roused almost to madness by the almost miraculous stops and throws pulled off by the fielders. From the start it was evident that the nines were very evenly balanced, and that whichever finally won would in all probability do so by the narrowest kind of margin.
Victory seesawed between the teams. Joe pitched the first game, and the Giants won by 3 to 1. The Yankees took the second by 5 to 2. Jimheld them down in the third to two runs, while the Giants accumulated six. The Yankees made it “fifty-fifty” by galloping away with the fourth game in a free hitting contest, of which Markwith was the victim, the final score being 9 to 5. The Giants again assumed the lead by copping the fifth by 4 to 0, Joe decorating his opponents with a necklace of goose eggs. They repeated on the following day, and with only one more game needed to make the five, it looked as though they would be certain winners. But the Yankees were not yet through, and they came back strong on the two succeeding days and evened up the score. Each had won four games. The ninth and final game would determine which team was to be the champions of the world.
In these contests, Joe had batted like a fiend. McRae had played him in every game, putting him in the outfield on the days that he was not scheduled to pitch. In the eight games, Joe had made six circuit clouts, in addition to four three-baggers, three two-base hits, and some singles. He was simply killing the ball.
Kid Rose also had done sterling work, and had rapped out five homers, besides a number of hits for a lesser number of bags. But Baseball Joe so far had outclassed him, both in the number and the length of his hits. There was no stopping him. High or low, incurve or outcurve, they were allthe same to him. That eagle eye of his located the course of the ball unerringly, and when the ash connected with the ball that ball was slated for a ride.
There was no mistake about it. Joe had arrived. The batting crown was his. He had long since been recognized as the king of pitchers. Now he was hailed by acclamation as the greatest hitter in the game!
For the ninth and deciding game, McRae had selected Joe to pitch.
“I don’t need to tell you, Joe, how much depends on this game,” McRae said soberly, as the two came out of the clubhouse and walked across the field towards the grandstand, which was crowded to suffocation. “You know it as well as I do. I’m just counting on you, my boy. You’ve never failed me yet in a pinch. You won’t fail me now.”
“Trust me, Mac,” replied Joe. “I’ll do my best to win out.”
Hudson, the manager of the Yankees, was also pinning his faith on the leader of his pitching staff, Phil Hays. He was a master of the underhand delivery, and had already captured for the Yankees the two games of the series in which he had pitched. In both games he had sorely puzzled the Giants, for there was no pitcher in the National League who used that delivery, and theyhad found it almost impossible to gauge it. He also had a crossfire, that he used at times with telling effect. He had not yet matched his pitching strength against Joe’s, and the crowd was all agog with curiosity to see them battle against each other.
Jim had been a little later than Joe in slipping into his uniform, and was still in the clubhouse, after his friend had gone out on the field, when Reggie came rushing in, panting and out of breath.
“Where’s Joe?” he asked, looking wildly around.
“He’s just gone out to practice,” answered Jim. “Why, what’s the matter, Reggie?”
“I’ve got to get Joe,” Reggie panted, making a dash for the door.
But Jim caught his arm.
“Look here, Reggie,” he said, holding to him tightly. “Joe mustn’t be upset. I can see that something’s happened. Tell me what it is, and I’ll see about letting Joe know.”
“It’s M-Mabel!” answered Reggie, stammering in his excitement. “She’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared!” echoed Jim, in bewilderment. “What do you mean?”
“Just that,” answered Reggie. “She went out this morning to call on a friend, but said she’d get back to go with me to the game. I got anxious when she didn’t come, and called up her friend,who said she hadn’t seen her. Just then a messenger boy brought me this,” and he handed over a typewritten, unsigned note, which read: