67CHAPTER VIIITHE RIVAL TEAMS
Robbie, who had come up just in time to hear Joe’s last words, gave him a resounding thump on the back.
“That’s the way to talk, Joe, old boy!” he cried. “I’ve been telling Mac all along that no matter who else weakens he could bet his last dollar on you.”
“Not that I needed any bracing up,” declared McRae. “I know a man when I see one, and I count on you to the limit. I didn’t send that telegram because I had any doubt, but I knew that they’d make a break for you first of all and I didn’t want you to be taken by surprise. By the way, have any of them turned up yet?”
“A chap named Westland came to see me the very day I got your telegram,” replied Joe.
“And he came well heeled, too,” put in Jim. “Money was fairly dripping from him. He just ached to give it away. It was only up to Joe to become a bloated plutocrat on the spot.”68
“Offered good money, did he?” asked McRae, with quickened interest.
“Twenty thousand dollars right off the bat,” replied Jim. “Fifteen thousand dollars a year for a three-year contract. And as if that weren’t enough, he offered to put the money in the bank in advance and let Joe draw against it as he went along.”
McRae and Robbie exchanged glances. Here was proof that the new league meant business right from the start. It was a competitor to be dreaded and it was up to them to get their fighting clothes on at once.
“That’s a whale of an offer,” ejaculated Robbie.
“They’ve thrown their hat into the ring,” remarked McRae. “From now on it’s a fight for blood.”
“There’s no need of asking what Joe said to that,” said Robbie.
“I wish you’d been behind the door to hear it,” grinned Jim. “The way Joe lighted into him was a sin and a shame. He fairly skinned him alive. It looked at one time as if there would be a scrap sure.”
“It would have been a tremendous card for them to get the star pitcher of the World’s Series,” said McRae with a sigh of relief. “And in these days, when so many rumors are flying69round it’s a comfort to know there’s one man, at least, that money can’t buy. There isn’t a bit of shoddy in you, Joe. You’re all wool and a yard wide.”
At this moment, Hughson, the famous pitcher who had been a tower of strength to the Giants for ten years past, came strolling up, and Joe and Jim fell upon him with a shout.
“How are you, Hughson, old man?” cried Joe. “How’s that wing of yours getting along?”
“All to the good,” replied Hughson. “I stopped off for a day or two at Youngstown and had it treated by Bonesetter Reese. I tell you, that old chap’s a wonder. He tells me it will be as good as ever when the season opens.”
“I’m mighty glad you’re going along with us on this trip,” said Jim, heartily. “It wouldn’t seem like the Giant team with you out of it.”
“I’m going through as far as the coast anyway,” answered Hughson. “More for the fun of being with the boys than anything else. But I don’t think I’ll make the trip around the world. I made a half promise some time ago to coach the Yale team this coming spring, and they don’t seem inclined to let me out of it. And I don’t know if after all it may not be best to rest up this winter and get in shape for next year.”
The three strolled on down the corridor, leaving McRae and Robbie in earnest conversation.70
“How many of the boys is Mac taking along?” asked Joe.
“I think he figures on about fourteen men,” replied Hughson. “That will give him three pitchers, two catchers, an extra infielder and outfielder, besides the seven other men in their regular positions. That’ll allow for accident or sickness and ought to be enough.”
“Just as I doped it out,” remarked Joe.
“On a pinch, McRae could play himself,” laughed Jim. “No better player ever held down the third bag than Mac when he was on the old Orioles. The old boy could give the youngsters points even now on winging them down to first.”
“For that matter, Robbie himself might go in behind the bat,” grinned Joe. “No ball could get by him without hitting him somewhere.”
“It would be worth the price of admission to see Robbie running down to first,” admitted Hughson, with a smile.
“What kind of a team has Brennan got together for the All-American?” asked Joe.
“Believe me; it’s a good one,” replied Hughson. “He’s got a bunch of the sweetest hitters that he could get from either league. They’re a bunch of fence breakers, all right. When those birds once get going, they’re apt to send any pitcher to the shower. You’ll have all you want71to do, Joe, to keep them from straightening out your curves.”
“I don’t ask anything better,” replied Joe, with a laugh. “I’d get soft if they were too easy. But who are these ball killers? Let me know the worst.”
“Well,” said Hughson, “there’s Wallie Schalk behind the bat—you know how he can line them out. Then there’s Miller at first, Ebers at second, McBride at short and Chapman at third. The outfielders will probably be Cooper and Murray and Lange. For pitchers Brennan will have Hamilton, Fraser and Ellis,—although Ellis was troubled with the charley-horse toward the end of the season, and Banks may take his place.”
“It’s a strong team,” commented Jim, “and they can certainly make the ball scream when they hit it. They’re a nifty lot of fielders, too. I guess we’ll have our work cut out for us, all right.”
“Both Mac and Brennan have got the right idea,” said Hughson. “Too many of these barnstorming trips have been made up of second string men, and when people came to see the teams play and didn’t find the real stars in the line-up they naturally felt sore. But they’re going to get the simon-pure article this time and the games are to be for blood. Anyone that lays72down on his job is going to get fired. It’ll be easy enough to pick up a good man to take his place.”
“What’s the scheme?” asked Joe. “Are we two teams to play against each other all the time, or are we to take on some of the local nines?”
“I don’t think that’s been fully worked out yet,” replied Hughson. “I know we’re going to play the Denver nine and some of the crack California teams.”
“Easy meat,” commented Jim with a grin.
“Don’t you believe it,” rejoined Hughson. “Don’t you remember how the Waco team trimmed us last spring? Those fellows will play their heads off to beat us—and they’ll own the town if they succeed. They figure that they’ll catch us off our guard and get the Indian sign on us before we wake up.”
“Yes. But do you think they can get the Indian sign so easily?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Of course, those minor teams will play their very best, because it would be a feather in their cap if they could take a game away from us. They’ll probably look around and pick up the very best players they can, even if they have to put up some money for the purpose. Just the same, we ought to be able to polish them off with these.”73
“Well, of course, we’ve got to expect to lose some games. It would be a remarkable thing to go around the world and win every game.”
“Yet it might be done,” broke in Jim.
“I suppose there’ll be quite a party going along with the teams, just for the sake of the trip,” observed Joe.
“You’ve said it,” replied Hughson. “At least half of the men will have their wives along, and then there’s a whole bunch of fans who have been meaning to go round the world anyway who will think this a good chance to mix baseball and globe trotting. Altogether I shouldn’t wonder if there would be about a hundred in the party. Some of the fellows will have their sisters with them, and you boys had better look out or you’ll lose your hearts to them. But perhaps,” he added, as he saw a look of quick intelligence pass between the chums, “you’re already past praying for.”
Neither one of them denied the soft impeachment.
“By the way,” said Hughson, changing the subject, “while I think of it, Joe, I want to give you a tip to be on your guard against ‘Bugs’ Hartley.”
“Why, what’s he up to, now?” inquired Joe.
“I don’t know,” Hughson replied. “But I do know that he’s sore at you through and through. He’s got the idea in that twisted brain of his that74you got him off the Giant team. I met him in the street the other day——”
“Half drunk, I suppose,” interjected Jim.
“More than half,” replied Hughson. “He’s got to be a regular panhandler—struck me for a loan, and while I was getting it for him, he talked in a rambling way of how he was going to get even with you. Of course I shut him up, but I couldn’t talk him out of his fixed idea. He’ll do you a mischief if he ever gets the chance.”
“He’s tried it before,” said Joe. “He nearly knocked me out when he doped my coffee. Poor old ‘Bugs’—he’s his own worst enemy.”
“But he’s your enemy too,” persisted Hughson. “And don’t forget that a crazy man is a dangerous man.”
“Thanks for the tip,” replied Joe. “But ‘threatened men live long’ and I guess I’m no exception to the rule!”
75CHAPTER IXTHE UNDER DOG
“Talking of angels!” exclaimed Jim, giving Joe a sharp nudge in the ribs.
Joe looked up quickly and saw Hartley coming down the corridor.
“It’s ‘Bugs,’ sure enough,” he said. “And, for a wonder, he’s walking straight.”
“Guess he’s on his good behavior,” remarked Hughson. “There’s a big meeting of the American League here just now, winding up the affairs of the league, now that the playing season is over. Maybe Hartley thinks he has a chance to catch on somewhere. Like everybody else that’s played in the big leagues, he hates to go back to the bushes. He’d be a find, too, if he’d only cut out the booze—there’s lots of good baseball in him yet.”
“He’s a natural player,” said Joe, generously. “And one of the best pitchers I ever saw. You know how Mac tried to hold on to him.”
“I don’t think he has a Chinaman’s chance,76though, of staying in big league company,” observed Jim. “After the way he tried to give away our signals in that game at Boston, the Nationals wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole, and I don’t think the American has any use for him either. You might forgive him for being a drunkard, but not for being a traitor.”
Hartley had caught sight of the group, and at first seemed rather undecided whether to go on or stop. The bitter feeling he had for Joe, however, was too strong to resist, and he came over to where they were. He paid no attention to Jim, and gave a curt nod to Hughson and fixed a malignant stare on Joe.
“All dolled up,” he said, with a sneer, as he noted the quiet but handsome suit that Joe was wearing. “I could have glad rags, too, if you hadn’t bilked me out of four thousand dollars.”
“Cut out that talk, Bugs,” said Joe, though not unkindly. “I never did you out of anything and you know it.”
“Yes, you did,” snarled Hartley. “You got me fired from the Giants and did me out of my share of the World’s Series money.”
“You did yourself out of it, Bugs,” said Joe, patiently. “I did my best to have Mac hold on to you. I never was anything but your friend. Do you remember how Jim and I put you to bed that night in St. Louis when you were drunk? We77took you up the back way so Mac wouldn’t get next. Take a fool’s advice, Bugs—cut out the liquor and play the game.”
“I don’t want any advice from you!” sneered Hartley. “And take it from me, I’ll get you yet.”
“Beat it, Bugs!” Jim broke in sternly, “while the going’s good. Roll your hoop now, or I’ll help you.”
Hartley hesitated a moment, but took Jim’s advice and with a muttered threat went on his way.
“Mad as a March hare,” murmured Jim, as they watched the retreating figure.
“Do a man a favor and he’ll never forgive you,” quoted Joe.
“Where did he get his grouch against you?” asked Hughson, curiously.
“Search me,” replied Joe. “I think it dates from the time when he was batted out of the box and Mac sent me in to take his place. I won the game and Bugs has been sore at me ever since. He figured that I tried to show him up.”
“I wonder how he got here?” mused Hughson. “The last time I saw him was in New York, and the money I lent him wasn’t enough to bring him on.”
“Perhaps Mac gave him transportation,” suggested Jim.78
“Not on your life,” rejoined Hughson. “Mac’s got a heart as big as a house, but he hates a traitor. You see, though, Joe, I was right in giving you the tip. Keep your eyes open, old man.”
Joe was about to make a laughing reply, but just at that moment Larry and Denton came along with broad smiles of welcome on their faces, and the unpleasant episode was forgotten.
It was a jolly party that left Chicago the next morning for the trip around the world. The managers had chartered a special train which was made up wholly of Pullman sleepers, a dining car and a smoker.
It was travelde luxe, and the sumptuous train was to be their home for the full month that would elapse before they reached the coast.
“Rather soft, eh, for the poor baseball slaves,” grinned Jim, as he stretched out his long legs luxuriously and gazed out of the window at the flying telegraph poles.
“This is the life,” chanted Larry Barrett.
“Nothing to do till to-morrow,” chimed in Denton. “And not much even then.”
“Don’t you boys go patting yourselves on the back,” smiled Robbie, looking more like a cherub than ever, as he stopped beside their seats on his way along the aisle. “These games, remember, are to be the real thing—there’s going to be no79sloppy or careless work just because you’re not playing for the championship. They’re going to be fights from the time the gong rings till the last man is out in the ninth inning.”
If Robbie wanted action, he got it, and the first games had a snap and vim about them that augured well for the success of the trip. It is true that the players had not the stimulus that comes from a fight for the pennant, but other motives were not lacking.
There was one game which was a nip-and-tuck affair from start to finish. At the end of the fourth inning the score stood 1 to 1, and at the end of the sixth inning the score had advanced so that it stood 2 to 2.
“Say, we don’t seem to be getting anywhere in this game,” remarked Jim to Joe.
“Oh, well, we’ve got three more innings to play,” was the answer.
In the seventh inning a most remarkable happening occurred. The All-Americans had three men on bases with nobody out. It looked as if they might score, but Joe took a sudden brace and pitched the next man at the bat out in one-two-three order.
The next man up knocked a pop fly, which Joe gathered in with ease.
“That’s the way to do it, Joe!” sang out one of his companions. “Now go for the third man!”80
The third fellow to the bat was a notable hitter, and nearly every one thought he would lace out at least a two-bagger, bringing in probably three runs. Instead, however, he knocked two fouls, and then sent a liner down to first base, which the baseman caught with ease; and that ended the chance for scoring.
“That’s pulling it out of the fire!” cried McRae. The showing had been a good one, but what made the inning so remarkable was the fact that in one-two-three order the Giants got the bases filled exactly as they had been filled before. Then, more amazing still, the next man was pitched out, the second man knocked a pop fly to the pitcher, and it was Joe himself, coming to the bat, hit out a liner to third base, which was gathered in by the baseman, thus ending the Giants hope of scoring.
“Well, what do you know about that!” cried Brennan. “The inning on each side was exactly alike, with the exception that our third man out flied to first base, while your man flied to third.”
But that ended the similarity both in batting and in scoring, for in the eighth inning the Giants added another run to their score, and held this lead to the end, even though the All-Americans fought desperately in the effort to tie the score.
“Oh, we had to win,” said one of the Giants. “Too many of our folks looking at us to lose.”
Many members of the teams had their wives81or sisters with them, and defeat would have been galling under the eyes of the fair spectators.
Then, too, the Giants had their reputation to sustain as the Champions of the World. On the other hand, the All-Americans were anxious to show that even though they had not been in the World’s Series, they ought to have been—and it was a keen delight to them to make their adversaries bite the dust.
Add to this the fact that there was a strong spirit of rivalry, good-natured but intense, between the scrappy McRae and the equally pugnacious Brennan, whose team had been nosed out by the Giants in that last desperate race down the stretch for the pennant, and it is no wonder that the crowds kept getting larger in every city they played, that the gate receipts made the managers chuckle, that the great city papers gave extended reports of the games and that the baseball trip around the world began to engross the attention of every lover of sports in the country.
Joe had never been in finer fettle. His fast balls went over the plate like bullets from a gatling gun. His fadeaway was working to a charm. He wound the ball near the batters’ necks and curved it out of reach of their bats with an ease and precision that explained to the applauding crowds why he was rated as the foremost pitcher of the day.82
Jim, too, showed the effect of his season’s work and Joe’s helpful coaching, and between the two they accounted for three of the games won by the Giants before they reached Colorado. Two other games had gone to the All-Americans in slap-dash, ding-dong finishes, and it was an even thing as to which team would have the most games to its credit by the time they had reached the Pacific coast.
The tension was relaxed somewhat when they reached Denver, where, for the first time, instead of fighting it out between themselves a team picked from both nines was to play the local club.
“Here’s where we get a rest,” sighed Mylert, the burly catcher of the Giant team.
“It will be no trick at all to wipe up the earth with these bushers,” laughed Larry Barrett.
“What we’ll do to them will be a sin and a shame,” agreed “Red” Curry, he of the flaming mop, who was accustomed to play the “sun field” at the Polo Grounds.
“It’s almost a crime to show them up before their home crowd,” chimed in Iredell, the Giant shortstop.
But if the local club was in for a beating, they showed no special trepidation as they came out on the field for practice. If the haughty major leaguers had expected their humble adversaries to roll over and play dead in advance of the game83itself, they were certainly doomed to disappointment.
The home team went through its preliminary work in a snappy, finished way that brought frequent applause from the crowds that thronged the stand.
Before the game, Brennan, of the Chicagos, sauntered over to Thorpe, the local manager, who chanced to be an old acquaintance.
“Got a dandy crowd here to-day, Bill,” he said. “We ought to give them a run for their money. Suppose I lend you one of our star pitchers, just to make things more interesting.”
“Thank you, Roger,” Thorpe replied, with a slow smile, “but I think we’re going to make it interesting for you fellows, anyway.”
“Quit your kidding,” grinned Brennan, with a facetious poke in the ribs, and strolled back to the bench.
The gong rang, the field cleared, and the visiting team came to the bat. Larry, who had finished the season in a blaze of glory as the leading batsman of the National League came up to the plate, swinging three bats. He threw away two of them, tapped his heels for luck and grinned complacently at the Denver pitcher.
“Trot out the best you’ve got, kid,” he called, “and if you can put it over the plate I’ll murder it.”
84CHAPTER XBY A HAIR
The pitcher, a dark-skinned, rangy fellow, wound up deliberately and shot the ball over. It split the plate clean. Larry swung at it—and missed it by two inches.
He looked mildly surprised, but set it down to the luck of the game and squared himself for a second attempt. This time he figured on a curve, but the boxman out-guessed him with a slow one that floated up to the plate as big as a balloon.
Larry almost broke his back in reaching for it, but again fanned the air. The visiting players, who had looked on rather languidly, straightened up on the bench.
“Some class to that pitcher,” ejaculated Willis.
“It isn’t often that a bush leaguer makes a monkey out of Larry,” replied Burkett.
“I’ve seen these minor league pitchers before,” grinned “Red” Curry. “They start off like a house afire, but about the fifth inning they begin to crumple up.”85
The third ball pitched was a wide outcurve at which Larry refused to bite. He fouled off the next two and then swung savagely at a wicked drop that got away from him.
“You’re out,” called the umpire as the ball thudded into the catcher’s mitt, and Larry came back a little sheepishly to his grinning comrades on the bench.
“What’s the matter, Larry?” queried Iredell, as he moved up to make room for him. “Off your feed to-day?”
“You’ll find out what the matter is when you face that bird,” snorted Larry. “He’s the real goods, and don’t you forget it.”
Denton, the second man in the batting order, took a ball and a strike, and then dribbled an easy roller to the box, which the swarthy pitcher had no trouble in getting to first on time.
Burkett, who followed, had better luck and sent a clean single between first and second. A shout went up from the Giant bench, which became a groan a moment later, when a snap throw by the pitcher nailed Burkett three feet off the bag.
The half inning had been smartly played and the Giants took the field with a slightly greater respect for their opponents.
Joe had pitched the day before, and it was up to Fraser to take his turn in the box. He walked86out to his position with easy confidence. He was one of the best pitchers in either league, and it was he who had faced Joe in that last battle royal of the World’s Series and had gone down defeated, but not disgraced.
But to-day from the start, it was evident that he was not himself. His speed was there and the curves, but control was lacking.
“Wild as a hawk,” muttered McRae, as the first Denver man trotted down to base on balls.
“Can’t seem to locate the plate at all,” grunted Robbie.
“He’ll pull himself together all right,” remarked Brennan, hopefully.
But the prophecy proved false, and the next two men up waited him out and were also rewarded with passes. The bases were full without a hit having been made, and the crowds in the stand were roaring like mad.
Brennan from the coaching lines at first waved to Fraser and the latter, drawing off his glove, walked disgustedly to the bench.
“What’s the matter with you to-day?” queried McRae. “You seemed to think the plate was up in the grandstand.”
“Couldn’t get the hang of it, somehow,” Fraser excused himself. “Just my off day, I guess.”
Hamilton succeeded him in the box, and from87the way he started out it seemed as though he were going to redeem the poor work of his predecessor. He struck out the first man on three pitched balls, made the second send up a towering foul that Mylert caught after a long run, and the major leaguers began to breathe more freely.
“Guess he’ll pull out of the hole all right,” remarked Robbie.
But for the next batter, Hamilton, grown perhaps a trifle too confident, put one over in the groove, and the batter banged out a tremendous three-bagger to right field. Curry made a gallant try for it but could not quite reach.
Three runs came over the plate, while the panting batsman slid to third. The crowd in the stands went wild then, and Thorpe, the manager of the local team, grinned in a mocking way at Brennan.
“Is this interesting enough?” he drawled, referring to Brennan’s patronizing offer to lend him a player.
“Just a bit of luck,” growled Brennan. “A few inches more and Curry would have got his hooks on the ball. Beside, the game’s young yet. We’ve got the class and that’s bound to tell.”
Hamilton, whose blood was up, put on more steam, and the third player went out on an infield fly. But the damage had been done, and those88three runs at the very start loomed up as a serious handicap.
“Three big juicy ones,” mourned McRae.
“And all of them on passes,” groaned Robbie. “Too bad we didn’t put Hamilton in right at the start.”
Neither team scored in the second inning, and the third also passed without result.
Hamilton was mowing down the opposing batters with ease and grace. But the swarthy flinger for the local club was not a bit behind him. The heavy sluggers of the visiting teams seemed as helpless before him as so many school-boys.
“That fellow won’t be in the minors long,” commented Brennan. “I wonder some of my scouts haven’t gone after him before this. Who is he, anyway?”
“I’ll tell you who he is,” broke in Robbie, suddenly. “I knew I’d seen him before somewhere, and I’ve been puzzling all this time to place him. Now I’ve tumbled. It’s Alvarez, the crack pitcher of Cuba.”
“Do you mean the fellow that stood the Athletics on their heads when they made that winter trip to Cuba a couple of years ago?” asked McRae.
“The same one,” affirmed Robbie. “I happened to be there at one of the games, and he89showed them up—hundred thousand dollar infield and all. Connie was fairly dancing as he saw his pets slaughtered. I tell you, that fellow’s a wonder—he’d have been in a major league long ago if it hadn’t been for his color. He may be only a Cuban, and he says he is, but he’s so dark-skinned that there’d be some prejudice against him and that’s barred him out.”
“That’s what made Thorpe so confident,” growled Brennan. “He’s worked in a ‘ringer’ on us. We ought to make a kick.”
“That would put us in a nice light, wouldn’t it?” replied McRae, stormily. “We’d like to see it in the papers, that the major leagues played the baby act because they couldn’t bat a bush pitcher. Not on your life! Thorpe would be tickled to death to have us make a squeal. We’ll simply have to lick him.”
But if the promised licking was yet to come, it was not in evidence in the next two innings. Alvarez seemed as fresh as at the beginning, and his arm worked with the force and precision of a piston rod.
“What’s the matter with you fellows, anyway?” raged McRae, when the end of the fifth inning saw the score remain unchanged. “You ought to be in the old ladies’ home. It’s a joke to call you ball players.”
“It must be this Denver air,” ventured Willis.90“It’s so high up here that a fellow finds it hard to breathe. These Denver boobs are used to it and we’re not.”
“Air! air!” snapped McRae. “I notice you’ve got plenty of hot air. Go in and play the game, you bunch of false alarms.”
Whether it was owing to his rasping tongue or their own growing resentment at the impudence of the minor leaguers, the All-Americans broke the ice in the sixth.
Burkett lined out a beauty between left and center that was good for two bases. Willis followed with a towering sky scraper to right, which, although it was caught after a long run, enabled Burkett to get to third before the ball was returned. Then Becker who had perished twice before on feeble taps to the infield, whaled out a home run to the intense jubilation of his mates.
“We’ve got his number!” yelled Larry, doing a jig on the coaching lines.
“He’s going up,” sang out “Red” Curry.
“I knew he couldn’t last,” taunted Iredell, as he threw his cap in the air.
But Alvarez was not through, by any means. Undaunted by that tremendous home run which might have taken the heart out of any pitcher, he braced himself, and the next two men went out on fouls.
“I thought we had them on the run that time,”91observed McRae, “but he’s got the old comeback right with him.”
“Never mind,” exulted Robbie. “We’re beginning to find him now, and we’ve cut down that big lead of theirs to one run. The boys will get after him the next inning.”
But even the lucky seventh passed without bringing any luck to the visitors, and although the major leaguers got two men on bases in the eighth, the inning ended with the score still three to two in favor of the local club.
“Looks as though we were up against it,” said Jim, anxiously, as the Giants went to bat for the last time.
“It sure does,” responded Joe. “I’ll hate to look at the papers to-morrow morning. The whole country will have the laugh on us.”
“The boys will want to keep away from McRae if they lose,” said Jim. “He’ll be as peeved as a bear with a sore head for the next three days or so.”
“Now, Larry, show them where you live,” sang out Curry, as the head of the Giant batting order strode to the plate.
“Kill it,” entreated Willis. “Hit it on the seam.”
“Send it a mile,” exhorted Becker.
It was not a mile that Larry sent it, but it looked so to the left and center fielders who92chased it as it went on a line between the two. A cleaner home run had probably never been knocked out on the Denver grounds.
Larry came galloping in to be mauled and pounded by his exulting mates, while McRae brought down his hand on Robbie’s knee with a force that made that worthy wince.
“That ties it up,” he cried. “Now, boys, for a whirlwind finish!”
93CHAPTER XIA CLOSE CALL
The crowds in the stand, which had been uproarious a few moments before, were quiet now. The lead which the local club had held throughout the game had vanished; the visitors had played an uphill game worthy of their reputation, and now they had at least an even chance.
Denton came to the bat, eager to emulate Larry’s feat, but Alvarez was unsteady now—that last home run had taken something out of him. He found it hard to locate the plate, and Denton trotted down to first on balls.
As no man was out and only one run was needed to gain the lead, a sacrifice was the proper play, and Burkett laid down a neat bunt in front of the plate that carried Denton to second, although the batter died at first.
Alvarez purposely passed Willis on the chance of the next batter hitting into a double play, which would have retired the side. Becker made a mighty effort to bring his comrades in, but hit under the ball, and it went high in the air and94was caught by Alvarez as it came down, without the pitcher moving from his tracks.
With two out, there was no need of a double play and the infielders, who had been playing close in, resumed their usual positions. Iredell, the next man up caught the ball square on the end of his bat and sent it whistling between center and third. The shortstop leaped up and knocked the ball down, but it was going too fast for him to hold.
Denton had left second at the crack of the bat, and by the time the infielder regained the ball had rounded third and was tearing like a racehorse toward the plate. There was little time to get set and the hurried throw home went over the catcher’s head. Denton slid feet first over the plate, scoring the run that put his team in the lead.
Willis tried to make it good measure by coming close behind him, but by this time the catcher had recovered the ball and shot it back to Alvarez who was guarding the plate. He nipped Willis by three feet and the side was out.
But that one run in the lead looked as big as a house at that stage in the game.
“All you’ve got to do now, Hamilton, old man, is to hold them down in their half,” said Brennan.
“Cinch,” grinned Hamilton. “I’ll have them eating out of my hand.”95
But the uncertainty that makes the national game the most fascinating one in the world was demonstrated when the Denver team came in to do-or-die in their half of the ninth.
Hamilton fed the first batter a snaky curve, which he lashed at savagely but vainly. The next was a slow one and resulted in a chop to the infield which Larry would have ordinarily gobbled up without trouble. But the ball took an ugly bound just as he was all set for it and went over his head toward right. Before Curry could get the ball the batter had reached second and the stands were once more in an uproar.
The uproar increased when Hamilton, somewhat shaken by the incident, gave the next batter a base on balls, and the broad smiles which had suffused the faces of Robbie and McRae began to fade.
“Is Hamilton going up, do you think?” asked the Giant manager, anxiously.
“Looks something like it,” replied Robbie, “but he’ll probably brace. You see Denton’s talking to him now, to give him a chance to rest up a little.”
The third baseman had strolled over to Hamilton on pretense of discussing some point of play, but the crowd saw through the subterfuge, and shouts of protest went up:
“Hire a hall!”96
“Write him a letter!”
“Play ball!”
Not a bit flustered by the shouts, Denton took his time, and after encouraging his team mate sauntered slowly back to his position.
But Hamilton’s good right arm had lost its cunning. His first ball was wild, and the batter, seeing this, waited him out and was given a pass. His comrades moved up and the bags were full, with none out and the heaviest sluggers of the team coming to the bat.
McRae and Brennan had been holding an earnest conference, and now on a signal from them Hamilton came in from the box.
“It’s no use,” said McRae to Brennan, while the crowd howled in derision. “We’ll have to play our trump and put Matson in to hold them down.”
“But he hasn’t warmed up,” said Brennan dubiously.
“That makes no difference,” replied McRae. “I’d rather put him in cold than anyone else warm.”
“All right; do as you please,” responded the other manager.
McRae called over to where Joe was sitting. The crack pitcher had been watching the progress of the game with keen interest, although making comparatively few comments. As McRae97approached Joe, the crowd howled louder than ever at Hamilton.
“Why don’t you learn how to pitch?”
“Say, let us send one of the high-school boys into the box for you!”
“Too bad, old man, but I guess we’ve got your goat all right!”
“I guess you know what I want, Joe,” cried McRae. “I want you to get in the box for us.”
“All right, Mac,” was the young pitcher’s answer.
“And, Joe,” went on the other earnestly, “try to think for the next five minutes that you’re pitching for the pennant.”
“I’ll do anything you say,” was Joe’s reply; and then he drew on his glove and walked out upon the ball field.
“Hello! what do you know about that?”
“Matson is going to pitch for them!”
“I guess they’ve enough of that other dub!”
“Oh, Hamilton isn’t a dub, by any means,” replied one of the spectators sharply. “He’s a good player, but a pitcher can’t always be at his best.”
“But just you wait and see how we do up Matson!” cried a local sympathizer.
At a signal the next man to bat stepped away from the plate, and Joe had the privilege of warming up by sending three hot ones to the catcher.98
“He’ll put ’em over all right enough!” cried one of his friends.
“That’s what he will!” returned another.
“Not much! He’ll be snowed under!”
“This is our winning day!”
So the cries continued until the umpire held up his hand for silence.
“He’s going to make an announcement!” cried a number of the spectators.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” roared the umpire, removing his cap, “Matson now pitching for the All-Americans.”
A howl went up from the stands, made up in about equal parts of derision and applause. Derision because the All-American team must, they figured, be scared to death when they had to send their greatest player into the game. Whether they won or lost it was a great compliment to the Denver team. The applause came from the genuine sportsmen who knew the famous pitcher by reputation and welcomed the chance to see him in action.
The three men on the bases were dancing about like dervishes in the hope of rattling the newcomer. They did not know Joe.
Never cooler than when the strain was greatest and the need most urgent, Joe bent down to pick up the ball. As he did so, he touched it, apparently accidentally, against his right heel.99
It was a signal meant for Denton, the third baseman, who was watching him like a hawk.
Joe took up his position in the box, took a grip on the ball, but instead of delivering it to the batter turned suddenly on his left heel, as though to snap it down to first. The Denver player at that bag, who had taken a lead of several feet, made a frantic slide back to safety.
But the ball never got to first, for Joe had swung himself all the way round and shot the ball like a bullet to Denton at third. The local player at third had been watching eagerly the outcome of the supposed throw to first and was caught completely unawares.
Down came Denton’s hand, clapping the ball on his back, while the victim stood dazed as though in a trance.
It was the prettiest kind of “inside work,” and even the home crowd went into convulsions of laughter as the trapped player came sheepishly in from third to the bench.
McRae was beaming, and Robbie’s rubicund face became several degrees redder under the strain of his emotion.
“Say, is that boy class, John?” Robbie gurgled, as soon as he could speak.
“Never saw a niftier thing on the ball field,” responded McRae warmly. “When that boy thinks, he runs rings around lightning.”100
“And he’s thinking all the time,” chimed in Jim.
But the peril was not yet over. The man at the most dangerous corner had been disposed of, yet there was still a man on first and another on second. A safe hit would tie the game at least, and possibly win it.
Joe wound up deliberately and shot a high fast one over the plate. It came so swiftly that the batter did not offer at it, and looked aggrieved when the umpire called it a strike.
The next was a crafty outcurve which went as a ball. The batsman fouled off the next.
With two strikes on and only one ball called, Joe was on “easy street” and could afford to “waste a few.” Twice in succession he tempted the batsman with balls that were wide of the plate, but the batter was wary and refused them.
Now the count was “two and three,” and the crowd broke into a roar.
“Good eye, old man!” they shouted to the batter.
“You’ve got him in a hole!”
“It only takes one to do it!”
“He’s got to put it over!”
With all the force of his sinewy arm, Joe “put it over.”
The batsman made a wicked drive at it and101sent it hurtling to the box about two feet over Joe’s head.
Joe saw it coming, leaped into the air and speared it with his gloved hand. The men on bases had started to run, thinking it a sure hit. Joe wheeled and sent the ball down to Burkett at first.
“Look at that!”
“Some speed, eh?”
“I should say so.”
“Matson has got them going!”
The man who had left the bag strove desperately to get back, but he was too late. That rattling double play had ended the game with the All-American team a victor by a score of four to three.
Joe’s fingers tingled as he pulled off the glove, for that terrific drive had stung. The crowd had been stunned for a moment by the suddenness with which the game and their hopes of victory had gone glimmering. But it had been a remarkable play and the first silence was followed by a round of sportsmanlike applause—though of course it was nothing to what would have greeted the victory of the home team.
“Fine work, Matson!”
“Best I ever saw!”
“You’re the boy to do it.”
“Best pitcher in the world!”102
Joe found himself the center of a joyous crowd when he reached his own bench. All were jubilant that they had escaped the humiliation of being whipped by a minor league team.
“You’ve brought home the bacon, Joe!” chortled McRae.
“We all did,” replied Joe. “But we almost dropped it on the way!” he added, with a grin.