CHAPTER IIIUNDER COVER
Joe and Jim ate their lunch that day in a little more thoughtful mood than usual, and that mood still persisted as they prepared to go to the grounds.
But the ten minutes of brisk walking in the bracing air soon dissipated the somber shadow that had tried to settle down upon them. They were young and vital, the blood coursed strongly through their veins, and they were soon feeling the sheer joy of living that was natural to them.
And this feeling grew stronger as they drew near the Polo Grounds. That famous park held a strong place in their affections. It was the visible symbol of their profession, the place where they had won their spurs, where they had gained glorious victories that thrilled them to the marrow as they recalled them, where they had fought memorable battles in which every particle of their strength and manhood had been called into play, where they had listened to the plaudits of cheering thousands who had lauded them to the skieswhen they had pulled some hotly contested game out of the fire.
Soon they were in the midst of the procession that even at that early hour was wending its way towards the gates. It was not long before they were recognized, and admiring comments began to pass from one to another of the crowd.
“That’s Baseball Joe, the king of them all.”
“Did you see the game he pitched against the Brooklyns yesterday? It was a corker, all right.”
“Trust him to show those bimbos from over the bridge where they get off.”
“And that fellow with him is Barclay. There’s nothing slow about him, either. Has been going great guns all the season.”
“If they only had two more like them the pennant would be cinched already. The Giants would win in a walk.”
Joe and Jim would not have been human if such comments had not pleased them. But they were used to hero worship, and, as the crowd began to close in upon them and hinder their progress, they were glad enough when they reached the players’ gate and could slip into the grounds.
Some of the players had preceded them to the clubhouse and were already getting into their uniforms, and the newcomers speedily followed their example.
“What’s the matter with your arm, Joe?” asked Larry Barrett, the second baseman, “Laughing Larry,” as he was called because of his jolly disposition. “It’s all cut and bruised. Been in a fight?”
“Nothing like that,” replied Joe, making haste to cover the injured member. “Had a tumble this morning and that arm got the brunt of it. Little bit sore yet, but it will be all right by to-morrow.”
“Well, for the love of Pete, don’t have any more such tumbles,” implored Larry. “It might catch your pitching arm next time. And if anything happened to that wing of yours the Giants would be in the soup.”
“They’d get out of it again,” countered Joe. “The Giants are too great a team to be dependent on one man. McRae would simply have to look around for another pitcher.”
“Sure!” said Larry sarcastically. “Just as simple as that! Look around for another pitcher! There are plenty of pitchers such as they are, but there’s only one Matson.”
“And that’s no lie,” broke in Curry, the star left fielder of the team. “Many’s the time, old boy, that you’ve carried the whole team on your back. And now that Hughson’s gone we’ll have to rely on you more than ever if we’re to have a look in for the flag.”
“Good old Hughson,” murmured Joe regretfully.“It won’t seem like the old team without him. I only hope he’ll prove as great a manager as he was a pitcher.”
There were murmurs of assent to this from all about him, for Hughson had been a favorite with every member of the team, as indeed he had been with players and fans all over the United States.
For many years before Joe had broken into baseball, Hughson had stood for all that was best and greatest in the game. For more than ten years he had been recognized as the finest pitcher on the diamond. Again and again he had led the Giants to the championship. He had everything that a pitcher should have—speed, curves, slants, drops, in bewildering variety and profusion. The very fact that he was slated to pitch against a team was almost enough for that team to count the day lost. It was not merely the skill and strength of his pitching arm that inspired terror in his opponents. Still more formidable was the head set on his sturdy shoulders. He could outguess the batsman in a way that seemed almost uncanny. He mixed brains with his work, saving his strength when he could, letting the eight men behind him do their share of the work. But when the pinch came, he tightened up, and usually it was all over but the shouting.
Add to this phenomenal skill that he was a gentleman, on and off the diamond, genial, kindly, always playing fair, an honor and an ornament to the national game, and it was not hard to understand his wonderful popularity.
Joe had especial reason for the warm feeling with which he regarded Hughson. The latter had greeted him cordially when he first came to the Giant team. He had realized the marvelous skill with which Joe was endowed and he knew that the time might come when he would take his own crown as the greatest pitcher of the game. Yet there was no trace of jealousy or apprehension in his treatment of the newcomer. He coached him, corrected his faults, brought out his strong points and taught him all that he knew himself, not omitting the secret of the “fadeaway” ball that had made him famous. He and Joe had become and always remained the warmest of friends.
An automobile crash in which Hughson had been caught had injured his pitching arm, and despite an extended course of treatment its magic had gone forever. Even after that misfortune, however, he had remained with the Giants for two seasons. But he was not the Hughson of old. He was able to get by in many games by favoring his arm and depending chiefly on headwork.
Now he had left the team with which he had been identified for so many years and accepted the position of manager of the Cincinnati Reds. The best wishes of all the Giant team had gone with him. Already under his management the Reds were improving and seemed to be facing the best season they had had in years.
Only the week before the Cincinnatis had played the Giants on the occasion of the first invasion of the Western clubs—played, too, with such vim and spirit that the best the Giants could do was to break even on the series.
“Yes, the loss of Hughson has put a dent in our chances for the pennant,” put in Wheeler, the big center fielder. “Even with that lame wing of his he won more games for us than any others, except you and Jim. And you two, good as you are, can’t pitch every other day. McRae ought to have his lines out for a couple more prospects in the pitching line. The rookies we got this year haven’t made good in the box. Young Bradley shows promise, but he needs a year or so yet before he’ll be ready to take his regular turn.”
“You bet the old man isn’t asleep,” said Burkett, the burly first baseman of the team. “He’s got his scouts out combing the minor leagues with a fine tooth comb. I hear he has a line on Merton of the San Francisco Seals. They say he shows all the signs of a top-notcher.But even if he gets him, he won’t be able to report till the end of the season, and by that time the pennant will be either lost or won.”
“How about that Lemblow out in the Middle Western League?” chimed in Mylert, the Giant catcher. “They say he’s got speed to burn and a cross-fire delivery that reminds one of Hays of the Yankees. He’s crazy to break into the big league, and if the old man comes across with the ‘mazuma’ I’ve no doubt he could get him.”
“He may be a good pitcher,” remarked Iredell, the shortstop of the team. “But I’ve heard that he has a rather shady past. Not that they’ve ever been able to hang anything on him. Perhaps he’s too cunning for that. But there have been all sorts of rumors about him not being on the level, and where there’s so much smoke there may be some fire.”
“I heard that he’s been resting up for a couple of weeks lately,” volunteered Willis, the Giants’ third baseman. “Hurt one of his fingers or something like that. I saw him pitch once in a barn-storming tour at the end of last season. He sure can put some smoke on the ball. Queer looking duck he is, too. Looks like a rube with his straw-colored hair and big ears sticking out from his head.”
“What’s that you said?” put in Jim quickly.
“I said that he put smoke on the ball,” repliedWillis, in some surprise. “He just burned it over the plate.”
“Yes, yes,” returned Jim impatiently. “But I was talking about his looks!”
“I was just telling you he wouldn’t take any beauty prize,” replied Willis. “Big lob ears standing almost at right angles to his head and a headful of hair that looks like a stack of hay. Tall and thin, too, a regular beanpole. But what makes you so interested in the fellow’s looks? He doesn’t have to be an Apollo Cuticura—or is it Belvedere?—does he, to take his turn in the box?”
“Not a bit of it,” agreed Jim, with a laugh. “That would rule a good many of us fellows off the diamond. But come along, Joe,” he added to his friend. “If we stay in here chinning very much longer, McRae will be after us with a big stick.”
They went out of the clubhouse and made their way across the field. The bleachers were already full and there were only a few vacant spots in the grandstand. As Joe and Jim were recognized a vigorous handclapping rose from the spectators that told of the place they had in the affections of the fans.
“Did you catch what Willis was saying about Lemblow?” Jim asked of Joe, as they got out of earshot of the others.
“I got it all right,” replied Joe. “And I tumbled to your question about his looks. You thought that the description fitted the fellow that pushed that pile of lumber down on us.”
“Fits him to a dot,” affirmed Jim emphatically. “The same hair and the same ears. And this fellow, too, was tall and thin. And what did I tell you about the way he ran? Only a trained athlete could have legged it that way.”
“It certainly looks as though you’d hit it right,” admitted Joe thoughtfully. “Under ordinary circumstances it wouldn’t be possible, for he’d be playing with his team out West. But there’s the fact that he’s been laying off for a couple of weeks on account of his injured finger. That would make it possible for him to come on East. And if he’s so crazy to break into the big league, what would give him a better chance than to have one of us, or possibly both of us, disabled? It may all be a coincidence, but if it is, it’s one of the queerest things that ever happened.”
“Then, too, there’s his reputation,” rejoined Jim. “What Iredell said about his not being on the level only fits in with what I’ve heard from others. He got into trouble near the end of last season about one or two games that looked crooked, and it took a good deal of hushing up to smooth the thing over. Now, putting all thesethings together, doesn’t it look just as clear as that two and two make four?”
“Not quite so certain as that, perhaps,” replied Joe. “But it certainly looks as though we were getting a line on what happened to us this morning. Now if we can only find that there’s some connection between Lemblow and Hupft and McCarney, a good many puzzling things will be explained. But there’s McRae beckoning to us to get up to the plate and knock flies out to the fields in practice. Just keep your eye peeled, old boy, and I’ll do the same. There never yet was a skein so tangled that it couldn’t be unraveled if you only get your hand on the end of the thread. And I think we’ve got the end in our hands right now.”