Thatopening game, between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Cincinnati Reds, was not remarkable for good playing. Few opening games are, for the teams have not that fierce rivalry that develops later in the pennant season, and, though both try hard to win, they are not keyed up to the pitch that makes for a brilliant exhibition.
So that opening game was neither better nor worse than hundreds of others. But, as we have to deal mostly with Baseball Joe in this book, I will centre my attention on him.
His feelings, as he watched his fellow players in the field, the pitcher on the mound, and the catcher, girded like some ancient knight, may well be imagined. I fancy my readers, even if they are not baseball players, have been in much the same situation.
Joe sat on the bench, "eating his heart out," and longing for the chance that he had small hopes would come to him. How he wished to get up there, and show what he could do, only he realized.
But it was not to be.
Manager Watson's Cardinals went into the game with a rush, and had three runs safely stowed away in the ice box the first inning, after having gracefully allowed the Reds to score a goose egg.
Then came an uninteresting period, with both pitchers working their heads off, and nothing but ciphers going up on the score board.
"By Jove, old man, do you think we'll win?" asked Cosey Campbell, as he came to the bench after ingloriously striking out, and looked at Joe.
"I don't see why we shouldn't," responded Joe. "We've got 'em going."
"Yes, I know, but you never can tell when we may strike a slump."
"You seem terribly worried," laughed Joe. "Have you wagered a new necktie on the result?"
"No," he answered, "but I am anxious. You see, Matson, there's a girl—I could point her out to you in one of the boxes; but maybe she wouldn't like it," he said, craning his neck and going out from under the shelter of the players' bench and looking at the crowd in the grandstand.
"Oh, that's all right, I'll take your word for it," said Joe, for he appreciated the other's feelings.
"A girl, you understand, Matson. She's hereto see the game," went on Campbell. "I sent her tickets, and I told her we were sure to win. She's here, and I'm going to take her out to supper to-night. I've got the stunningest tie——"
He fumbled in his pocket.
"Thought I had a sample of it here with me," he said. "But I haven't. It's sort of purple—plum color—with a shooting of gold, and it shimmers down into a tango shade. It's a peach! I was going to wear it to-night, but, if we don't win——"
His face showed his misery.
"Oh, cut it out!" advised Rad, coming up behind him. "We can't lose. Don't get mushy over an old tie."
"It isn't an old tie!" stormed Campbell. "It's a new one I had made to order. Cost me five bones, too. It's a peach!"
"Well, you'll wear it, all right," said Joe with a laugh. "I don't see how we can lose."
The Cardinals were near it, though, in the seventh inning, when, with only one out, and three on bases, Slim Cooney was called on to face one of the hardest propositions in baseball.
But he made good, and not a man crossed home plate.
And so the game went on, now and then a bit of sensational fielding, or a pitcher tightening up in a critical place, setting the crowd to howling.
It was nearing the close of the contest. It looked like the Cardinals, for they were three runs to the good, and it was the ending of the eighth inning. Only phenomenal playing, at this stage, could bring the Reds in a winner.
Some of the crowd, anticipating the event, were already leaving, probably to catch trains, or to motor to some resort.
"Well, it's a good start-off," said Rad to Joe, as he started out to the field, for the beginning of the ninth.
"Yes, but it isn't cinched yet."
"It will be soon."
The Reds were at bat, and Joe, vainly wishing that he had had a chance to show what he could do, pulled his sweater more closely about him, for the day was growing cool.
Then Batonby, one of the reserve players, strolled up to him.
"You didn't get in, either," he observed, sitting down.
"No. Nor you."
"But I've been half-promised a chance in the next game. Say, it's fierce to sit it out; isn't it?"
"It sure is."
"Hear of any new players coming to us?" Batonby wanted to know.
"Haven't heard," said Joe.
The game was over. The Cardinals did notgo to bat to end the last inning, having the game by a margin of three runs.
The players walked across the field to the clubhouse, the spectators mingling with them.
"Did you hear anything about a fellow named Shalleg, who used to play in the Central League, coming to us?" asked Batonby, as he caught up to Joe and Rad, who had walked on ahead.
"No," answered Joe quickly. "That is, I have heard of him, but I'm pretty sure he isn't coming with us."
"What makes you think so?"
"Why, I heard Mr. Watson tell him——"
"Say, if I hear you retailing any more stuff about me I'll take means to make you stop!" cried an angry voice behind Joe, and, wheeling around, he beheld the inflamed face of Shalleg, the man in question.
"I've heard enough of your talk about me!" the released player went on. "Now it's got to quit. I won't have it! Cut it out! I'll settle with you, Matson, if I hear any more out of you," and he shook his fist angrily at Joe.
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Batonbylooked wonderingly, first at Joe, and then at Shalleg. The latter's crony did not seem to be with him.
"What's the row, old top?" asked Batonby easily. "Who are you, anyhow, and what's riled you?"
"Never you mind what's riled me! You'll find out soon enough," was the sharp answer. "I heard you two chaps talking about me, and I want it stopped!"
"Guess you're a little off, sport. I wasn't talking about you, for I haven't the doubtful honor of your acquaintance."
"None of your impudence!" burst out Shalleg. Joe had not yet spoken.
"And I don't want any of yours," fired back Batonby, slapping his glove from one hand to the other. "I say I wasn't talking about you!"
"I say you were. My name is Shalleg!"
Batonby let out a whistle of surprise.
"Is that the one?" he asked of Joe.
The latter nodded.
"Well, all I've got to say," went on Batonby, "is that I hope you don't get on our team. And, for your information," he went on, as he saw that Shalleg was fairly bursting with passion, "I'll add that all I said about you was that I heard you were trying to get on the Cardinals. As for Matson, he said even less about you."
"That's all right, but you fellows want to look out," mumbled Shalleg, who seemed nonplused on finding that he had no good grounds for a quarrel.
"And I want to add," broke in Joe, who felt that he had a right to say something in his own behalf, "I want to add that I'm about through with hearing threats from you, Mr. Shalleg," and he accented the prefix. "I haven't said anything against you, and I don't expect to, unless you give me cause. You've been following me about, making unjustified remarks, and it's got to stop!"
"Hurray!" cried Batonby. "That's the kind of mustard to give him. Heave at it again, Joe!"
The young pitcher stood facing his enemy fearlessly, but he had said enough. Shalleg growled out:
"Well, somebody's been talking about me to the manager, giving me a bad name, and it's got to stop. If I find out who did it, he'll wish he hadn't," and he glared vindictively at Joe.
"I guess his own actions have given him the bad name," remarked Batonby, as the dismissed player turned aside and walked off to join the throng that had surged away from the little group.
"That's about it," agreed Joe, as Rad came up and joined them. "Good work, old man!" said our hero, for Rad had done well.
"I came mighty near making an error, though, toward the last," Rad responded. "Guess I'm not used to such strenuous life as playing nine innings in a big game. My heart was in my throat when I saw that fly ball coming toward me."
"But you froze on to it," said Batonby.
"Hello, what's up?" asked Rad quickly, for Joe's face still showed the emotion he felt at the encounter with Shalleg. "Had a row?" asked Rad.
"Rather," admitted the young pitcher. "Shalleg was on deck again."
"Say, that fellow, and his side partner, Wessel, ought to be put away during the ball season!" burst out Rad. "They're regular pests!"
Joe heartily agreed with him, as he related the circumstances of the last affair. Then the friends passed on to the clubhouse, where the game was played over again, as usual, a "post-mortem" being held on it. Only, in this case the Cardinals,being winners, had no excuses to make for poor playing. They were jubilant over the auspicious manner in which the season had opened.
"Boys. I'm proud of you!" exclaimed Manager Watson as he strolled through. "Do this often enough, and we'll have that pennant sure."
"Yes, a fat chance we have!" muttered Willard, sulkily.
"That's no way for a member of the team to talk!" snapped "Muggins."
Willard did not reply. It was clear that he was disgruntled because he had not had a chance to pitch.
Then the splashing of the shower baths drowned other talk, and presently the players, fresh and shining from their ablutions, strolled out of the clubhouse.
"Got anything on to-night?" asked Rad of Joe, as they reached the hotel.
"Nothing special—why?"
"Let's go down to the Delaware Garden, and hear the Hungarian orchestra. There's good eating there, too."
"I'm with you. Got to write a letter, though."
"Tell her how the game went, I s'pose?" laughed Rad.
"Something like that," agreed Joe, smiling.
He bought an evening paper, which made a specialty of sporting news. It contained an accountof the opening game, with a skeletonized outline of the plays, inning by inning. The Cardinals were properly congratulated for winning. Joe wished he could have read his name in the story, but he felt he could bide his time.
Joe and Rad enjoyed their little excursion to the Delaware Garden that evening, returning to the hotel in good season to get plenty of sleep, for they were to play the Reds again the next day. There were four games scheduled, and then the Cardinals would go out on the circuit, remaining away about three weeks before coming back for a series on Robison Field.
The tables were turned in the next game. The Cincinnati team, stinging from their previous defeat, played strong ball. They sent in a new pitcher, and with a lead of three runs early in the contest it began to look bad for the Cardinals.
"I'll get no chance to-day," reasoned Joe, as he saw a puzzled frown on Mr. Watson's face. Joe knew that only a veteran would be relied on to do battle now, and he was right.
Mr. Watson used all his ingenuity to save the game. He put in pinch hitters, and urged his three pitchers to do their best.
Willard was allowed to open the game, but was taken out after the first inning, so fiercely was he pounded. Cooney and Barter had been warming up, and the latter went in next.
"You go warm up, too, Matson," directed Boswell, "though it's doubtful if we'll have to use you."
Joe hoped they would, but it was only a faint hope.
Barter did a little better, but the Reds had a batting streak on that day, and found his most puzzling curves and drops. Then, too, working the "hit and run" feature to the limit and stealing bases, which in several cases was made possible by errors on the part of the Cardinals, soon gave the Reds a comfortable lead of five runs.
"I'm afraid they've got us," grumbled the manager, as he substituted a batter to enable Cooney to go in the game. "You've got to pull us out, Slim," he added.
Slim grinned easily, not a whit disconcerted, for he was a veteran. But though he stopped the winning streak of the Reds, he could not make runs, and runs are what win ball games.
With his best nine in the field the manager tried hard to overcome the advantage of his opponents. It looked a little hopeful in the eighth inning, when there were two men on bases, second and third, and only one out, with "Slugger" Nottingham at the plate.
"Now, then, a home run, old man!" pleaded the crowd.
"Soak it on the nose!"
"Over the fence!"
"A home run means three tallies, old man. Do it now!"
Nottingham stood easily at the plate, swinging his bat. There was an interchange of signals between catcher and pitcher—a slight difference of opinion, it seemed. Then the ball was thrown.
There was a resounding crack, and the crowd started to yell.
"Go it, old man, go it!"
"That's the pie!"
"Oh, that's a beaut!"
But it was not. It was a nice little fly, to be sure, but the centre fielder, running in, had it safely before the batter reached first. Then, with Nottingham out, the ball was hurled home to nip the runner at the plate.
Dugan, who had started in from third, ran desperately, and slid in a cloud of dust.
"You're out!" howled the umpire, waving him to the bench.
"He never touched me!" retorted Dugan. "I was safe by a mile!"
"Robber!" shrieked the throng in the bleachers.
"Get a pair of glasses!"
"He was never out!"
The umpire listened indifferently to the tirade.Dugan dusted off his uniform, and, losing his temper, shook his fist at the umpire, sneering:
"You big fat——" and the rest of it does not matter.
"That'll cost you just twenty-five dollars, and you can go to the clubhouse," said the umpire, coolly.
Dugan's face fell, and Manager Watson flushed. He bit his lips to keep from making a retort. But, after all, the umpire was clearly within his rights.
In silence Dugan left the field, and the Reds, who were jubilant over the double play, came in from the diamond.
"The fat's in the fire now, for sure," sighed Rad, "with Dugan out of the game. Hang it all, anyhow!"
"Oh, we can't win every time," and Joe tried to speak cheerfully.
And so the Reds won the second of the first series of games. There was a rather stormy scene in the clubhouse after it was over, and Mr. Watson did some plain talking to Dugan. But, after all, it was too common an occurrence to merit much attention, and, really, nothing very serious had occurred.
The contest between the Reds and Cardinals was an even break, each team taking two. Then came preparations for the Cardinals taking theroad. A series of four games with the Chicago Cubs was next in order, and there, in the Windy City, St. Louis fared rather better, taking three.
"I wonder if I'm ever going to get a chance," mused Joe, who had been sent to the "bull-pen" many times to warm up, but as yet he had not been called on.
After games with the Pittsburg Pirates, in which an even break was registered, the Cardinals returned to St. Louis. As they had an open date, a game was arranged with one of the Central League teams, the Washburgs.
"Say, I would like to pitch against them!" exclaimed Joe.
And he had his chance. When the practice was over Manager Watson, with a smile at our hero, said, with a friendly nod:
"Joe, you go in and see what you can do."
Joe was to have his first big chance.
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Joewas a little nervous at first, but it was like being among old friends to work against the Washburg team.
"How's your head, Joe?" asked some of the players whom he knew well, from having associated with them in the Central League.
"Had to get larger sized caps?" asked another.
"Don't you believe it!" exclaimed the Washburg catcher. "Joe Matson isn't that kind of a chap!" and Joe was grateful to him.
The game was not so easy as some of the Cardinal players had professed to believe it would be. Not all of the first string men went in, but they were in reserve, to be used if needed. For baseball is often an uncertainty.
Joe looked around at the grandstands and bleachers as he went out for warm-up practice.
There was a fair-sized crowd in attendance, but nothing like the throng that would have been present at a league game.
"But I'll pitch before a big crowd before I'm through the season!" declared Joe to himself, though it was not clear how this was to be brought about.
Washburg had a good team, and knew how to make everything tell. They led off with a run, which, however, was due to an error on the part of two of the Cardinals. Joe was a little put out by it, for he had allowed only scattering hits that inning.
"Better try to tighten up—if you can," advised Boswell, as our hero came to the bench. "They're finding you a bit."
"They won't—any more!" exclaimed Joe, fiercely.
The Washburg pitcher was a good one, as Joe knew, so it was not surprising that he was not so very badly batted. In fact, it was hard work for the Cardinals to garner three runs during their half of the first inning. But they got them.
Joe had the advantage of knowing considerable about the various batters who faced him, so it was easier than it would have been for another pitcher to deceive them. He varied his delivery, used his fadeaway and his cross-fire, and had the satisfaction of pitching three innings during which he did not allow a hit.
"That's the way to do it!" exclaimed his friend Boswell, the coach. "Hold 'em to that,and you'll have a look-in at a big game, soon."
And Joe did. In vain did the Washburgs send in their best pinch hitters; in vain did they try to steal bases. Twice Joe nipped the man at first, who was taking too big a lead, and once the young pitcher stopped a hot liner that came driving right at him.
Then the story was told, and the Cardinals romped home easy winners. Joe had done well, even though the Washburgs were not exactly big leaguers.
In the weeks that followed, Joe worked hard. There was constant morning practice, when the weather allowed it, and the work on the circuit was exacting. Occasionally Joe went in as relief pitcher, when the game was safe in the "ice box," but the chance he wanted was to pitch against the New Yorks at St. Louis.
For the Giants were at the top of the league now, and holding on to their pennant place with grim tenacity. In turn Joe and his fellow players went to Philadelphia, New York and Boston, eventually playing all around the circuit, but, as yet, the young pitcher had had no real chance to show what he could do.
It was irksome—it was even heart-breaking at times; but Joe had to stand it. Sometimes he felt that he could do better than Barter, Willard and Cooney, the seasoned veterans, and especially wasthis so when the game went against the Cardinals.
For the St. Louis team was falling sadly behind. They were next to the tail-enders for some time, and the outlook was dubious. The papers alternately roasted and poked fun at the Cardinals, and Manager Watson was urged to "do something."
Various remedies were suggested. New players might be had, and in fact some exchanges were made. Another catcher was imported, from the Detroits, and a new shortstop engaged in a trade. But the pitching staff remained unchanged.
Then some reporter, looking for "copy," saw a chance in Joe, and in a snappy little article reviewed Joe's career, ending with:
"If Mr. Watson wants to see his Cardinals crawl up out of the subway why doesn't he give Matson a chance? The youngster can pitch good ball, and the line of twirling that has been handed out by the Cardinals thus far this season would be laughable, were it not lamentable."
Of course that article made trouble for Joe, especially with the pitching staff.
"Say, how much did you slip that reporter to pull off that dope about you?" inquired Willard with a sneer.
"What do you mean?" asked Joe indignantly.
"I mean how much coin did you pay him?"
"You know I didn't have anything to do withit!" our hero fired back. "He asked me for my record, and I gave it to him. I didn't know he was going to write that."
"A likely story," grumbled Willard.
The other pitchers did not say so much, but it was clear they did not like the "roasting" they got. But it was not Joe's doing.
There were shifts and re-shifts, there were hard feelings manifested, and gotten over. But nothing could disguise the fact that the Cardinals were in a "slump."
Loyal as the St. Louis "fans" were to their teams, when they were on the winning side, it was not in human nature to love a losing nine.
So that it got to be the fashion to refer to the Cardinals as "losing again." And this did not make for good ball playing, either. There were sore hearts among the players when they assembled in the clubhouse after successive defeats.
Not that the Cardinals lost all the time. No team could do that, and stay in the big league. But they never got to the top of the second division, and even that was not much of an honor to strive for. Still, it was better than nothing.
Joe pitched occasionally, and, when he did there was a little improvement, at times. But of course he was not a veteran, and once or twice he was wild.
Then the paper which bore the least friendlinessto the Cardinals took a different tack. It laughed at the manager for sending in a young pitcher when a veteran was needed.
"Say, I'd like to know just what those fellows want me to do!" Mr. Watson exclaimed one day, after a particularly severe roast. "I can't seem to please 'em, no matter what I do."
"Don't let 'em get your goat," advised his coach. "Go on. Keep going. We'll strike a winning streak yet, and mark my words, it will be Joe Matson who'll pull us out of a hole."
"He hasn't done so well yet," objected Mr. Watson, dubiously.
"No, and it's because he hasn't exactly found himself. He is a bit nervous yet. Give him time."
"And stay in the cellar?"
"Well, but what are you going to do?" reasoned the other. "Cooney and Barter aren't pitching such wonderful ball."
"No, that's true, but they can generally pull up in a tight place. I'd send Matson in oftener than I do, only I'm afraid he'll blow up when the crises comes. He is a good pitcher, I admit that, but he isn't seasoned yet. The Central League and the National are a wide distance apart."
"That's true. But I'd like to see him have his chance."
"Well, I'll give it to him. We play Boston next week. They happen to be in the second division just at present, although they seem to be going up fast. I'll let Joe go up against them."
"That won't be as good as letting him go against New York," said Boswell.
"Well, it'll have to do," decided the manager, who could be very set in his ways at times.
The Braves proved rather "easy," for the Cardinals and, as Boswell had indicated, there was little glory for Joe in pitching against them. He won his game, and this, coupled with the fact that the reporter friendly to Joe made much of it, further incensed the other pitchers.
"Don't mind 'em," said Rad, and Joe tried not to.
The season was advancing. Try as the Cardinals did, they could not get to the top of the second division.
"And if we don't finish there I'll feel like getting out of the game," said the manager gloomily, after a defeat.
"Pitch Matson against the Giants," advised the coach.
"By Jove! I'll do it!" cried the manager, in desperation. "We open with New York at St. Louis next week for four games. I'll let Matson see what he can do, though I reckon I'll be roasted and laughed at for taking such a chance."
"Well, maybe not," the coach replied, chuckling.
In the meanwhile Joe had been working hard. Under the advice of Boswell he adopted new training tactics, and he had his arm massaged by a professional between games. He was surprised at the result of the new treatment, and he found he was much fresher after a hard pitching battle than he had been before.
"He thinks he's going to be a Boy Wonder," sneered Willard.
"Oh, cut it out!" snapped Boswell. "If some of you old stagers would take better care of yourselves there'd be better ball played."
"Huh!" sneered Willard.
The Cardinals came back to St. Louis to play a series with New York.
"Wow!" exclaimed Rad as he and Joe, discussing the Giants' record, were sitting together in the Pullman on their way to their home city, "here's where it looks as if we might get eaten up!"
"Don't cross a bridge before you hear it barking at you," advised Joe. "Maybe they won't be so worse. We're on our own grounds, that's sure."
"Not much in that," decided his chum, dubiously.
When Joe reached the hotel he found severalletters awaiting him. One, in a girl's handwriting, he opened first.
"Does she still love you?" laughed Rad, noticing his friend's rapt attention.
"Dry up! She's coming on to St. Louis."
"She is? Good! Will she see you play?"
"Well, I don't know. It doesn't look as though I was going to get a game—especially against New York."
"Cheer up! There might be something worse."
"Yes, I might have another run-in with Shalleg."
"That's so. Seen anything of him lately?"
"No, but I hear he's been writing letters to Mr. Watson, intimating that if the boss wants to see the team come up out of the subway, Shalleg is the man to help."
"Some nerve; eh?"
"I should say so!"
It was a glorious sunny day, perhaps too hot, but that makes for good baseball, for it limbers up the players. The grandstand and bleachers were rapidly filling, and out on the well-kept diamond of Robison Field the rival teams—the Cardinals and the Giants—were practicing.
Mabel Varley and her brother had come to St. Louis, stopping off on business, and Joe had called on them.
"I'm coming out to see you play," Mabel announced after the greetings at the hotel.
"I'm afraid you won't," said Joe, somewhat gloomily.
"Why not?" she asked in surprise. "Aren't you on the pitching staff?"
"Yes, but perhaps you haven't been keeping track of where the Cardinals stand in the pennant race."
"Oh, yes, I have!" she laughed, and blushed. "I read the papers every day."
"That's nice. Then you know we're pretty well down?"
"Yes, but the season isn't half over yet. I think you'll do better."
"I sure do hope so," murmured Joe. "But, for all that, I am afraid you won't see me pitch to-day. Mr. Watson won't dare risk me, though I think I could do some good work. I'm feeling fine."
"Oh, I do hope you get a chance!" Mabel exclaimed enthusiastically. "Anyhow, I'm going to have one of the front boxes, and there are to be some girl friends with me. You know them, I think—Hattie Walsh and Jean Douglass."
"Oh, yes, I remember them," Joe said. "Well, I hope you see us win, but I doubt it."
And now, as the game was about to start, Joe looked up and saw, in one of the front boxes,Mabel and her friends. He went over to speak to them, as he walked in from practice.
"For good luck!" said Mabel softly, as she gave him one of the flowers she was wearing.
"Thanks," and Joe blushed.
As yet the battery of the Cardinals had not been announced. Clearly Manager Watson was in a quandary. He and Boswell consulted together, while the players waited nervously. Some of the newspaper reporters, anxious to flash some word to their papers, asked who was to pitch.
"I'll let you know in a few minutes," was the manager's answer.
And then, as the time for calling the game approached, Mr. Watson handed his batting order to the umpire.
The latter stared at it a moment before making the announcement. He seemed a trifle surprised.
"Batteries!" he called through his megaphone. "For New York, Hankinson and Burke—for St. Louis—Matson and Russell."
Joe was to pitch, and in the biggest game he had ever attempted!
There was a rushing and roaring in his ears, and for a moment he could not see clearly.
"Go to it, Matson," said the manager. "I'm going to try you out."
Joe's lips trembled. He was glad his teammates could not know how he felt. Nervously hewalked out to the mound, and caught the new ball which the umpire divested of its foil cover and tossed to him. Russell girded himself in protector and mask, and the batter stepped back to allow the usual practice balls.
Someone in a box applauded. Joe could not see, but he knew it was Mabel.
"Oh, Joe's going to pitch!" she exclaimed to her girl friends. "I hope he strikes them all out!"
"Not much chance," her brother said, rather grimly.
Joe sent the first ball whizzing in. It went so wild that the catcher had to jump for it. There was a murmur from the stands, and some of the Giants grinned at one another.
Russell signalled to Joe that he wanted to speak to him. Pitcher and catcher advanced toward one another.
"What's the matter?" Russell wanted to know, while some in the crowd laughed at the conference. "Got stage fright?"
"Ye—yes," stammered Joe. Poor Joe, he had a bad case of nerves.
"Say, look here!" exclaimed Russell with a intentional fierceness. "If you don't get over it, and pitch good ball, I'll give you the best beating up you ever had when we get to the clubhouse! I'm not going to stand being laughed at becauseyou're such a rotten pitcher! Do you get me!" and he leered savagely at Joe.
The effect on the young pitcher was like an electric shock. He had never been spoken to like that before. But it was just the tonic he needed.
"I get you," he said briefly.
"It's a good thing you do!" said Russell brutally, and, as he walked back to his place his face softened. "I hated to speak that way to the lad," he murmured to himself, "but it was the only way to get him over his fright."
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Thenext practice ball Joe sent in went cleanly over the plate, and landed with a thud in the catcher's glove. Russell nodded at Joe, to indicate that was what he wanted.
"Play ball!" directed the umpire, and the batter moved up closer to the plate.
Stooping low, and concealing his signal with his big glove, Russell called for a straight, swift ball. Joe gave it, and as it was in the proper place, though the striker did not attempt to hit it, the umpire called:
"Strike—one!"
Indignantly the batter looked around, but it was only done for effect. He knew it was a strike.
"That's the way. Now we've got 'em!" cried Boswell from the coaching line.
"Ball one," was the next decision of the umpire, and Joe felt a little resentment, for he had made sure it went over the plate. But there was little use to object.
A curve was next called for, and Joe succeededin enticing the batter to strike at it. But the stick missed the horsehide cleanly. It was two strikes.
"Pretty work! Oh, pretty work!" howled Boswell.
A foul next resulted, and Russell missed it by inches. The batter had still another chance. But it availed him little, for Joe fooled him on the next one.
"Good!" nodded the catcher to the young pitcher, and Joe felt his vision clearing now. He looked over toward where Mabel was sitting. She smiled encouragingly at him.
The New Yorks got one hit off Joe that inning, but, though the man on first stole second, after Joe had tried to nip him several times, the other two men struck out, and a goose egg went up in the first frame.
"Well, if you can do that eight more times the game is ours, if we can only get one run," said Manager Watson, as Joe came up to the bench, smiling happily.
"I'll try," was all he said.
But the Cardinals did not get their run that inning, nor the next nor the next nor next. The game ran along for five innings with neither side crossing home plate, and talk of a "pitchers' battle" began to be heard. Joe was pitching remarkably well, allowing only scattering hits. The Giants could not seem to bunch them.
Then, as might have been expected, Joe had abit of bad luck. There had been hard work for him that day—hard and nervous work, and it told on him. He was hit for a two-bagger, and the next man walked, though Joe thought some of the decisions unfair.
Then the runner attempted to steal third. There was a wild throw, and the man came in, scoring the first run. Joe felt a wave of chagrin sweep over him. He felt that the game was going.
"Tighten up! Tighten up!" he heard Boswell call to him. By a determined effort he got himself well in hand, and then amid the cheers of the crowd he succeeded in striking out the other men up, so that only the one run was in.
But the pace was telling on Joe. He gave two men their base on balls the next time he pitched, and by a combination of circumstances, two more runs were made before the Giants were retired.
"This won't do," murmured Mr. Watson. "I'm afraid I'll have to take Joe out."
"Don't," advised Boswell. "He'll be all right, but if you take him out now you'll break him all up. I think he could have a little better support."
"Possibly. The fielding is a bit shaky. I'll send in Lawson to bat for Campbell."
This change resulted in a marked improvement With a mighty clout Lawson knocked a home run, and, as there was a man on third, thattwo. From then on the Cardinals seemed to find themselves. They began coming back in earnest, and everyone "got the habit." Even Joe, proverbially poor hitters as pitchers are supposed to be, did his share, and, by placing a neat little drive, that eluded the shortstop, he brought in another needed run.
"One ahead now! That's fine!" cried Rad to his chum, though Joe "died" on second. "If we can only hold 'em down——" and he looked questioningly at the young pitcher.
"I'll do it!" cried Joe, desperately.
It did not look as though he would, though, when the first man up, after receiving three and two, was allowed to walk. Joe felt a bit shaky, but he steeled himself to hold his nerve. The man at first was a notorious base-stealer, and Joe watched him closely. Twice he threw to the initial sack, hoping to nip him, and he almost succeeded. Then he slammed in a swift one to the batter, only to know that the runner started for second.
But it did him little good to do it, for though he made third, Joe struck out his three men amid a wave of applause.
"One more like that, and we've got the game!" cried Mr. Watson. "It's up to you, Joe. But if you can't stand it I'll send in Slim."
"I'll stand it," was the grim answer, though Joe's arm ached.
And stand it Joe did. He was hit once in that last inning, and one man got his base on balls. And then and there Joe gave a remarkably nervy exhibition. He nipped the man on first, and then in quick succession succeeded in fooling the two batters next up.
"That's the eye!"
"The Cardinals win!"
"What's the matter with Joe Matson?"
"He's all right!"
The crowd went wild, as it had a right to do, and Joe's face was as red with pleasure as the nickname of his team. For he had had a large share in defeating the redoubtable Giants, though to the credit of that team be it said that several of its best players were laid up, and, at a critical part in the game their best hitter was ruled out for abusing the umpire.
But that took away nothing from Baseball Joe's glory.
"Oh, I'm so glad you won!" cried Mabel, as he passed her box. "Isn't it glorious?"
"It sure is," he admitted with a smile.
"Can't you take dinner with us at the hotel?" she went on, and Joe blushingly agreed. The other girls smiled at him, and Reggie nodded in a friendly manner.
"Great work, old man!" called Mabel's brother. "It was a neat game."
Then Joe hurried off to have a shower, anddress, and in the clubhouse he was hailed genially by his fellow players.
"Good work, Joe!"
"I didn't think you had it in you."
"This sure will make the Giants feel sore."
As for Manager Watson, he looked at Joe in a manner that meant much to the young pitcher.
"I told you so!" said the old coach to the manager, later that day.
"Yes, you did," admitted the latter. "Of course I knew Joe had good stuff in him, but I didn't think it would come out so soon. He may help pull us up out of the cellar yet."
Joe enjoyed the little dinner with Mabel and her friends that night, as he had seldom before taken pleasure in a gathering. Rad was one of the guests, and later they went to the theatre, as there was no game next day.
But if the Cardinals expected to repeat their performance they were disappointed. Joe was started in another contest, and he was glad Mabel was not present, for somehow he could not keep control of the balls, and following a rather poor exhibition, he was taken out after the fourth inning. But it was too late to save the game.
"Never mind, we got one of the four, and it was due to you," consoled Rad, when the series was over. "And you've found out what it is to stack up against the Giants."
Joe had had his "baptism of fire," and it had done him good. The St. Louis team was to take the road again, after a time spent in the home town, where they had somewhat improved their standing.
"Got anything to do this evening?" asked Rad, as they were coming back from the ball park, after a final game with Boston.
"No."
"Then let's go to the Park Theatre. There's a good hot-weather show on."
"I'm with you."
"All right. I've got to go down town, but I'll be back before it's time to go," Rad went on.
Joe dressed, and waited around the hotel lobby for his friend to return. It grew rather late, and Joe glanced uneasily at the clock. He was rather surprised, as he stood at the hotel desk, to hear his name spoken by a messenger boy who entered.
"Matson? There he is," and the clerk indicated our hero.
"Sign here," said the boy, shortly. Joe wondered if the telegram contained bad news from home. Giving the lad a dime tip, Joe opened the envelope with fingers that trembled, and then he read this rather queer message:
"If you want to do your friend Rad a good turn, come to the address below," and Joe recognized the street as one in a less desirable section of the city.
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"Badnews?" asked the hotel clerk, as he noticed the look on Joe's face.
"No—yes—well, it's unexpected news," hesitated Joe, as he made up his mind, on the instant, not to tell the contents of the note. He wanted a little time to think. Rapidly he read the message over again. The boy was just shuffling out of the hotel.
"Wait a minute!" Joe called after him. "Where'd you get this note?" the young pitcher asked.
"At de office."
"Yes, I know. But who brought it in?"
"I dunno. Youse'll have to see de manager."
"Oh, all right," Joe assented, and then he turned aside. He was still in a quandary as to what to do.
Once more he read the note.
"'If you want to do your friend Rad a good turn,'" he repeated. "Of course I do, but what does it mean? Rad can't be in trouble, or he'dhave sent me some word himself. That isn't a very good neighborhood at night, but I guess I can take care of myself. The trouble is, though, if I go out, and Rad comes back here in the meanwhile, what will happen?"
Joe was thinking hard, trying to find some solution of the mystery, and then a flash came to him.
"Baseball!" he whispered to himself. "Maybe it is something to do with baseball! Someone may be scouting for Rad, and want to find out, on the quiet, if he's willing to help in making a shift to some other team. They want me to aid them, perhaps."
Joe had been long enough in organized baseball to know that there are many twists and turns to it, and that many "deals" are carried on in what might be considered an underhand manner. Often, when rival organizations in the baseball world are at war, the various managers, and scouts, go to great lengths, and secretly, to get some player they consider valuable.
"Maybe some rival club is after Rad and doesn't want its plans known," mused Joe. "That must be it. They know he and I are chums, and they come to me first. Well, I sure do want to help Rad, but I don't want to see him leave the Cardinals. I guess I'll take a chance and go down there. I'll leave word at the deskthat I'll meet Rad at the theatre. That will be the best. I can telephone back to the hotel, after I go to this address, and find out if Rad has been back here. I'll go."
Stuffing the queer note into his pocket, Joe started off, catching a car that would take him near the address given. Before leaving, he arranged with the hotel clerk to tell Rad that he would meet him at the theatre.
It was a rather dark, and quite lonesome, street in which Joe found himself after leaving the street car. On either side were tall buildings that shut out much of the light by day, while at night they made the place a veritable canyon of gloom. There were big warehouses and factories with, here and there, a smaller building, and some ramshackle dwellings that had withstood the encroachment of business.
Some of these latter had fallen into decay, and others were being used as miserable homes by those who could afford no better. In one or two, saloons held forth, the light from their swinging doors making yellow patches on the dark pavement.
"I wouldn't like to have to live down here," mused Joe, as he picked his way along, looking, as best he could, for the number given in the note. "It's a queer place to appoint a meeting, but I suppose the baseball fellows don't want tobe spied on. I'll be glad when I'm through."
Joe walked on a little farther. The neighborhood seemed to become more deserted and lonesome. From afar off came the distant hum and roar of the city, but all around Joe was silence, broken, now and then, by the sound of ribald laughter from the occasional saloons.
"Ah, here's the place!" exclaimed Joe, as he stood in front of one of the few dwellings in the midst of the factories. "It looks gloomy enough. I wonder who can be waiting to see me here about Rad? Well, there's a light, anyhow."
As Joe approached the steps of the old house he saw, at one side of the door, a board on which were scrawled the words:
Peerless Athletic Club
"Hum! Must be a queer sort of club," mused Joe. "I guess they do more exercise with their tongues, and with billiard cues, than with their muscles."
For, as he mounted the steps, he heard from within the click of billiard and pool balls, and the noise of talk and laughter. It was one of the so-called "athletic" clubs, that often abound in low neighborhoods, where the name is but an excuse for young "toughs" to gather. Under the name, and sometimes incorporation of a"club," they have certain rights and privileges not otherwise obtainable. They are often a political factor, and the authorities, for the sake of the votes they control, wink at minor violations of the law. It was to such a place as this that Joe had come—or, in view of what happened afterward, had been lured would be the more proper term.
"Well, what do youse want?" asked an ill-favored youth, as Joe entered the poorly lighted hall. The fellow had his hat tilted to one side, and a cigarette was glued to one lip, moving up and down curiously as he spoke.
"I don't know who I want," said Joe, as pleasantly as he could. "I was told to come here to do my friend Rad Chase a favor. I'm Joe Matson, of the Cardinals, and——"
"Oh, yes. He's expectin' youse. Go on in," and the fellow nodded toward a back room, the door of which stood partly open. Joe hesitated a moment, while the youth who had spoken to him went out and stood on the half-rotting steps. Then, deciding that, as he had come thus far, he might as well see the thing through, Joe started for the rear room.
But, as he reached the door, and heard a voice speaking, he hesitated. For what he heard was this:
"S'posin' he don't come?"
"Aw, he'll come all right, Wessel," said another voice. "He sure is stuck on his friend Rad, and he'll want to know what he can do for him. He'll come, all right."
"Shalleg!" gasped Joe, as he recognized the tones. "It's a trick. He thinks he can trap me here!"
As he turned to go, Joe heard Wessel say:
"There won't be no rough work; will there?"
"Oh, no! Not too rough!" replied Shalleg with a nasty laugh.
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, Joe was hastening away when he accidentally knocked over a box in the hall. Instantly the door to the rear room was thrown wide open, giving the young pitcher, as he turned, a glimpse of Shalleg, Wessel and several other men seated about a table, playing cards.
"Who's there?" cried Shalleg. Then, as he saw Joe hurrying away, he added: "Hold on, Matson. I sent for you. I want to see you!"
"But I don't want to see you!" Joe called back over his shoulder.
"Say, this is straight goods!" cried Shalleg, pushing back his chair from the table, the legs scraping over the bare boards of the floor. "It's all right. I've got a chance to do your friend Rad Chase a good turn, and you can help in it. Wait a minute!"
But Joe fled, unheeding. Then Shalleg, seeing that his plans were about to miscarry, yelled:
"Stop him, somebody!"
Joe was running along the dim hallway. As he reached the outside steps the youth who had first accosted him turned, and made a grab for him.
"What's your hurry?" he demanded. "Hold on!"
Joe did not answer, but, eluding the outstretched hands, made the sidewalk in a jump and ran up the street. He was fleet of foot—his training gave him that—and soon he was safe from pursuit, though, as a matter of fact, no one came after him. Shalleg and his tools were hardly ready for such desperate measures yet, it seemed.
Joe passed a side street, and, looking up it, saw at the other end, a more brilliantly lighted thoroughfare. Arguing rightly that he would be safer there, Joe turned up, and soon was in a more decent neighborhood. His heart was beating rapidly, partly from the run, and partly through apprehension, for he had an underlying fear that it would not have been for his good to have gone into the room where Shalleg was.
"Whew! That was a happening," remarked Joe, as he slowed down. "I wonder what it all meant? Shalleg must be getting desperate. Butwhy does he keep after me? Unless he thinks I am responsible for his not getting a place on the Cardinals. It's absurd to think that, but it does seem so. I wonder what I'd better do?"
Joe tried to reason it out, and then came the recollection of Rad.
"I'll telephone to the hotel, and see if he's come back," he said. "Then, when I meet him, I'll tell him all that happened. It's a queer go, sure enough."
A telephone message to the hotel clerk brought the information that Rad had telephoned in himself, saying that he had been unexpectedly detained, and would meet Joe at the theatre entrance.
"That's good!" thought our hero. For one moment, after running away from the gloomy house, he had had a notion that perhaps Rad had also been lured there. Now he knew his friend was safe.
"Sorry I couldn't come back to the hotel for you," Rad greeted Joe, as they met in front of the theatre. "But my business took me longer than I counted on. We're in time for the show, anyhow. It starts a little later in summer."
"That's all right," said Joe. "As a matter of fact I have been away from the hotel myself, for some time."
"So the clerk said. Told me you'd gone outand left a message for me. Say, what's up, Joe? You look as though something had happened," for now, in the light, Rad had a glimpse of his chum's face, and it wore a strange look.
"Something did happen," said Joe in a low voice. "I believe I was in danger. I'll tell you all about it," which he did, in a low voice, between the acts of the play.
It is doubtful if either Joe or Rad paid much attention to what occurred on the stage that evening.
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"But, great Scott, Joe!" exclaimed Rad, when he had been given all the facts of the strange occurrence, "that was a raw sort of deal!"
"I think so myself."
"Why don't you get the police after them?"
"What would be the good? Nothing really happened, and just because I have an idea it would have, if I'd given them the chance to get at me, doesn't make them liable to arrest. I would look foolish going to the police."
"Maybe so. But then there's that note. They didn't have any idea of doing me a good turn. That was almost a forgery."
"The trouble is we can't prove it, though. I think the only thing I can do is to let it go, and be more careful in the future."
"Well, maybe it is," agreed Rad slowly. "But what do you think was their object?"
"I haven't the least idea," replied Joe. "That is, the only thing I can imagine is that Shallegwanted to scare me; or, perhaps, threaten me for what he imagines I have done to him."
"And that is?" questioned Rad.
"That I've been spreading false reports about him to our manager, in order to keep him off the team. As a matter of fact, I don't believe I have ever mentioned him to Mr. Watson. It's all imagination on Shalleg's part."
"What condition was he in to-night?" asked Rad, as he and Joe were on their way to the hotel after the play.
"As far as I could judge, he was about as he has been most of the time lately—scarcely sober. That, and his gambling and irregular living, took him off the team, you know."
"And he thinks, with that record behind him, that he can get on the Cardinals!" exclaimed Rad. "He's crazy!"
"He's dangerous, too," added Joe. "I'm going to be more careful after this."
"And you thought you were doing me a favor, old man?"
"I sure did, Rad. I thought maybe some scout from another club was trying to secure your valuable services."
"Now you're stringing me!"
"No, I'm not, really. You know there are queer doings in baseball."
"Yes, but none as queer as that. Well, I'mmuch obliged, anyhow. But after this you stick to me. If there's any danger we'll share it together!"
"Thanks!" exclaimed Joe warmly.
"Going to say anything to the boss about this?" asked Rad, after a pause.
"I think not. Would you?"
"Well, perhaps we might just as well keep still about it," agreed Rad. "We'll see if we can't trap this Shalleg and his crony, and put a stop to their game."
"All they have been is a nuisance, so far," spoke Joe. "But there's no telling when they might turn to something else."
"That's so. Well, we'll keep our weather eyes open."
Joe was not a little unnerved by his experience, and he was glad there was not a game next day.
The Cardinals had crept up a peg. They were now standing one from the top of the second division of clubs, and there began to be heard talk that they would surely lead their column before many more games had been played.
"And maybe break into the first division!" exclaimed Trainer Boswell. "If you keep on the way you've started, Matson, we sure will do it!"
"I'll do my best," responded Joe.
In a series of four games with the Brooklyn Superbas the Cardinals broke even, thus maintaining their position. But they could not seem to climb any higher. Joe's pitching helped a lot, and he was regarded as a coming star. He was acquiring more confidence in himself, and that, in playing big baseball, helps a lot.
Of course I am not saying that Joe did all the work for his team. No pitcher does, but a pitcher is a big factor. It takes batters to make hits and runs, however, and the Cardinals had their share of them. They could have done better with more, but good players brought high prices, and Manager Watson had spent all the club owners felt like laying out.
The other pitchers of the Cardinals worked hard. It must not be imagined that because I dwell so much on Joe's efforts that he was the "whole show."
Far from it. At times Joe had his "off days" as well as did the others, and there were times when he felt so discouraged that he wanted to give it all up, and go back to a smaller league.
But Joe had grit, and he stuck to it. He was determined to make as great a name for himself as is possible in baseball, and he knew he must take the bitter with the sweet, and accept defeat when it came, as it is bound to now and then.
Nor did his determination to overcome obstaclesfail of its object. With the other members of the team, Joe played so surprisingly well that suddenly the Cardinals took one of those remarkable "braces" that sometimes come in baseball, and from eighth position the club leaped forward into fifth, being aided considerably by some hard luck on the part of the other teams. In other words, "things broke right" for the Cardinals and the St. Louis "fans" began to harbor hopes of a possible pennant.
Joe had several incentives for doing his best. There were his folks. He wanted to justify his father's faith in him, and also his sister's. Joe knew that his mother, in spite of her kind and loving ways, was secretly disappointed that he had quit his college career to become a baseball player.
"But I'll show her that it's just as honorable as one of the learned professions, and that it pays better in a great many cases," reasoned Joe. "Though of course the money end of it isn't the biggest thing in this world," he told himself. "Still it is mighty satisfactory."
Then there was another reason why Joe wanted to make good. Or, rather, there was another person he wanted to have hear of his success. I guess you know her name.
And so the young pitcher kept on, struggling to perfect himself in the technicalities of the biggame, playing his position for all it was capable of. As the season went on Joe's name figured more and more often in the papers.
"He's got reporters on his staff!" sneered Willard.
"Well, I wish we all had," observed Manager Watson. "Publicity counts, and I want all I can get for my players. It's a wonder some of you fellows wouldn't have your name in the papers oftener."
"I don't play to the grandstand," growled the grouchy pitcher.
"Maybe it would help some if you did," the manager remarked quietly.
The baseball practice and play went on. Joe was called on more often now to pitch a game, as Mr. Watson was kind enough to say some of the club's success was due to him, and while of course he was not considered the equal of the veteran pitchers, he was often referred to as a "comer."
What Joe principally lacked was consistency. He could go in and pitch a brilliant game, but he could not often do it two days in succession. In this respect he was not unlike many celebrated young pitchers. Joe was not fully developed yet. He had not attained his full growth, and he had not the stamina and staying power that would come with added years. But he was acquiringexperience and practice that would stand him in good stead, and his natural good health, and clean manner of living, were in his favor.
The Cardinals had come back to St. Louis in high spirits over their splendid work on the road.
"We ought to take at least three from the Phillies," said Boswell, for they were to play four games with the Quaker City nine. "That will help some."
"If we win them," remarked Joe, with a smile.
"Well, we're depending on you to help," retorted the trainer.
Joe only smiled.
There was some discussion in the papers as to who would pitch the first game against the Phillies, and it was not settled until a few minutes before the game was called, when Slim Cooney was sent in.
"I guess Mr. Watson wants to make sure of at least the first one," remarked Joe, as he sat on the bench.
"Oh, you'll get a chance," Boswell assured him. "You want to keep yourself right on edge. No telling when you'll be called on."
It was a close game, and it was not until the eleventh inning that the home team pulled in the winning run. Then, with jubilant faces, the members hurried to the clubhouse.
"Whew!" whistled Cooney, as he swung his southpaw arm about. "I sure will be lame to-morrow."
"You can have a rest," the manager informed him. "And be sure to have your arm massaged well. This is going to be a stiffer proposition than I thought."
"Did you see him at the game?" asked Rad of Joe, as they walked along together.
"See who?"
"Shalleg."
"No. Was he there?"
"He sure was! I had a glimpse of him over in the bleachers when I ran after that long drive of Mitchell's. He was with that Wessel, but they didn't look my way."
"Humph!" mused Joe. "Well, I suppose he's got a right to come to our games. If he bothers me, though, I'll take some action."
"What?"
"I don't know, yet. But I'm through standing for his nonsense."
"I don't blame you."
If Joe could have seen Shalleg and Wessel talking to a certain "tough" looking character, after the game, and at the same time motioning in his direction, he would have felt added uneasiness.
"Oh, let's go out to some summer garden andcool off," proposed Rad after supper. It was a hot night, and sitting about the hotel was irksome.
"All right," agreed Joe, and they started for a car. The same "tough" looking character who had been talking with Wessel and Shalleg took the car as well.
Coming back, after sitting through an open-air moving picture performance, Joe and Rad found all the cars crowded. It was an open one, and Joe and Rad had given their seats to ladies, standing up and holding to the back of the seat in front of them. Just beyond Joe was a burly chap, the same one who had left the hotel at the time they did. He kept his seat.