Chapter XXX · A GLORIOUS SUCCESS

Consternation sat on every face. The easy confidence of the night before was gone. A thunderbolt had come out of the blue. The chief prop had been knocked from under them. The easy way in which Hughson had tamed the men from the wild and woolly West had made it seem a dead certainty that he would win if he should be called on to repeat.

There was hot scurrying to and fro among the leaders. McRae and Robson, with drawn faces, were deep in discussion as to the best thing to be done. The program would have to be radically changed.

McRae came hurrying over to Joe when the latter entered the clubhouse.

“I was going to pitch you today,” he declared, “but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have to save my ace to take the last trick, if necessary. I’m going to keep you for the final. Markwith goes in today and I’ll take a chance on Barclay tomorrow. That spitter of his may fool them.”

But neither Markwith nor Barclay fulfilled the hope of their manager. The Chicagos, who were like wild men, now that they seemed to have another chance with the dreaded Hughson out of the way, batted like fiends, and the two games went to their credit by scores of seven to two and six to four. Jim had held them to a tie up to the eleventh inning, but then he faltered and they batted in the winning runs.

Now the score was even. The result of the last game would decide the championship and tell whether the flag would fly in the East or the West.

It was up to Joe. Upon his shoulders rested the fortunes of his team. Would he be equal to the task? That question was being asked in every city between the Atlantic and the Pacific. Reputation, the pennant, the chance to get into the World’s Series—all of these depended upon the skill and strength of that right arm of his.

The enormous crowd that packed the stands gave him a tremendous greeting when he came on the field and began to warm up. But in all that sea of human faces, the only one that Joe looked for was in an upper box where a handkerchief waved at him. And in the pocket of his baseball shirt a tiny glove lay close to his heart.

“How did he warm up, Robbie?” asked McRae anxiously, as the bell rang for the game to begin and Robson came back to where he was sitting on the players’ bench.

“All to the good,” declared Robson. “The ball came into my mitt almost hard enough to knock me down. They won’t be able to see them.”

For a moment, as Joe took up his position, he had a touch of stage fright. His head whirled and everything seemed to swim before his eyes. Then his vision cleared, his heart ceased its thumping, and his nerves became like steel.

“Zimmie,” the big third baseman of the Chicagos, who led off in the batting order, swaggered up to the plate, swinging three bats. He threw away two of them and gripped the remaining one tightly and glared at Joe.

“Trot them out, kid,” he called, “and I’ll murder them. You’re only a false alarm, anyway.”

Joe shot the first one over for a beautiful strike and the crowd yelled in delight.

“That’s the way, old man!” sang out Larry from second. “They can’t touch you.”

The second was a ball and the next a foul. Then a high, fast one with a hop to it, eluded Zimmie’s bat and sent him back to the bench looking sheepish.

The next one up hit a slow one to short that got to first in plenty of time, and the third man closed the inning with a two-balls-three-strikes record.

A tempest of cheers compelled Joe to remove his cap as he came in to the bench.

“You’re going like a runaway horse, Matson,” said McRae. “Keep it up and the flag is ours.”

“We’ll hand you a couple of runs to start off with,” declared Larry, as he strode to the plate.

But neither in that inning nor in the next three, did the promised runs come in. Hamilton, the Chicago pitcher, was at his best, and his famous drop ball was working to perfection. It seemed as though the game were going to resolve itself into a duel between the pitchers, and the crowd held its breath as man after man went down before the rival boxmen.

“Isn’t he a wizard?” exclaimed McRae, as Joe mowed the enemy down as fast as they came to the plate. “They’re so much putty in his hands. That rise ball of his has a jump on it that’s got those fellows buffaloed. They miss it by six inches.”

“And his fadeaway,” put in Robson. “Do you see how he mixes it in with the fast ones? He’s outguessing them all the way.”

Joe’s heart was beating high with elation. The sense of mastery thrilled him. He was absolutely in control of all his curves. They broke just where he wanted them. The Chicagos knew that their only chance was to rattle him, and their coachers danced up and down on the side lines, hurling out jibes and jeers that they hoped would “get under his skin.” But they fell away from him like water from a duck’s back.

But in the fifth inning the Giants “cracked.”

Denton, at third, fumbled an easy roller and when at last he had stopped juggling the ball, he threw over the first baseman’s head and the batter got to third on the error. The fielders played close in to get him at the plate, but a “Texas leaguer” that Larry could easily have gobbled if he had been in his usual position, dropped behind him and the man on third came home for the first run of the game.

The next man up rapped a fly to right, that Curry lost in the sun, and made the round of the bases, driving his comrade in ahead of him. Three runs to the good for the Chicagos and not one of them earned!

Joe put on steam and fanned the rest of the side, but the damage had been done. In so close a game as that, three runs seemed like a winning lead.

McRae was raging, and stormed among his players like a cyclone as they came in to bat.

“Get after them!” he cried, furiously. “Give Matson something to go on. Your bats have holes in them. You’re hitting like a lot of old women. Knock the ball out of the lot. We’ve got to win.”

They made a gallant effort and got two men on bases. But although they hit the ball hard a Chicago fielder always seemed to be in front of it.

The sixth inning was full of thrills and it looked for a time as though the New Yorks would score, and score heavily.

Joe had got through the first half with nothing against him but a base on balls—a decision which led to an acrimonious discussion between McRae and the umpire in which the scrappy manager narrowly escaped being ordered off the field.

In the Giant’s half, Iredell, the first man up, was given his base on balls. McRae thought he detected signs of wobbling on Hamilton’s part and began to “ride” him from the first base side lines. Larry, who was coaching at third, ably seconded his chief, and the crowd joined in trying to make the pitcher “crack.”

Hamilton was a veteran and used to such tactics, and ordinarily they would not have affected him. But there was so much at stake on this game and the strain up to now had been so tremendous that for a moment he faltered and passed the second man.

The yells of the crowd increased at this, nor was his agitation lessened when McRae entered a vehement protest against his delivery, claiming that he lifted his foot from the ground when releasing the ball.

There was some ground for this and the umpire cautioned Hamilton, who by this time was plainly rattled. He pulled himself together, though, and made the next batter put up a high fly to short.

The next man went out on strikes and Chicago breathed more easily. But Hamilton was not yet himself and a third pass filled the bases.

The crowd was crazed with excitement now, and Meyers, the next man up, was entreated to “kill the ball” as he came to the plate.

There were “two and three” on him when at last he got the ball he wanted. It left his bat with the crack of a bullet and soared high in the air toward center. It had all the earmarks of a home run and the crowd went wild, while the three men on bases tore around them toward the plate like so many runaway horses.

On, on, the ball went as though it were going clear to the fence. But Lange, than whom there was no swifter center fielder in either of the major leagues, had started for it at the crack of the bat, running with his back to the ball and looking back over his shoulder from time to time to gauge its course. At the last second he leaped high in the air, clutched the ball with one hand, and fell to the ground, rolling over and over, but coming up still holding on to the ball.

A groan rose from the New York bench and the yells of the jubilant crowd in the stands were suddenly stilled. It was hard to have their soaring hopes so suddenly brought to earth. But it was a magnificent play, and generous applause greeted the center fielder as he came in to be hugged and pawed by his exulting comrades.

At the “lucky seventh” the crowd rose and stretched loyally but in vain. Only two more innings remained and the crowds were like mourners at a funeral.

Five minutes later they were shouting and screaming like maniacs.

It was the last half of the eighth, and the Giants’ turn had come. Larry led off with a rattling two base hit to right. Denton sacrificed him to third. Curry lined out a single to center, bringing Larry home. He stole second by a close margin. Byrnes clipped a two bagger just inside the third base line, and Willis cleaned up by lacing a three bagger between left and center. The score was tied and the crowd promptly went mad. The next two men went out in order, and the Chicagos, sore and raging, came in for their last time at bat.

But Joe felt now that he had the strength of ten. The ball shot over the plate like a bullet and not a man reached first.

“Now for the World’s Series, boys!” encouraged McRae. “Now for fifty thousand dollars! Here’s where you win it!”

But it was the tail of the batting order that was coming up now. The first two men were easy outs and then Joe came to the plate.

“It looks like an extra inning game,” was the remark that went around the stands.

Like all pitchers, Joe was only a moderately good batter and his average hovered around the two hundred mark.

Perhaps on this account Hamilton was too confident, for he took a chance and put one over “in the groove.” Joe caught it square on the end of the bat and the ball sailed far away into right over the fielder’s head.

Joe was off with the crack of the bat. He rounded first like a frightened jackrabbit and straightened out for second. The ground fell away from under his flying feet. He was running like the wind. He heard the frantic roar of the crowds, the yells of the coachers. On he went toward third, touched it and thundered down to the plate. He knew the ball was coming, he saw the catcher set himself. Twenty feet from home he launched himself into the air and slid into the rubber, just eluding the catcher’s outstretched hand.

The game was over, the Giants had won the pennant, and had put themselves in line for the great Series that would decide the championship of the world!

How they came through that ordeal will be told in our next volume entitled: “Baseball Joe in the World’s Series; Or, Pitching for the Championship.”

Joe could never quite remember just what happened for the next few minutes. The gleeful shouts of his team-mates, the rush and roar of the great crowd that surged down upon him, the tugging and pulling that seemed to be rending him apart—all this he sensed but dimly. He only knew that he was blissfully, supremely happy. He had played his part gallantly. He had made good on the Giants. He had won the flag!

But had he not won more than that? Was he not now free to speak? He touched the little glove that lay in his pocket.

He dressed as rapidly as he could and emerged with Jim into the street. He hailed a passing taxi.

“Where are you going, Joe?” asked Jim.

“Going?” repeated Joe. “I’m going straight to the Marlborough Hotel.”

THE END

UP-TO-DATE BASEBALL STORIES

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By LESTER CHADWICK

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Joe’s great ambition was to go to boarding school and play on the school team. He got to boarding school but found it harder making the team there than it was getting on the nine at home.

Baseball Joe at Yale or Pitching for the College Championship

From a preparatory school Baseball Joe goes to Yale University. He makes the freshman nine and in his second year becomes a varsity pitcher and pitches in several big games.

Baseball Joe in the Central League or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher

In this volume the scene of action is shifted from Yale College to a baseball league of our central states. Baseball Joe’s work in the box for Old Eli had been noted by one of the managers and Joe gets an offer he cannot resist.

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From the Central League Joe is drafted into the St. Louis Nationals. At first he has little to do in the pitcher’s box, but gradually he wins favor. A corking baseball story that fans, both young and old, will enjoy.

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Telling how the boys of Cliffwood were a wild set and how, on Hallowe’en, they turned the home town topsy-turvy. This led to an organization of a boys’ department in the local Y. M. C. A. When the lads realized what was being done for them, they joined in the movement with vigor and did all they could to help the good cause. To raise funds they gave a minstrel show and other entertainments, and a number of them did their best to win a gold medal offered by a local minister who was greatly interested in the work of upbuilding youthful character.

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By FRANK V. WEBSTER

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