[Illustration: JOE CAUGHT IT SQUARE ON THE END OF THE BAT.]
Baseball Joe
on the Giants
OR
Making Good as a Ball Twirler
in the Metropolis
_By_ LESTER CHADWICK
AUTHOR OF
“BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS,” “BASEBALL
JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE,” “THE RIVAL
PITCHERS,” “THE EIGHT-OARED
VICTORS,” ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
=BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK=
=THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
=Price, per volume, 60 cents, postpaid.=
BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS
BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE
BASEBALL JOE AT YALE
BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE
BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE
BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS
(_Other volumes in preparation_)
=THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
=Price, per volume, $1.00, postpaid.=
THE RIVAL PITCHERS
A QUARTERBACK’S PLUCK
BATTING TO WIN
THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
=Baseball Joe on the Giants=
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I PUTTING THEM OVER 1
II A FEARFUL SITUATION 10
III A CRACK SHOT 17
IV THE TELEGRAM 25
V AT THE JAIL 34
VI GLORIOUS NEWS 44
VII GREAT EXPECTATIONS 52
VIII THE COMING OF REGGIE 62
IX A TRUSTING DISPOSITION 73
X REGGIE CONFESSES 80
XI A STARTLING DISCOVERY 90
XII THE CALL TO BATTLE 98
XIII OFF FOR THE TRAINING CAMP 106
XIV DIAMOND HEROES 113
XV A CHARMING VISION 123
XVI THE GIANT TEAM 134
XVII AWAY DOWN SOUTH 144
XVIII IN HARNESS 150
XIX DRIVING THEM HARD 157
XX A TEST OF NERVE 164
XXI MAKING GOOD 174
XXII A HOT CAMPAIGN 181
XXIII AN EVIL INFLUENCE 186
XXIV A CLOSE CALL 192
XXV FIGHTING FOR THE LEAD 201
XXVI THE SLUMP 207
XXVII FROM BAD TO WORSE 212
XXVIII LOCKING HORNS 218
XXIX AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 226
XXX A GLORIOUS SUCCESS 235
BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS
CHAPTER I
PUTTING THEM OVER
“Now then, Joe, send it over!”
“Show us what you can do!”
“Make the ball hum!”
“Split the ozone!”
These and a host of similar cries greeted Joe Matson as he carelessly
caught the ball tossed to him by one of his friends and walked over to a
corner of the gymnasium that was marked off as a pitcher’s box.
“All right, fellows,” he answered, laughingly. “Anything to oblige my
friends.”
“And that means all of us, Joe,” cried one of the boys heartily.
“You bet it does!” chorused the others, with a fervor that spoke volumes
for the popularity of the young pitcher.
It was a cold day in late winter and a large number of the village
youth had gathered at the Riverside gymnasium. Riverside was Joe’s home
town where his people had lived for years, and where he always spent the
months between the ending of one baseball season and the beginning of
the next.
Joe wound up, while the spectators stretched out in a long line and
waited with interest for the first ball.
“Not too hot at the start, Joe,” cautioned Tom Davis, his old-time chum,
who stood ready at the receiving end. “Remember I’m out of practice just
now and I don’t want you to lift me off my feet.”
“All right, old scout,” returned Joe. “I’m not any too anxious myself to
pitch my arm out at the start. I’ll just float up a few teasers to begin
with.”
He let the ball go without any conscious effort, and it sailed lazily
across the sixty feet that represented the distance between himself and
Tom, who stood directly behind the plate that had been improvised for
the occasion. It was a drop that broke just before it reached the plate
and shot downward into Tom’s extended glove.
“That was a pretty one,” said Tom. “Now give us an upshoot.”
Joe complied, and then in response to requests from the crowd gave them
specimens of his “knuckle” ball, his in-and-out curves, his “fadeaway,”
and in fact everything he had in stock.
Then with a twinkle in his eyes, seeing that Tom by this time was pretty
well warmed up, he cut loose a fast one that traveled so swiftly that
the eye could scarcely follow it. It landed in Tom’s glove with a report
like the crack of a whip, and a roar of laughter went up from the crowd
as Tom danced around rubbing his hands.
“Wow!” he yelled. “That one had whiskers on it for fair. Have a heart,
Joe. I’m too young to die.”
“Don’t worry about dying, Tom,” piped up Dick Little. “Only the good die
young, and that makes you safe for a while.”
“Is that the kind you feed to old Wagner when he comes up to the plate
and shakes his hat at you?” asked Ben Atkins.
“It doesn’t matter much what you serve to that tough old bird,” answered
Joe grimly. “He lams them all if they come within reach.”
“How fast do you suppose that last ball of yours was traveling anyway,
Joe?” asked Ed Wilson.
“Oh, I don’t know exactly,” answered Joe carelessly. “Something over a
hundred feet a second.”
A buzz of astonishment went up from the throng and they crowded closer
around Joe.
“A hundred feet a second!” ejaculated Sam Berry, who was connected with
the railroad. “Why a railroad train traveling at the rate of a mile a
minute only covers eighty-eight feet a second. Do you mean to say that
that ball was traveling faster than a mile a minute train?”
“According to that, Joe could throw a ball after the Empire State
Express when it was running at that speed and hit the rear platform,”
was the incredulous comment of Ben Atkins. “I knew that ball was going
mighty fast but I didn’t think it was as swift as that.”
“It’s a pity that there isn’t some certain way of finding out,”
commented Tom.
“It has been found out,” said Joe calmly.
“Is that so?”
“How was it done?”
“Why,” replied Joe, in answer to the volley of questions fired at him,
“it wasn’t a hard thing at all. You know the big arms factories have a
contrivance that tells them just how fast a bullet goes after it leaves
the gun. They have two hoops set in a line say two hundred feet apart.
These hoops are covered with a mesh of fine wires that are connected by
electricity with a signal room. The bullet as it goes through the first
hoop cuts a wire which registers the exact fraction of a second at which
it is hit. The bullet strikes another wire as it goes through the second
hoop and this also registers. Then all they have to do is to subtract
the first time from the second and they have the exact time it has taken
for the bullet to go that two hundred feet.”
“Seems simple enough when you come to think of it,” remarked Tom.
“Then,” went on Joe, “it struck somebody that it would be perfectly easy
to rig up a couple of hoops sixty feet apart and let a pitcher hurl a
straight ball through both and then measure the different times at which
it struck the two hoops. They did it down at some Connecticut plant and
got two of the swiftest pitchers in the big leagues to try out their
speed. One of them put it through at the rate of one hundred and twelve
feet a second and the other at the rate of one hundred and twenty-two
feet a second. That’s why I said that that last ball of mine was going
at over a hundred feet a second.”
“Guess you knew what you were talking about, old boy,” said Tom, as he
walked back to take his place again at the receiving end. “But after
this, cut down the speed to eighty or thereabouts. That’ll be rich
enough for my blood at present.”
“All right,” grinned Joe. “We’ll cut out the fast straight ones and work
out a few of the curves.”
“Just what do you mean by curves?” asked a rather gruff voice.
Joe turned and recognized Professor Enoch Crabbe of the Riverside
Academy, who had been strolling by, and having caught a glimpse of the
unusual number present through the open door, had concluded to add
himself to the spectators. He was a man generally respected in the town,
but very positive and set in his views and not at all diffident about
expressing them.
“Good afternoon, Professor,” said Joe. “I didn’t quite understand what
you meant by your question. I was just going to curve the ball----”
“That’s just it,” interrupted the professor with a superior smile. “You
thought you were going to curve the direction of the ball, but you were
going to do nothing of the kind. It can’t be done.”
“But Professor,” expostulated Joe, a little bewildered, “the proof of
the pudding is in the eating. I’ve done it a thousand times.”
“I don’t question your good faith at all, Mr. Matson,” said the
professor, still with that smug air of certainty. “You undoubtedly
_think_ you curved the ball. I positively _know_ that you didn’t.”
“Well,” retorted Joe, who was getting a little nettled, “they say that
seeing is believing. Just watch this ball.”
He gripped it firmly and sent in a wide outcurve. The ball went straight
as a die for perhaps forty feet and then turned swiftly outward so that
Tom had to jump to get his hands on it.
“Now,” said Joe triumphantly, “if that wasn’t a curve, what was it?”
“An optical delusion,” replied the professor blandly.
“If a batter had been at the plate, he’d have broken his back reaching
out after it,” Joe came back at him. “He wouldn’t have thought it was an
optical delusion.”
“My dear sir,” said the professor smoothly, “the first law of motion is
that a body set in motion tends to move in a straight line. Neither you
nor anybody else can change that law. You might as well tell me that you
can shoot a gun around a corner as that you can throw a ball around a
corner.”
“I _can_ throw it around the corner,” maintained Joe stoutly. “Not
at right angles, of course, but I can make the ball go into the side
street.”
The theorist smiled in a way that was exceedingly irritating. But Joe,
by a great effort, mastered his annoyance.
“We won’t quarrel over it, Professor,” he remarked good-naturedly. “All
I can say is that I must be getting my salary under false pretences,
because the men who pay it to me do so under the impression that I can
curve the ball. I’ve always had that impression myself, and so have the
batters who have faced me. Rather odd, don’t you think, that so many
people should be so misled?”
“Not at all,” replied the professor pompously. “Truth is usually on the
side of the minority.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Joe thoughtfully. “I know a moving
picture operator, who’s an old friend of mine and who’d be glad, if I
asked him, to do me a favor. I’ll get him to come down some day and take
a picture of the ball in motion. Then we’ll study out the film and I
think I can prove to you that the ball _does_ curve on its way from the
pitcher to the catcher.”
“How do you think you could prove anything from that?” asked Professor
Crabbe cautiously, as though he were looking for a trap. “They can work
all sorts of tricks with moving pictures, you know.”
“I know they can,” admitted Joe. “But this would be ‘honest Injun.’
You’d have my word of honor and the operator’s, too, that there’d be no
monkeying with the pictures.”
“Well,” said Crabbe, “admitting that the pictures were honestly taken,
how could they show whether the ball curved or not?”
“I’m not sure myself exactly,” answered Joe, “but it seems to me that if
the ball moved in a straight line all the way, it would look the same at
any point. But if it curved, it would be farther away from the camera
than when it was going straight and there’d be a different focus. The
ball would look flatter, more oval shaped----”
Just then came a wild diversion.
Into the gymnasium crowd burst a shock-headed boy, his eyes blazing
with excitement, his breath coming in gasps. All looked at him in
astonishment and alarm.
“A crazy man,” stammered the boy. “He’s stolen the Bilkins baby and run
off with it!”