LOCKING HORNS
The Giants were “slipping.”
There was no blinking the fact. The New York public admitted it with
dismay. The newspapers of all the other league cities proclaimed it with
delight.
Not slipping fast, but slipping surely.
Not that they were quitting. They were game to the core. Everybody was
working desperately to hold on to the slender lead that they had fought
for so gallantly in the early part of the season. McRae and Robson,
crafty old foxes that they were, worked day and night to bolster up
the weak places. They changed the batting order. They used their pinch
hitters. They put the team through morning practice. They perfected the
“inside stuff.” They worked every trick known to the game.
But still the Giants kept slipping. The batting was far below the usual
standard. The men “fought” the ball instead of fielding it cleanly.
The pitching staff was too limited. Hughson and Joe were pitching
magnificent ball, but they were the only first-string pitchers that
could be absolutely relied on. Some of the second string men, notably
Jim, were doing well, but now that every game was so important, McRae
did not dare to put them in. The strain was apt to be too much for any
but the veterans.
There were times when the Giants seemed to throw off the baleful
paralysis that was holding them and play in something of their old
brilliant form. But too many defeats were mixed in with victories, and
all the time those scrappy Chicagos, seldom losing, kept closing up the
gap, until when the last week of the season arrived they were right on
the Giants’ heels.
By the mere chance of the schedule, the Chicagos were to wind up the
season with the New Yorks on the Polo Grounds. Four games were to be
played. Before the series commenced, the Giants were just one game in
the lead. If the Chicagos could take three games out of the four, they
would win the championship.
The Giants had the advantage of playing on their own grounds and in the
presence of the home crowds. That was an advantage not to be despised.
Moreover, they only had to win two out of the four, while the Chicagos
were required to win three.
But, on the other hand, the men from the Windy City were on the
aggressive, while the Giants were on the defensive. And the Chicagos had
been climbing while the New Yorks had been slipping. These facts had a
significance all their own, and despite the apparent odds in favor of
the home team, opinion was about evenly divided as to who would bear off
the victory.
McRae figured on pitching Hughson in the first game of the series.
The veteran had always had the “Indian sign” on the Chicagos, and the
chances were that he would win his game. If he did, the Giants would
only have to take one out of the remaining three. Joe and Markwith would
try for the second and third. If by an evil fate they lost both, McRae
could again call on Hughson for the fourth and deciding game.
On the night before the first game, McRae dropped into the uptown hotel
where the Chicagos were quartered, to have a word of friendly greeting
with Brennan, the manager of the Windy City warriors.
While they were bitter enemies on the ball field, each fighting like
a wildcat for every shred of advantage, they were the best of friends
when once they had discarded their uniforms and gotten into their street
clothes. In this they were not unlike the lawyers who berate each other
bitterly while the case is on, and after the court has adjourned go to
lunch together arm in arm.
Brennan saw his opponent enter, and, rising from the group of reporters
who were trying to get from him his views on the series, came forward to
greet him with extended hand, a broad grin on his features.
“How are you, John?” he queried. “Have you come in to ask me to let you
off easy tomorrow?”
“Not a bit of it, Roger,” laughed McRae as he shook hands. “I simply
heard that there were a lot of dead ones in town and I wanted to know
what cemetery you’d prefer to be buried in. I’ll make it Woodlawn or
Greenwood or any place you say. Or if you like, I’ll ship your remains
back to Chicago.”
“You always were a good bluffer, John,” retorted Roger. “But I can see
that you’re just whistling to keep your courage up. When we go back to
Chicago it won’t be in boxes, but in Pullmans; and we’re going to take
the pennant along with us.”
“Where do you get that stuff?” rejoined McRae. “I’ll set the squirrels
after you if you don’t stop your foolishness. I’m only wondering whether
I’ll take four straight or let you have just one of the series as a sort
of booby prize.”
They chaffed each other good-naturedly for a while, to the great delight
of the reporters and hotel guests, who had gathered in a dense crowd
about them.
“You’ve got only a one-man team, John,” Brennan wound up. “Hughson’s
carried the team along for years. If it hadn’t been for him you wouldn’t
have won a pennant in the last ten years.”
“How about Matson?” parried McRae. “Do you remember the last game he
twirled against you in Chicago?”
Brennan winced and the crowd laughed at the memory of that game, which
had been a Waterloo for the men of the Windy City.
“He caught us off our stride that day,” he admitted, “and we’re aching
to get at him. We’re all tuned up to knock him out of the box.”
A little more banter, and McRae rose to go.
“Sorry to have to leave you,” he remarked, “but I have an appointment to
see a man about setting up a new pennant pole at the Polo Grounds.”
“I’m ahead of you there, John,” laughed Brennan. “I ordered mine before
I left Chicago.”
“You’ll be sending a wire in a day or two to countermand the order,” the
Giant leader prophesied. “By the way, Roger,” he went on, dropping his
scoffing tone, “if you want to use the grounds for morning practice,
I’ll fix it up so that you can divide the time with my boys.”
“That’s very white of you, John,” replied Brennan warmly, “and I
appreciate it. But I guess I’ll stick to the regular rule and let you
have it all to yourself. Thanks, though, just the same.”
They shook hands and parted with the mutual respect of hard fighters and
gallant sportsmen.
The city was wild with excitement and it was a foregone conclusion that
the four games would draw bigger crowds than had ever before been packed
into the Polo Grounds.
Mabel, true to her promise, had come to the city, accompanied by Reggie,
and Joe had secured seats for them in a box so located that they could
follow every move of the game. It is needless to say that every spare
minute that he could take from his work was spent in the vicinity of the
Marlborough Hotel, at which the visitors were again staying.
“You simply must win, Joe,” Mabel declared. “You surely wouldn’t have
the heart to lose after I’ve come all the way from Goldsboro.”
“I haven’t any heart to lose anyway,” replied Joe. “I lost that long
ago.”
“I see Hughson is going to pitch the first game,” said Mabel, hastily
changing the subject to a safer ground. “Do you think he will win?”
“Sure I do,” replied Joe, enthusiastically. “He’s the greatest pitcher
that ever threw a ball.”
“They say there’s a good deal of professional jealousy among artists,”
laughed Mabel, “but you don’t seem to be troubled that way.”
“Not a particle where Hughson is concerned,” affirmed Joe, stoutly.
“He’s one of the best friends I have on the team and I root for him for
all I’m worth every time he goes into the box.”
“You’ll pitch the second game, I suppose,” she went on.
“I think that’s the program just at present, but you never can tell.
Something might come up that would make McRae change his mind five
minutes before the game begins.”
“I’ll have an advantage over the other pitchers. They’ll only have one
glove while I’ll have two.”
Mabel opened her eyes and was about to ask an explanation, but as Joe
tapped his pocket, she remembered the glove that she had given him at
Goldsboro and blushed in confusion.
She was never lovelier than when she blushed, and there is no knowing
what would have happened right then and there, if Reggie had not come on
the scene. Joe liked Reggie, but there were times when he certainly was
a nuisance.
“Well, Joe, how are you feeling?” asked Reggie amiably, as they shook
hands. “Not suffering from palpitation of the heart or anything like
that, I suppose?”
To tell the truth, Joe’s heart was palpitating very strongly just at
that moment. But it was not the thought of the big games that caused
it. Perhaps Mabel could have guessed the reason more accurately than
Reggie.
“I never felt better,” Joe replied.
“Going to put it all over the Chicagos, I hope,” continued Reggie.
“That’s what we’re figuring on,” answered Joe. “But those fellows are
going great guns just now and it will be a man’s job to beat them. By
the way,” he added, changing the subject, “have you found any trace of
Tabbs?”
“Not a thing,” replied Reggie gloomily. “I guess I’ll have to charge
that ten thousand up to experience. It’s coming near time to report to
my father and I’d rather be shot than do it.”
The first game justified the choice of McRae. Hughson was never in
better form. He simply toyed with the opposing batsmen. His famous
fadeaway was working to perfection. Twice he mowed down the side in
one-two-three order. His control was absolute and not an enemy reached
his base on balls. Three times there were men on the bags, once through
an error and twice as the result of hits, but Hughson tightened up
and they never got farther than second. It was a superb exhibition of
twirling, and amid the frantic applause of the vast crowd the game ended
with the score:
New Yorks 5, Chicagos 0.
First blood for the Giants!