[Illustration: HE WAS A GLORIOUS FIGURE OF YOUNG MANHOOD.]
Baseball Joe in
the World Series
OR
Pitching for the Championship
_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, 75 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
BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES
(_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
(_Other Volumes in Preparation_)
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York
Copyright, 1917, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
=Baseball Joe in the World Series=
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I AN INSOLENT INTRUDER 1
II GLOWING HOPES 12
III A POPULAR HERO 20
IV THE SPOILS OF WAR 30
V GETTING READY FOR THE FRAY 37
VI JOE GIVES FAIR WARNING 45
VII THE THOUSAND DOLLAR BANKBILL 52
VIII RECKLESS DRIVING 61
IX A BRUTAL ACT 69
X THE OPENING GUN 77
XI SNATCHED FROM THE FIRE 84
XII THE TABLES TURNED 92
XIII A GALLANT EFFORT 106
XIV MORE HARD LUCK 113
XV FLEMING TURNS UP AGAIN 121
XVI A CAD’S PUNISHMENT 128
XVII PLANNING FOR REVENGE 134
XVIII THE PLOT 140
XIX WEAVING THE WEB 147
XX A STIRRING BATTLE 155
XXI EVENING UP THE SCORE 163
XXII A HOLE IN THE WEB 169
XXIII TAKING THE LEAD 176
XXIV PLOTTING MISCHIEF 187
XXV A RANDOM CLUE 193
XXVI A BLUFF THAT WORKED 200
XXVII STEALING SIGNALS 212
XXVIII A BLOW IN THE DARK 217
XXIX QUICK WORK 223
XXX A GLORIOUS VICTORY 232
BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES
CHAPTER I
AN INSOLENT INTRUDER
“Here he comes!”
“Hurrah for Matson!”
“Great game, old man.”
“You stood the Chicagos on their heads that time, Joe.”
“That home run of yours was a dandy.”
“What’s the matter with Matson?”
“_He’s all right!_”
A wild uproar greeted the appearance of Joe Matson, the famous pitcher
of the New York Giants, as he emerged from the clubhouse at the Polo
Grounds after the great game in which he had pitched the Giants to the
head of the National League and put them in line for the World Series
with the champions of the American League.
It was no wonder that the crowd had gone crazy with excitement. All New
York shared the same madness. The race for the pennant had been one of
the closest ever known. In the last few weeks it had narrowed down to a
fight between the Giants and the Chicagos, and the two teams had come
down the stretch, nose to nose, fighting for every inch, each straining
every nerve to win. It had been a slap-dash, ding-dong finish, and the
Giants had won “by a hair.”
Joe Matson--affectionately known as “Baseball Joe”--had pitched the
deciding game, and to him above all others had gone the honors of the
victory. Not only had he twirled a superb game, but it had been his home
run in the ninth inning after two men were out that had brought the
pennant to New York.
And just at this moment his name was on more tongues than that of any
other man in the United States. Telegraph wires had flashed the news of
his triumph to every city and village in the country, and the cables and
wireless had borne it to every American colony in the world.
Joe’s hand had been shaken and his back pounded by exulting enthusiasts
until he was lame and sore all over. It was with a feeling of relief
that he had gained the shelter of the clubhouse with its refreshing
shower and rubdown. Even here his mates had pawed and mauled him
in their delight at the glorious victory, until he had laughingly
threatened to thrash a few of them. And now, as, after getting into his
street clothes, he came out into the side street and viewed the crowd
that waited for him, he saw that he was in for a new ordeal.
“Gee whiz!” he exclaimed to his friend and fellow player, Jim Barclay,
who accompanied him. “Will they never let up on me?”
“It’s one of the penalties of fame, old man,” laughed Jim. “Don’t make
out that you don’t like it, you old hypocrite.”
“Of course I like it,” admitted Joe with a grin. “All the same I don’t
want to have this old wing of mine torn from its socket. I need it in my
business.”
“You bet you do,” agreed Jim. “It’s going to come in mighty handy for
the World Series. But we’ll be out of this in a minute.”
He held up his hand to signal a passing taxicab, and the cab edged its
way to the curb.
The crowd swept in upon the players and they had all they could do to
elbow their way through. They succeeded finally and slammed the door
shut, while the chauffeur threw in the clutch and the taxicab darted
off, pursued by the shouts and plaudits of the crowd.
Joe sank back on the cushions with a sigh of relief.
“The first free breath I’ve drawn since the game ended,” he remarked.
“It’s been a wonderful day for you, Joe,” said Jim, looking at his
chum with ungrudging admiration. “That game will stand out in baseball
history for years to come.”
“I’m mighty glad I won for my own sake,” answered Joe; “but I’m
gladder still on account of the team. The boys backed me up in great
shape--except in that fifth inning--and I’d have felt fearfully sore if
I hadn’t been able to deliver the goods. But those Chicagos certainly
made us fight to win.”
“They’re a great team,” admitted Jim; “and they put up a corking good
game. But it was our day to win.”
“Did you see McRae and Robson after the game?” he went on, referring to
the manager and the coach of the Giant team. “Whatever dignity they had,
they lost it then. They fairly hugged each other and did the tango in
front of the clubhouse.”
Joe grinned as the burly figures came before his mental vision.
“They’ve been under a fearful strain for the last few weeks,” he
commented; “and I guess they had to let themselves go in some fashion or
they’d have burst.”
“Do you realize what that home run of yours meant in money, to say
nothing of the glory?” jubilated Jim.
“I haven’t had time to do much figuring yet,” smiled Joe.
“It meant at least fifty thousand dollars for the team,” pursued Jim.
“We’ll get that much even if we lose the World Series, and a good
deal more if we win. And if the Series goes to six or seven games the
management will scoop in a big pot of money, too--anywhere from fifty to
a hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s good,” replied Joe, a little absent-mindedly.
“Good?” echoed Jim, sharply. “It’s more than good--it’s great, it’s
glorious! Wake up, man, and stop your dreaming.”
Joe came to himself with a little start.
“You’re--you’re right, Jim,” he stammered somewhat confusedly. “To tell
the truth, I wasn’t thinking just then of money.”
Jim gave him a quick glance, and a sudden look of amused comprehension
came into his eyes. Joe caught his glance and flushed.
“What are you blushing about?” demanded Jim with a grin.
“I wasn’t blushing,” defended Joe, stoutly. “It’s mighty warm in this
cab.”
Jim laughed outright.
“Tell that to the King of Denmark,” he chuckled. “I’m on, old man. You
told me in the clubhouse that you were going to the Marlborough Hotel,
and I know just who it is that’s stopping there.”
“My friend, Reggie Varley, is putting up there,” countered Joe, feebly.
“My friend Reggie Varley,” mimicked Jim, “to say nothing of his charming
sister. Oh, I’m not blind, old fellow. I’ve seen for a long time how the
wind was blowing. Well,” he continued, dropping his light tone for a
more earnest one, “go in and win, Joe. I hope you have all the luck in
the world.”
He reached over and slapped his friend cordially on the shoulder. Then
he signaled for the chauffeur to stop.
“What are you getting out here for?” asked Joe. “We haven’t got to your
street yet.”
“I know it,” answered Jim, preparing to jump out. “I want to give you a
chance to think up what you’re going to say to the lady fair,” he added,
mischievously.
He ducked the friendly thrust that Joe made toward him and went away
laughing, while the cab started on.
Joe knew perfectly well what he intended to say when he should meet
Mabel Varley. He had wanted to say it for a long time, and had
determined that if his team won the pennant he would wait no longer.
He had met her for the first time two years before under unusual
circumstances. At that time he was playing in the Central League, and
his team was training at Montville, North Carolina. He had saved Mabel
from being carried over a cliff by a runaway horse, and the acquaintance
thus formed had soon deepened into friendship. With Joe it had now
become a much stronger feeling, and he had dared to hope that this was
shared by Mabel.
Reggie Varley, Mabel’s brother, was a rather affected young man, who
ran chiefly to clothes and automobiles and had an accent that he
fondly supposed was English. Joe had met him at an earlier date than
that at which he had formed Mabel’s acquaintance and under unpleasant
conditions. Reggie had lost sight of his valise in a railway station,
and had rashly accused Joe of taking it. He apologized later, however,
and the young men had become the best of friends, for Reggie, despite
some foolish little affectations, was at heart a thoroughly good fellow.
The brother and sister had come to New York to see the deciding games
and were quartered at the Marlborough Hotel. Mabel had waved to Joe from
a box at the Polo Grounds that afternoon, and her presence had nerved
him to almost superhuman exertions. And he had won and won gloriously.
Would his good luck continue? He was asking himself this question when
the taxicab drew up at the curb, and he saw that he was at the door of
the Marlborough.
He jumped out and thrust his hand in his pocket to get the money for his
fare, but the chauffeur waved him back with a grin.
“Nuthin’ doin’,” he said. “This ride is on me.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Joe in surprise.
“Jest what I said,” returned the chauffeur. “The fellow that won the
championship for the New Yorks can’t pay me any money. It’s enough
for me to have Baseball Joe ride in my cab. I can crow over the other
fellows that wasn’t so lucky.”
“Nonsense,” laughed Joe, as he took out a bankbill and tried to thrust
it on him.
“No use, boss,” the man persisted. “Your money’s counterfeit with me.”
He started his car with a rush and a backward wave of his hand, and
Joe, warned by a cheer or two that came from people near by who had
recognized him, was forced to retreat into the hotel.
He did not send up a card, as he was a frequent caller and felt sure
of his welcome. Besides, he was too impatient for any formalities. He
wanted to be in the presence of Mabel, and even the elevator seemed
slow, though it shot him with amazing speed to the fifth floor on which
the Varley suite was located.
His heart was beating fast as he knocked at the parlor door, and it beat
still faster when a familiar voice bade him enter.
He burst in with a rush that suddenly stopped short when he saw that
he was not the only visitor. A young man had stepped back quickly from
Mabel’s side and it was evident that he had just withdrawn his hand from
hers.
For a moment Joe’s blood drummed in his ears and the demon of jealousy
took possession of him. He glared at the visitor, who stared back at him
with an air of insolence that to Joe at that moment was maddening.
The stranger was dressed in a degree of fashion that bordered on
foppishness. He wore more jewelry than was dictated by good taste, even
going so far as to carry a tiny wrist watch. His eyes were pale, his
chin slightly retreating, and his face showed unmistakable marks of
dissipation. His air was arrogant and supercilious as he took Joe slowly
in from head to foot.
Mabel rushed forward eagerly as Joe entered.
“Oh, Joe!” she cried. “I’m so glad you’ve come! I never was so glad in
all my life.”
Before the joyous warmth of that greeting, Joe’s jealousy receded. He
could not question her sincerity. All her soul was in her eyes.
He took her hand tenderly in his and felt that it was trembling. Had she
been frightened? He turned her about so that he stood between her and
the visitor.
“Tell me,” he commanded in a low voice. “Has this man offended you?”
“Yes, no, yes!” she whispered. “Oh, Joe, please don’t say anything now!
Please, for my sake, Joe! It’s all right now. I’ll tell you about it
afterward. He’s Reggie’s friend. Don’t make a scene, please, Joe!”
Joe’s muscles stiffened, and had it not been for Mabel’s earnest
pleading, he would have thrown the other fellow out of the room. But
Mabel’s name must not be mixed up in any brawl, and by a mighty effort
he restrained himself.
The visitor during this brief colloquy had been moving about uneasily.
He evidently wished himself anywhere else than where he was. Then, as
the two turned toward him, he put on a mask of carelessness and drawled
lazily:
“Won’t you introduce me to--ah--your friend, Miss Varley?”
Mabel, recalled to her duty as hostess, had no option but to comply.
“This is Mr. Beckworth Fleming, Joe,” she said. “Mr. Fleming, this is
Mr. Matson.”
The two men bowed coldly but neither extended a hand.
“Mr. Fleming is a friend of Reggie’s,” Mabel explained to Joe.
“And of yours also, I hope, Miss Varley,” said Fleming with an
ingratiating smile.
“I said a friend of Reggie’s,” returned Mabel, coldly.
It was a direct cut, and Fleming felt it as he would have felt the lash
of a whip. He turned a dull red and was about to reply, when he caught
the menacing look in Joe’s eyes and stopped. He muttered something about
a pressing engagement, took up his hat and cane, and with a pretence of
haughtiness that failed dismally of its effect, swaggered from the room.