THE TABLES TURNED
Baseball Joe waited just long enough to wave his cap at the box in which
his party sat, and then raced with his companions to the clubhouse
before the crowd that was rushing down over the field should overwhelm
them.
Mabel turned towards Mrs. Matson, who had been watching the game with
the most intense interest and yet with a sense of complete bewilderment.
The intricacies of the game were new to her, but she knew that her boy
had won, and at the applause showered upon him her fond heart swelled
with motherly pride.
“What do you think of that son of yours now?” Mabel asked gaily. “Didn’t
I tell you he was going to win?”
“It was j-just wonderful,” replied Mrs. Matson, reaching for her
handkerchief to stay the happy tears that had not been far from her eyes
all through the game.
Mr. Matson had renewed his youth, and his eyes were shining like a
boy’s. Clara clapped her hands and laughed almost hysterically.
“Oh, oh, oh!” she cried. “And he’s my brother!”
Mabel laughed and gave her a little affectionate pat.
“I don’t wonder that you’re proud of him,” she said. Joe would have been
glad to hear the slight tremble in her voice.
In the clubhouse there was, of course, a mighty celebration. A lead
of one game in such a series as that promised to be was, as “Robbie”
exultantly said, “not to be sneezed at.” Now they would have to win only
three more to be sure of the flag, while the Red Sox needed to take four.
And yet, despite the victory, there was no undue boasting or elation.
They had not won by any such margin as to justify too rosy a view of
the future. The Red Sox had fought for the game tooth and nail, and
at various stages a hair would have turned the balance one way or the
other. The Bostons were an enemy to be dreaded, and a profound respect
for their opponents had been implanted in the Giants’ breasts.
Besides, McRae knew that he had “played his ace” in putting Joe into
the box. He had no pitcher of equal rank to bring out on the morrow,
while at least two of the Red Sox boxmen were quite as high as Fraser in
quality.
“You did splendidly to-day, Matson,” said McRae to Joe, clapping him
jovially on the shoulder.
“I’m glad we won,” responded Joe. “But that Fraser is no slouch when it
comes to putting them over.”
“He’s a crackerjack,” the manager admitted. “But you topped him all the
way through. We raked him for seven hits, though he kept them pretty
well scattered. But they only got to you for three, and one of them was
a scratch. And he was wobbly twice, while you only gave one pass.”
“That crack of Burkett’s was a dandy,” observed Joe. “And it came just
in the nick of time.”
“It was a lulu,” chuckled McRae. “My heart was in my mouth when I saw
Cooper making for it. Mighty few hits get away from that bird, but it
was just a bit too high for him.”
Both teams were to leave for Boston that night. A special train made up
entirely of Pullman cars had been prepared to carry them, together with
hundreds of enthusiasts who had planned to go with them back and forth
and see each game of the Series. They would reach the city a little
after midnight, and in order that the athletes might not be disturbed,
they would be shunted into a remote part of the railroad yards where
they could slumber peacefully until morning.
But several hours were to elapse before the train started. Joe hurried
into his street clothes, and, accompanied by Jim Barclay, was whirled
away in a taxicab to the Marlborough, where they had arranged to have a
jolly dinner with his family and the Varleys.
The baseball players found everything ready for them, and the welcome
that greeted them warmed their hearts.
“What a pity that we haven’t a band here ready to strike up: ‘Hail the
conquering heroes come,’” said Mabel, mischievously.
“‘Hero,’ you mean,” corrected Jim. “I’m shining with only reflected
glory. Here’s the real hero of the piece,” indicating Joe. “I’m only one
of the Roman populace.”
“And who’s the villain?” smiled Mr. Matson.
“Oh, Fraser was the villain,” responded Jim. “But Joe foiled him just as
he was about to carry away the che-ild.”
Barclay had not yet met Joe’s family, but now Joe introduced him to his
parents and Clara. They greeted him cordially, and Clara’s eyes fell
before the admiration that leaped into Jim’s merry blue ones.
It is barely possible that that young lady had thought more than once
of what Joe had said of Barclay in the letter that had enclosed the
thousand dollar bill. And now as she studied him shyly from time to
time while he chatted away gaily, she had no difficulty in understanding
why Joe had spoken so enthusiastically of his friend. And she was not
sorry that Mabel had arranged that she and Jim should sit next each
other at the table.
They were soon talking with freedom and animation.
“You ought to be awfully proud of that brother of yours,” Jim declared.
“I should say so!” Clara exclaimed. “He’s the dearest brother that ever
lived.”
“He’s a prince,” assented Jim. “A finer fellow never trod in shoe
leather. I owe an awful lot to him, Miss Matson. I was feeling as
forlorn as only a ‘rookie’ can feel when I broke into the big league,
but he took me up at once and we’ve been like brothers ever since.”
“He’s often spoken of you in his letters home,” replied Clara. “I’d tell
you what he said of you, only it would make you too conceited.”
“And he’s raved to me about that sister of his,” said Jim. “He’s done
more than that. He’s shown me your picture. I’ve been tempted more than
once to steal it from him.”
“What a desperate criminal,” laughed Clara, her cheeks growing pink.
“I think any jury would justify me if they once saw the picture,”
replied Jim, gallantly, “and they certainly would if they caught sight
of the original.”
From this it can be seen that these young folks were fast becoming very
friendly.
“It has been the dream of my life to see New York and Boston,” observed
Clara.
“Is that so?” said Jim, eagerly. “I know both of them like a book. You
must let me show you around.”
“That’s very nice of you,” said Clara, demurely. “But I suppose Joe will
want----”
“Oh, of course,” said Jim. “But Joe will be so busy you know with the
games. He’ll be under a big strain, while I’ll probably have plenty of
time. I’m only a sort of fifth wheel to the coach, while Joe’s the whole
thing. And then, too, Joe’s already got Mabel, and it isn’t fair that he
should have two lovely girls while I’m left out in the cold. You really
must take pity on me.”
Few girls would have been so hard-hearted as to let such a handsome
young fellow as Jim die of grief, and Clara had no intention of
hastening his demise by excessive cruelty on her part. So she assented,
though with the proper degree of maidenly hesitation, and they began
merrily to map out plans for the coming week.
Joe, seated with Mabel on one side and his mother on the other, had also
been enjoying himself hugely through the dinner, while Reggie and Mr.
Matson found plenty to talk about in discussing the events of the day.
The time passed all too swiftly and before they knew it they had to
begin preparations for the journey.
“Let’s look at the weather probabilities for to-morrow,” said Joe,
buying an evening paper at the newsstand as they passed through the
Grand Central Terminal.
“Um--cloudy and unsettled,” he read.
“That means that we’ll have to get busy and win in the first five
innings before the rain comes,” laughed Jim.
“It ought to be a good day to pitch Markwith,” returned Joe. “With a
cloudy day and that blinding speed of his they won’t be able to see the
ball.”
The two young athletes saw their party to their car, and after a few
moments of pleasant chat bade them good-night and repaired to the
Pullmans that had been reserved for the Giant team.
All were in a most jovial mood and filled with highest hopes for the
morrow. Joke and banter flew back and forth, until the watchful McRae
asserted the claims of discipline and sent them all to their berths.
The next morning when they drew the curtains, they found that the
weather man’s prognostications had been correct. Dull, leaden-colored
clouds chased each other across the sky and a bleak wind came from the
east.
“Looks like soggy weather, sure enough,” commented Jim, as he met Joe in
the lavatory.
“It certainly does,” assented Joe. “Hope it holds off till after the
game. It may cut down the attendance.”
“No danger of that unless it rains cats and dogs,” rejoined Jim. “Boston
is the best baseball city in the country, and it’ll take more than a few
clouds or even a drizzle to keep the crowds away.”
They breakfasted in the dining car, and then Joe’s party adjourned to
the hotel where rooms had been reserved. There was not much time for
sight seeing, but they all had a pleasant little stroll on the Common
and in the wonderful Botanical Gardens, before their duties called the
young men away to the baseball grounds.
The weather still continued threatening, but as Jim had prophesied, this
did not affect the attendance. Boston was as wild over the Series as
New York, and long before noon Commonwealth Avenue and Gaffney Street
were packed with the oncoming throngs. By the time the game started the
enormous Braves Field was packed to its utmost capacity.
Personally, McRae welcomed the overcast sky. It was a pitcher’s day, a
day that called for speed, and speed as everybody knew was Markwith’s
“long suit.”
“Smoke ’em over, Red,” was McRae’s admonition, when he told Markwith he
was slated to pitch. “If we can only put this game on the right side of
the ledger, the world’s flag is as good as won. Give us a lead of two
games and it will take the spine out of those birds. They’ll never catch
up.”
“I get you, Mac,” grinned the pitcher. “I’ll zip ’em over so fast
they’ll have to use glasses to see ’em.”
For four innings it looked as though his prophecy would be fulfilled.
His companions played like fiends behind him, and although the Bostons
got to him for three bingles, they were scattered ones, and not a man
got as far as third base.
“Looks as though Red had their goat, John,” Robson remarked to McRae.
“He’s doing fine,” McRae returned, “and our boys seem to be getting to
Banks pretty freely.”
The Giants had, in fact, got a pretty good line on Banks, the port
flinger of the Red Sox, and had accumulated three runs, which, with
Markwith going as he was, seemed a very comfortable lead.
But the glorious uncertainty of the national game was demonstrated in
the next inning. The Giants had been disposed of in their half with a
goose egg, and the Red Sox came in to bat.
The first man up was given a base on balls. The next hit a sharp bounder
to Denton, who ought to have made an easy out either at first or
second, but he juggled the ball and both men were safe.
The error seemed to unnerve Markwith, and he gave another pass, filling
the bases.
“Get to him, boys!” screamed the Boston coacher on the side lines near
first base. “He’s got nothing on the ball but his glove and a prayer.”
Walters, the slugging center fielder, caught the second ball pitched
right on the seam and sent it on a line between left and center for the
cleanest of home runs, clearing the bases and denting the rubber himself
for the fourth run. In jig time, the Red Sox had wiped out the Giants’
advantage and taken the lead.
The crowd went wild and the “Tessie” song swelled up from the stands.
McRae, with his brow like a thunder cloud, beckoned Red from the box and
called in Jim, who, as a matter of precaution but with little idea of
being called upon, had been warming up in a corner of the grounds.
“It’s up to you, Barclay,” he said as he handed him the ball. “Let’s see
now what stuff you’re made of.”
Joe gave Jim an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
“Steady does it, old man,” he said. “They’re only one run ahead and the
bases are empty. Hold them down and our boys will hand you enough runs
to win out.”
It was a trying position for a young and comparatively new pitcher, but
Jim was a “comer” and had already proved in other games that he had both
skill and nerve.
“Knock this one out of the box, too,” came from the stands.
“Sew up the game right now!”
“Eat him up!”
“He’ll be easy!”
“Oh, you Red Sox!”
Jim wound up and shot one over for a strike.
“Easy, is he?” came back from the Giant supporters. “Just watch that
boy’s smoke.”
Another strike followed, and the stands sobered down a little.
“You’re out,” called the umpire, as a third strike split the plate.
Shouts of delight and encouragement came from the Giants’ bench, and
McRae’s face lightened somewhat.
The next man went out on a high foul, and the inning ended when Stock
popped an easy fly to the box.
“Bully for you, old man!” came from his mates, as Jim walked in from the
mound.
“Knock out some runs now, you fellows,” admonished McRae. “Barclay can’t
do it all. And do it in a hurry, too. I don’t like the way those clouds
are coming up.”
The sky was blackening rapidly, and the wind, coming from the east in
strong gusts, told that a storm was on the way.
The Giants knew the need of haste, and they went at their work fiercely.
Larry started proceedings with a rattling two bagger. Denton sacrificed
him to third. Willis lined out a single, bringing in Larry and reaching
second himself a moment later on a passed ball. Becker sent one to right
that scored Willis and netted two bags for himself. Iredell went out
on an infield catch, but Mylert came to the rescue with a sizzling hit
that brought Becker to the plate amid frantic shouts from the New York
rooters.
Three runs had been scored and New York was again in the lead by six to
four. Two men were out. But now rain began to fall, although at first it
was only a drizzle, and McRae, frenzied with anxiety, ordered Burkett to
strike out.
Now, of course, it was the Bostons’ cue to delay the game. If they could
prevent the sixth inning from being fully played out before the rain
stopped proceedings, the score would revert to what it was at the end of
the fifth inning and Boston would be declared the winner.
They came in slowly from the field, stopping frequently to talk to each
other. Then when at last they were at their bench, the first batter
took unusual pains in selecting his bat. And all the time the rain was
falling more heavily.
McRae rushed at the umpire.
“Can’t you see what they’re doing?” he demanded. “Make them play ball.”
The umpire turned sternly to the batter.
“Hurry up there,” he commanded. “None of your monkey tricks or I’ll
forfeit the game to the New Yorks.”
Thus adjured, the batter sauntered as slowly as he dared to the plate.
Jim put over a strike.
“That wasn’t a strike,” argued the Boston captain. “It didn’t come
within six inches of the plate.”
“No argument,” snapped the umpire, who saw through the tactics. “Go
ahead there,” he called to Jim.
Jim put over two more. The batter did not even offer at them. He had
figured that with an occasional ball switched in it would take more time
to put him out on strikes than if he gave a fielder’s chance. But there
were no balls and he was declared out.
The second man crawled like a snail to the plate. It was pouring now and
the bleachers were black with umbrellas. The Giants were fairly dancing
up and down with impatience and apprehension.
Jim pitched like lightning, not waiting to wind up. But before he could
dispose of the batsmen, the heavens opened and the rain came down in
torrents.
[Illustration: THE HEAVENS OPENED AND THE RAIN CAME DOWN IN TORRENTS.]
Play was impossible. The umpire called the game and everybody scurried
for shelter.
Old Jupiter Pluvius had taken a hand in the game.