A GALLANT EFFORT
It is needless to paint the exasperation on the faces of McRae and
Robson and the rest of the Giant team, as they saw victory taken from
them just as they were tightening their grip upon it.
“Talk about luck,” growled McRae. “Those fellows have got hogsheads of
it.”
“Why couldn’t that rain have held off for ten minutes more?” groaned the
rotund Robson.
“It may let up even yet enough to let the game go on,” remarked Larry,
though without much conviction.
“Such a chance,” grunted Willis. “Why, you could take a swim at second
base already.”
There was, indeed, little hope of resuming the game, although in
accordance with the rules, if the rain ceased in half an hour and the
grounds were in condition for play, the umpires could call the teams
back to the field. But the rain was blinding, and to wait around any
longer was only a matter of form.
Joe and Jim had worked their way through the crowds to the box in
which their party sat. In the neat, gray, traveling uniforms that set
their athletic figures off to perfection, the girls thought they looked
handsomer than ever.
All gave them a hearty welcome and gladly made room for them. It was, of
course, only by a coincidence that Joe found himself next to Mabel while
Jim sat close to Clara.
“I’m so glad your side won, Joe,” said motherly Mrs. Matson, beaming
lovingly on her son and heir.
“But we didn’t, Momsey,” Joe laughed a little ruefully.
“Why, I kept count of the runs,” said his mother in surprise, “and your
side made six while the others had only four.”
“That’s right, but our last three don’t count,” explained Joe. “If we
could only have finished out this last inning, we’d have won. But it
wasn’t finished, and so the score went back to the end of the fifth
inning when the Bostons were ahead four to three.”
“I think that’s a shame!” exclaimed his mother, with as near an approach
to indignation as her kindly nature was capable of feeling.
“Those old Bostons were just horrid to try to delay the game that way,”
declared Clara.
“It wasn’t a bit sportsmanlike,” declared Mabel, warmly.
Joe favored Jim with a solemn wink. Both knew that the Giants would have
done precisely the same thing if positions had been reversed. It was a
legitimate enough part of the game if one could “get away with it.”
“Yes,” assented Joe, keeping his face straight. “It didn’t seem exactly
the thing.”
“I don’t wonder Mr. McRae was angry,” said Mabel. “I’m sure he wouldn’t
have done a thing like that.”
Joe had a sudden choking fit.
“Well,” he said, “there’s no use crying over spilt milk. We ought to
have made those runs earlier in the game, that’s all.”
“I felt so sorry for poor Mr. Markwith,” said Mrs. Matson. “It must have
been very mortifying to have to give up before so many people.”
“Poor Red,” said Joe. “It was too bad, especially when he got away to
such a splendid start. But every pitcher has to take his medicine some
time. Pitchers are very much like race horses. One day no one can beat
them and another day any one can beat them.”
“I think you did splendidly, Mr. Barclay,” said Clara, shyly.
“Oh, I didn’t have much to do,” said Jim. “Just the same,” he added,
dropping his voice a trifle, “I’d rather hear you say that than any one
else I know.”
The flush that made Clara look like a wild rose deepened in her cheeks
not only from the words but the quick look that accompanied them.
“Don’t you think it might clear up yet?” she asked, changing the subject.
Jim followed her gaze reluctantly. He had something better to look at
than the weather.
“The clouds do seem to be breaking away a little,” he assented. “But the
base paths are a sea of mud, and the outfield is a perfect quagmire.
There go the umpires now to look at it.”
Those dignitaries (there were four of them that officiated at each game,
one behind the plate, one at the bases and the two others at the foul
lines in right and left field, respectively) were, as a matter of fact,
solemnly stalking out on the field.
From the stands went up a thunderous roar: “Call the game! Call the
game!”
The Boston rooters were taking no chances and were perfectly willing to
go without further baseball that afternoon, now that their favorites had
the game won.
But their exhortations were unnecessary. Even McRae, clinging
desperately to the last chance, could not in justice to his common sense
urge that play should be continued. It was clearly impossible, and would
have degenerated into a farce that would have risked the limbs of his
athletes, to say nothing of the harm it would work to the game.
So there was no protest when the game was formally and finally declared
off, and the disgruntled New Yorks gathered up their bats and strode
from the field.
“Never mind, boys,” comforted McRae. “We can beat the Red Sox but we
can’t beat them and the rain together. Better luck next time.”
“That listens good,” grumbled “Robbie,” who refused to be consoled. “But
now we’ve lost the jump on them and it’s all to be done over again.”
“Well, we’re no worse off than they are, anyway,” returned the Giant
manager.
“If we could only pitch Matson every day, the Series would be a cinch,”
mused Robson.
“A copper-riveted cinch,” agreed McRae. “But I was mightily encouraged
at the way young Barclay mowed them down. The ball didn’t look any
bigger than a pea as it came over the plate.”
“He certainly had lots of stuff on the ball,” admitted Robson. “I wonder
if he can stand the gaff for a full game.”
“I don’t know whether he’s seasoned enough for that yet,” said McRae,
thoughtfully. “But it’ll stand a lot of thinking about. We’ll see first
though how Hughson’s feeling when we get back to New York.”
The return journey to New York was not by any means so joyful as the
trip out had been. Still, there was no discouragement in the Giants’
camp. They had played good ball and with the lead they had and the way
Jim was pitching would probably have won if it had not been for the
rain. And on the theory that the good and bad luck of the game usually
struck an average, they felt that they were due to have the break in
their favor the next time.
As for Joe and Jim, although, of course, they shared the chagrin
of their mates, their cloud had plenty of silver lining. They had
played their own parts well so far in the Series, and had no painful
recollections to grow moody about. And then, too, were they not in the
company of the two girls whom they devoutly believed to be the most
charming in the world?
They made the most of that company in the quiet Sunday that followed.
Mr. and Mrs. Matson smilingly declined Reggie’s cordial invitation, on
the ground that they were feeling the need of rest after the excitement.
The young people bundled into the car and they had a delightful ride
through the woods of Westchester, whose trees were putting on their
autumn tints of scarlet and russet and gold. A supper at the Claremont
put the finish to a day in which the blind god with his bow and arrows
had been extremely busy, and the drive home through the twilight was
something none of them ever forgot.
The next morning, Joe, scanning the paper, gave a delighted exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jim, disturbed in a pleasing reverie that had
nothing to do with baseball.
“Matter enough,” returned Joe, handing him the paper. “Hughson’s going
to pitch. McRae must have fixed it up with him yesterday.”
“Gallant old scout!” cried Jim, his eyes kindling. “I was sure he’d get
into the scrap somewhere. The only way you could keep that old war horse
out of the World Series would be to hit him with an axe!”