THE UNDER DOG
"Talking of angels!" exclaimed Jim, giving Joe a sharp nudge in the ribs.
Joe looked up quickly and saw Hartley coming down the corridor.
"It's 'Bugs,' sure enough," he said. "And, for a wonder, he's walking
straight."
"Guess he's on his good behavior," remarked Hughson. "There's a big
meeting of the American League here just now, winding up the affairs of
the league, now that the playing season is over. Maybe Hartley thinks he
has a chance to catch on somewhere. Like everybody else that's played in
the big leagues, he hates to go back to the bushes. He'd be a find, too,
if he'd only cut out the booze--there's lots of good baseball in him
yet."
"He's a natural player," said Joe, generously. "And one of the best
pitchers I ever saw. You know how Mac tried to hold on to him."
"I don't think he has a Chinaman's chance, though, of staying in big
league company," observed Jim. "After the way he tried to give away our
signals in that game at Boston, the Nationals wouldn't touch him with a
ten-foot pole, and I don't think the American has any use for him either.
You might forgive him for being a drunkard, but not for being a traitor."
Hartley had caught sight of the group, and at first seemed rather
undecided whether to go on or stop. The bitter feeling he had for Joe,
however, was too strong to resist, and he came over to where they were. He
paid no attention to Jim, and gave a curt nod to Hughson and fixed a
malignant stare on Joe.
"All dolled up," he said, with a sneer, as he noted the quiet but handsome
suit that Joe was wearing. "I could have glad rags, too, if you hadn't
bilked me out of four thousand dollars."
"Cut out that talk, Bugs," said Joe, though not unkindly. "I never did you
out of anything and you know it."
"Yes, you did," snarled Hartley. "You got me fired from the Giants and did
me out of my share of the World's Series money."
"You did yourself out of it, Bugs," said Joe, patiently. "I did my best to
have Mac hold on to you. I never was anything but your friend. Do you
remember how Jim and I put you to bed that night in St. Louis when you
were drunk? We took you up the back way so Mac wouldn't get next. Take a
fool's advice, Bugs--cut out the liquor and play the game."
"I don't want any advice from you!" sneered Hartley. "And take it from me,
I'll get you yet."
"Beat it, Bugs!" Jim broke in sternly, "while the going's good. Roll your
hoop now, or I'll help you."
Hartley hesitated a moment, but took Jim's advice and with a muttered
threat went on his way.
"Mad as a March hare," murmured Jim, as they watched the retreating
figure.
"Do a man a favor and he'll never forgive you," quoted Joe.
"Where did he get his grouch against you?" asked Hughson, curiously.
"Search me," replied Joe. "I think it dates from the time when he was
batted out of the box and Mac sent me in to take his place. I won the game
and Bugs has been sore at me ever since. He figured that I tried to show
him up."
"I wonder how he got here?" mused Hughson. "The last time I saw him was in
New York, and the money I lent him wasn't enough to bring him on."
"Perhaps Mac gave him transportation," suggested Jim.
"Not on your life," rejoined Hughson. "Mac's got a heart as big as a
house, but he hates a traitor. You see, though, Joe, I was right in giving
you the tip. Keep your eyes open, old man."
Joe was about to make a laughing reply, but just at that moment Larry and
Denton came along with broad smiles of welcome on their faces, and the
unpleasant episode was forgotten.
It was a jolly party that left Chicago the next morning for the trip
around the world. The managers had chartered a special train which was
made up wholly of Pullman sleepers, a dining car and a smoker.
It was travel _de luxe_, and the sumptuous train was to be their home for
the full month that would elapse before they reached the coast.
"Rather soft, eh, for the poor baseball slaves," grinned Jim, as he
stretched out his long legs luxuriously and gazed out of the window at the
flying telegraph poles.
"This is the life," chanted Larry Barrett.
"Nothing to do till to-morrow," chimed in Denton. "And not much even
then."
"Don't you boys go patting yourselves on the back," smiled Robbie, looking
more like a cherub than ever, as he stopped beside their seats on his way
along the aisle. "These games, remember, are to be the real thing--there's
going to be no sloppy or careless work just because you're not playing
for the championship. They're going to be fights from the time the gong
rings till the last man is out in the ninth inning."
If Robbie wanted action, he got it, and the first games had a snap and vim
about them that augured well for the success of the trip. It is true that
the players had not the stimulus that comes from a fight for the pennant,
but other motives were not lacking.
There was one game which was a nip-and-tuck affair from start to finish.
At the end of the fourth inning the score stood 1 to 1, and at the end of
the sixth inning the score had advanced so that it stood 2 to 2.
"Say, we don't seem to be getting anywhere in this game," remarked Jim to
Joe.
"Oh, well, we've got three more innings to play," was the answer.
In the seventh inning a most remarkable happening occurred. The
All-Americans had three men on bases with nobody out. It looked as if they
might score, but Joe took a sudden brace and pitched the next man at the
bat out in one-two-three order.
The next man up knocked a pop fly, which Joe gathered in with ease.
"That's the way to do it, Joe!" sang out one of his companions. "Now go
for the third man!"
The third fellow to the bat was a notable hitter, and nearly every one
thought he would lace out at least a two-bagger, bringing in probably
three runs. Instead, however, he knocked two fouls, and then sent a liner
down to first base, which the baseman caught with ease; and that ended the
chance for scoring.
"That's pulling it out of the fire!" cried McRae. The showing had been a
good one, but what made the inning so remarkable was the fact that in
one-two-three order the Giants got the bases filled exactly as they had
been filled before. Then, more amazing still, the next man was pitched
out, the second man knocked a pop fly to the pitcher, and it was Joe
himself, coming to the bat, hit out a liner to third base, which was
gathered in by the baseman, thus ending the Giants hope of scoring.
"Well, what do you know about that!" cried Brennan. "The inning on each
side was exactly alike, with the exception that our third man out flied to
first base, while your man flied to third."
But that ended the similarity both in batting and in scoring, for in the
eighth inning the Giants added another run to their score, and held this
lead to the end, even though the All-Americans fought desperately in the
effort to tie the score.
"Oh, we had to win," said one of the Giants. "Too many of our folks
looking at us to lose."
Many members of the teams had their wives or sisters with them, and
defeat would have been galling under the eyes of the fair spectators.
Then, too, the Giants had their reputation to sustain as the Champions of
the World. On the other hand, the All-Americans were anxious to show that
even though they had not been in the World's Series, they ought to have
been--and it was a keen delight to them to make their adversaries bite the
dust.
Add to this the fact that there was a strong spirit of rivalry,
good-natured but intense, between the scrappy McRae and the equally
pugnacious Brennan, whose team had been nosed out by the Giants in that
last desperate race down the stretch for the pennant, and it is no wonder
that the crowds kept getting larger in every city they played, that the
gate receipts made the managers chuckle, that the great city papers gave
extended reports of the games and that the baseball trip around the world
began to engross the attention of every lover of sports in the country.
Joe had never been in finer fettle. His fast balls went over the plate
like bullets from a gatling gun. His fadeaway was working to a charm. He
wound the ball near the batters' necks and curved it out of reach of their
bats with an ease and precision that explained to the applauding crowds
why he was rated as the foremost pitcher of the day.
Jim, too, showed the effect of his season's work and Joe's helpful
coaching, and between the two they accounted for three of the games won by
the Giants before they reached Colorado. Two other games had gone to the
All-Americans in slap-dash, ding-dong finishes, and it was an even thing
as to which team would have the most games to its credit by the time they
had reached the Pacific coast.
The tension was relaxed somewhat when they reached Denver, where, for the
first time, instead of fighting it out between themselves a team picked
from both nines was to play the local club.
"Here's where we get a rest," sighed Mylert, the burly catcher of the
Giant team.
"It will be no trick at all to wipe up the earth with these bushers,"
laughed Larry Barrett.
"What we'll do to them will be a sin and a shame," agreed "Red" Curry, he
of the flaming mop, who was accustomed to play the "sun field" at the Polo
Grounds.
"It's almost a crime to show them up before their home crowd," chimed in
Iredell, the Giant shortstop.
But if the local club was in for a beating, they showed no special
trepidation as they came out on the field for practice. If the haughty
major leaguers had expected their humble adversaries to roll over and play
dead in advance of the game itself, they were certainly doomed to
disappointment.
The home team went through its preliminary work in a snappy, finished way
that brought frequent applause from the crowds that thronged the stand.
Before the game, Brennan, of the Chicagos, sauntered over to Thorpe, the
local manager, who chanced to be an old acquaintance.
"Got a dandy crowd here to-day, Bill," he said. "We ought to give them a
run for their money. Suppose I lend you one of our star pitchers, just to
make things more interesting."
"Thank you, Roger," Thorpe replied, with a slow smile, "but I think we're
going to make it interesting for you fellows, anyway."
"Quit your kidding," grinned Brennan, with a facetious poke in the ribs,
and strolled back to the bench.
The gong rang, the field cleared, and the visiting team came to the bat.
Larry, who had finished the season in a blaze of glory as the leading
batsman of the National League came up to the plate, swinging three bats.
He threw away two of them, tapped his heels for luck and grinned
complacently at the Denver pitcher.
"Trot out the best you've got, kid," he called, "and if you can put it
over the plate I'll murder it."