ON THE UPWARD CLIMB
“Are you going to tell McRae about your fight with those fellows?”
asked Jim.
“Surely,” answered Joe. “It’s a matter that concerns the club too
nearly to keep from him. When there’s any underhand work going on, he
ought to be the first one to know about it.”
“That’s right,” agreed Jim.
“Then, too,” Joe went on, “McRae knows practically everybody in New
York. There isn’t anybody in the Police Department, for instance, that
wouldn’t do anything in reason that he wanted. He can get them to look
up these fellows, find out just what their standing is, and learn if
the cops have anything on them. Information of that kind may stand us
in good stead if it comes to a showdown.”
There was no game scheduled for the next day, and Joe telephoned down
to McRae’s home and made an appointment with him.
“What’s up, Joe?” asked the manager as he came into the room where Joe
had been shown by the maid.
“Plenty, Mac,” replied Joe, and then went on to tell him of the events
of the night before.
McRae listened with a frown that grew ever deeper and was only
lightened when Joe described the blow that knocked Tompkinson down.
“I’d have given a thousand dollars to have seen that,” he cried. “The
low-down sneaks! I’d like to run them out of town, and, by thunder, I
will if there’s any way to do it!”
He looked up their office addresses in the directory and then took
up the telephone and called for a certain extension number at police
headquarters.
“That you, O’Brien?” he said when he had got the connection. “This
is McRae. Feeling fine, thanks. How’s yourself? Good! Listen, Tom. I
want you to look up a couple of Wall Street men and see if you have
anything on them. Tompkinson and Harrish, brokers. Got it? Yes, that’s
it. On the dead quiet, understand? See what kind of a place they’re
conducting, if they’ve ever been in trouble with the courts or police,
indicted or anything like that. You will? Good! Do as much for you some
day. Yes, the Giants are going fine. Run up and see them play whenever
you can. What, didn’t you get the pass I sent you? Must have been lost
in the mail. Send you another one to-morrow. All right, Tom. Give me
the low-down on those fellows as soon as you can. Thanks. So long, old
man.
“Well, that’s that,” said McRae, as he hung up the receiver and turned
again to Joe. “It’s just as well to know all we can about these
scoundrels and their connections. It may come in handy some time.
I’ll pass the tip to Robbie and we’ll all be on the lookout for any
developments. Of course, I suppose you’ve told Jim about it, but don’t
let any other members of the team get hold of it. It might get them
nervous and unsettled and affect their playing. Gee, Joe, I can’t thank
you enough for the way you trimmed those fellows. It does me good every
time I think of it. And we’ll all do our best to see that the dirty
crooks lose their two hundred thousand.”
It was now the Giants’ turn to visit the grounds of the other eastern
teams, and they braced themselves for the struggle. Thus far they had
had the advantage of playing on the Polo Grounds, where they knew every
inch of ground, were familiar with the lights that slanted across
the field in the late afternoon, knew just at what angle the ball
should be played when it struck a fence or wall, and, above all, had
the inspiration and encouragement that came from the crowds who were
anxious to see them win.
Now conditions were reversed and it was the turn of the other fellows
to fight on their own stamping grounds. But the Giants were known as a
good “road team,” and they faced the issue with confidence.
Joe had inspired the others with his own never-say-die determination
and the team had never been in better fighting trim. Like the
proverbial war horse, they sniffed the battle from afar and were eager
to plunge into the struggle.
Boston came first, and the team from the city of culture went down
before the savage onslaught of the Giants. The latter fairly swept
their opponents off their feet, and when, at the conclusion of the
series, the men from Gotham jumped to Philadelphia they had four
additional scalps at their belt.
The downtrodden Phillies did a little better, but not much. They got
one game from the invaders and another was prevented by rain. But of
the three that were played the Giants annexed two and then moved on to
Brooklyn.
Here, as usual, they met their stiffest opposition. Every one of the
games was played for blood. One resulted in a tie after seventeen
scoreless innings. The Brooklyns took another, but the other two were
swept into the Giants’ bat bags.
So the results of the short tour were eight victories, two defeats, and
one tie for the Giants.
“Rather nifty record, if you ask me,” exulted Jim, whose own fine work,
supplementing that of Joe’s, had been largely responsible for the fine
showing of the team.
“Good as far as it goes,” agreed Joe. “But now the western teams are
coming down like wolves on the fold and we’ll be put to the hardest
test we’ve been up against yet.”
“Let them come,” grinned Jim. “I’m fond of wolf meat.”
Bear meat, however, proved to be on the menu, for the Chicago Cubs were
the first of the western teams to invade the Polo Grounds. Of late they
had been clawing their way through the other teams in their section and
they were full of pep and ginger as they opened in New York.
An immense crowd that filled every seat in the grandstand and bleachers
was on hand to witness the first combat. The traditional rivalry
between the two cities that had existed since the days of “Pop” Anson
and Frank Chance could always be depended on to furnish contests that
would be for blood from the first stroke of the gong.
Evans, the Chicago manager, himself a famous veteran of the game,
strolled up to McRae and shook hands. The two were bitter enemies on
the playing field but the best of friends off it.
“Sorry, John,” chaffed Evans. “It’ll hurt me a lot more than it hurts
you, but we’ve got to have this game. We need it in our business.”
“Seems to me I’ve heard something like that before,” smiled McRae.
“Some day when dreams come true you may manage to squeeze through, but
that won’t be this day. I’ve already chalked the game up on my side of
the ledger.”
“Turn over, turn over, you’re on your back,” gibed the Chicago manager.
“Axander was never in better trim, and he’s just honing to get at you.”
“Axander isn’t so bad,” admitted McRae. “But then, you know, I’ve
got some twirlers myself that are not rotten. One of them is named
Matson――‘Baseball Joe’ they call him. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
Evans grinned and moved on.
The practice was smart and snappy on both sides, and a hush of
suppressed excitement settled down on the spectators when the bell rang
for the game to begin.
The hush was broken by a roar of applause as the Giants scattered to
their positions and this swelled into a hurricane of cheers as Joe
pulled on his glove and walked out to the box.
The first inning was short and sweet――sweet at least for the Giants.
Seven of them might as well have been off the field, for all the work
they had to do.
Joe shot the ball across the plate like a catapult and Burton, the
first man up, was set down on strikes. McGee, the second batter, raised
a towering foul that Mylert caught after a long run close to the
Giants’ dugout. Henderson, the third in the Cub batting order, took
three whiffs at the circumambient and went growling back to the bench
while Joe was forced to raise his cap as he made his way to the dugout.
“That’s what you call putting them over, Joe,” commended McRae. “Keep
it up, and we’ll win in a walk.”
“You sure had them buffaloed,” beamed Robbie. “They didn’t get even a
bowing acquaintance with the ball.”
Axander walked to the box with a confident smile and got a generous
hand from the Chicago supporters in the crowd and also from the
New York fans, who liked the veteran twirler for his skill, his
sportsmanship, and his long years of service during which he had been
an honor to the national game.
He whipped over the first ball for a clean strike. The second just
missed slicing the corner of the plate and went for a ball, Curry
refusing to bite. The next was a fast one, shoulder high, and the big
Giant fielder laced it into right for a sharp single.
It was an auspicious beginning, and it looked still better when Renton,
attempting to sacrifice, laid down a baby bunt that Axander ran in for
but fell down while attempting to field.
Burkett came up amid frantic adjurations from his mates and the crowd
to send his comrades in. He worked the count to two and three and then
sent a sharp grasser to Gallagher at short. The latter made a superb
stop and threw the ball to third, putting out Curry. Henderson returned
the ball to Holstein at second, who muffed it, permitting Renton to get
back to the bag.
The ball had rolled several feet away and Renton thought he saw a
chance to make third. Holstein, however, retrieved the ball quickly and
got it to third in plenty of time. Renton, seeing that he was lost if
he went on, doubled on his tracks. But the ball shot back to second and
he was trapped. He ran back and forth until the ball was put on him for
an out. But in the mix-up, Burkett, by fast running, reached second.
With two out, Joe, who occupied the position of “clean-up” man in the
batting order, came to the plate.
A cheer went up from the crowd and the air was vocal with urgent
entreaties for Joe to win his own game.
Axander looked him over carefully.
“You seem to be rather popular with this crowd,” he said, with a grin.
“I’ll be more so when I straighten out that curve of yours,” laughed
Joe, in response.
“Come out of your trance,” retorted Axander, as he whizzed the first
one over.
There was a terrific crash as Joe caught the ball fair on the nose and
sent it screaming between right and center.
“Blistering billikens!” yelled Robbie, jumping up and down in his
excitement. “He’s killed it!”