A BITTER STRUGGLE
Jackwell’s legs were sagging, and Joe, alarmed at his condition and
afraid that he was going to fall, put his arm about the baseman’s
shoulder to support him.
“Brace up, old man,” he counseled. “What’s come over you?”
“I--I don’t know,” answered Jackwell, trying desperately to get a grip
on himself. “I suddenly felt faint. Everything got black before my
eyes.”
“Touch of the sun, maybe,” said Joe, kindly. “Come over and get a drink
of water and then sit down on the bench for a few minutes. I’ll ask one
of the other fellows to take your place at third for practice.”
Jackwell sank down on the bench, while Joe returned to his practice
with Mylert, somewhat upset by the incident.
A moment later, Bowen, the new centerfielder, came along, and Jackwell
beckoned to him. He sat down beside him, and the two conversed in
whispers, casting surreptitious glances at a part of the grandstand
almost directly behind the third-base position.
Joe kept his eye on the two men and saw Bowen start violently at
something Jackwell whispered to him. His face seemed suddenly to have
been drained of every drop of blood, and he shook like a man with the
ague.
Just then McRae, who had been having an exchange of repartee with Evans,
the manager of the Chicago team, who had chaffed him unmercifully about
the playing of the Giants, came back to the dugout. He glanced in
surprise at the two players.
“What are you fellows doing here?” he asked sharply, glowering at them.
“Didn’t you hear the bell ring for practice? Why aren’t you in your
places on the field?”
“I’m sick, Mr. McRae,” replied Jackwell. “I wish you’d put somebody
else in my place. I ain’t in condition to play to-day.”
“I’m in the same fix,” put in Bowen. “I feel like thirty cents.”
“That’s what the whole team’s worth,” growled McRae. “And even at that
price the fellow that bought them would get stung. What do you mean,
sick? Are you sick or just lazy, soldiering on the job? You seemed
husky enough this morning.”
“It--it may have been something we ate at noon,” suggested Jackwell,
rather lamely. “A touch of ptomaine poisoning, or something like that.”
“Of course, I’ll play if you tell me to,” put in Bowen. “But I don’t
feel up to my work.”
McRae stood for a moment in exasperated study of the two. For some
reason their excuses did not ring true. Yet their pale faces and
evidently unstrung condition seemed to bear out their words.
“Guess there is a jinx after this team all right,” he growled. “You
fellows go over to the club doctor and let him find out what’s the
matter with you. I’ll put other men in your places for the present.”
They hurriedly availed themselves of the permission, and McRae, after
a consultation with Robbie, put Renton in Jackwell’s place and sent
McGuire out in center to hold down Bowen’s position.
Again the bell rang, and the Cubs took their final practice. That they
were in fine condition for the fray was evident from the way they shot
the ball across the diamond. Dazzling plays and almost impossible
catches brought round after round of applause from the spectators. It
was plain that the whole team was in fine fettle, and that the Giants
had their work cut out for them if they were to win.
The Giants, as the visiting team, were first at bat. Axander, the star
twirler of the Cubs, picked up the ball and went into the box with a
jaunty air that bespoke plenty of confidence.
“Play ball!” cried the umpire.
Axander dug his toes into the box and wound up for the first pitch.
And while the crowd watched breathlessly to see the ball leave his
hand, it may be well for the benefit of those who have not read the
preceding volumes of this series to tell who Baseball Joe was and trace
his career up to the time this story opens.
Joe Matson had been born and brought up in the little town of Riverside
in a middle western state. From early boyhood he had been a great lover
of the national game, especially of the pitching end of it, to which
he had taken naturally. His coolness, quick thinking, good judgment
and powerful arm specially fitted him for the box. He soon became
known for his skill as a twirler on his home team, and his reputation
spread to surrounding towns. His early exploits and the difficulties
he had to encounter and overcome are told in the first volume of this
series, entitled: “Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars; or, The Rivals of
Riverside.”
Later, on his school nine, he overcame the obstacles thrown in his way
by the bully of the school and pitched his team to victory over his
rivals. His field was widened when he went to Yale, and in an emergency
he assumed the pitcher’s burden and downed Princeton in a glorious
battle.
That victory proved a turning point in Joe’s life, for the game had
been witnessed by a scout for a minor-league team, always on the alert
for talent, and he made Joe an offer to join the Pittston team of
the Central League. Joe accepted the offer, and soon climbed to the
position of the leading twirler in the League.
Still, he was only a “busher,” and his delight can be imagined when, at
the end of the season, he was drafted into the St. Louis team of the
National League. Now he was really in fast company, and had to test his
skill against the greatest twirlers in the country. But the fans were
quick to learn that he could hold his own with the best of them.
McRae, the manager of the Giants, one of the ablest men in baseball
when it came to judging the ability of a player, determined to get Joe
for the Giants. He did get him, and had never ceased congratulating
himself on the stroke that brought Joe to his team. He soon became its
mainstay, and had been the main factor in winning the championship of
the National League and the World Series twice in succession. He was a
wizard in the box, and his record as pitcher had never been equaled in
the history of the game.
And not only in the box, but at the bat he had proved himself without a
peer. He was a natural batsman, timing and meeting the ball perfectly
and leaning all the weight of his mighty shoulders against it so that
it soared far beyond the reach of the fielders. When he hit the ball
it was very often ticketed for a homer, and at every city on the
League circuit thousands were attracted to the games not only to see a
marvelous exhibition of pitching but to see Matson “knock out another
home run.” What celebrity he gained by his work in both departments
is told in a previous volume, and the way in which he saved the game
from scandal when it was threatened by a gang of crooked gamblers is
narrated in the last volume of the series entitled: “Baseball Joe
Saving the League; or, Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy.”
But Joe had won other triumphs than those of baseball. He had fallen
in love with Mabel Varley, a charming girl whose life he had saved in
a runaway accident, and he had married her at the end of the previous
season on the diamond. They were ideally happy.
Jim Barclay, a Princeton man who had joined the Giants, had speedily
developed into a pitcher only second to Joe himself. He and Joe had
become the closest of chums, and on a visit to Riverside Jim had fallen
a victim to the charms of Joe’s pretty sister, Clara, and was now
engaged to her and hoped for an early marriage.
And now to return to the tense situation on the Chicago ball field,
where the Cubs and Giants faced each other in one of the critical games
of the series.
Curry, the rightfielder of the Giants, was first at bat. He was a good
hitter and was as fast as a flash in getting to first.
Axander shot over a high fast one at which Curry refused to bite, and
it went as a ball. Then came a pretty first strike right over the heart
of the plate. Axander came back with a slow one that lobbed up to the
plate looking as big as a balloon. Curry nearly dislocated his spine
reaching for it, and though he connected with it he raised an easy fly,
which the Cubs’ third baseman caught without moving from his tracks.
Iredell came next to the plate, swinging three bats. He threw away two
of them, tapped each of his heels with the other for luck, faced the
pitcher and glared at him ferociously.
“Put one over, you false alarm, and see me murder it,” he called to
Axander.
Axander grinned at him.
“You’re the captain of the team, aren’t you?” he asked. “Well, you’ll
be only a lieutenant when I get through with you.”
He whizzed one over that Iredell swung at savagely and missed. The next
he fouled off, making the second strike. Then came a ball and then a
third strike, so swift that Iredell struck at it as it settled in the
catcher’s glove.
“You’re out!” shouted the umpire.
Iredell threw down his bat in chagrin and retired to the bench.
Then Burkett, the burly first baseman of the Giants, strode to the
plate. He caught the first ball pitched right near the end of his stick
and belted it into the rightfield stands. It looked like a sure homer,
and the contingent of loyal Giant rooters burst into a cheer. But the
cheer was premature, as the umpire called it a foul, and Burkett, who
had already rounded first, returned, disgruntled, to the plate.
“Had your eyes tried for glasses lately?” he asked the umpire.
“That’ll be about all from you,” returned that functionary. “Another
wise crack like that, and it’s you for the showers.”
Axander’s next throw went for a ball. On the next Burkett whaled a
sharp single over second. A moment later, however, he was caught
napping at first by a quick throw from the pitcher, and the inning
ended without a score. Burkett, who found himself in his regular
position at first, put on his glove and stayed there, glad enough that
he was not near enough to the Giants’ dugout to get the tongue lashing
that McRae had all ready for him.
“Did you see that boob play, Robbie?” McRae growled. “Did you see the
way that perfectly good hit was wasted?”
“Sure, I saw it, John,” replied Robson, laying his hand soothingly on
the knee of his irate friend. “’Twas enough to make a man tear his hair
out by the roots. But the game’s young yet and we may have the last
laugh. I’m banking heavily on what Joe’s going to do to them birds.”
Joe in the meantime had walked out to the box. It was a tribute to
the admiration that was felt for him by fans everywhere that even the
Chicago partisans welcomed his coming with a hearty round of applause.
He was more than a Giant standby. He was the idol of all true lovers of
the national game.
Burton, the heaviest slugger on the Chicago team, was first at bat. Joe
looked him over and then sent the ball over for a perfect strike. It
came in like a bullet. Burton did not even offer at it.
“Strike one!” called the umpire.
The next one had a fast hop on it, and Burton swung six inches beneath
it.
“Strike two!”
Burton set himself for the next one, and succeeded only in fouling
it off. Mylert got the ball and returned it to Joe on the bound. The
latter caught it carelessly and then, without his usual wind-up, sent
it whistling across the plate. It caught Burton entirely off his guard,
and his futile stab at it caused even the Chicago fans to break into
laughter.
“Out!” cried the umpire, and the discomfited Burton retired sheepishly
to the bench.
“That’s showing them up, Joe,” called up Larry Barrett from second.
“Why didn’t you soak that first ball?” demanded Evans, the Chicago
manager. “It was a beauty, right in the groove.”
“Aw,” growled Burton, “how can I hit a ball that I can’t see? That came
like a shot from a rifle. I ain’t no miracle man.”
Gallagher came next and had no better luck. One strike was called on
him, and the other two he missed.
“Look at that boy, John,” exulted Robbie, his red face beaming. “He’s
got them fellows buffaloed right from the jump. He’s making them eat
out of his hand. He’s skinning ’em alive.”
“Fine work,” agreed McRae, his anxious features relaxing somewhat.
“’Twas the best day’s work I ever did when I got him on the team. He’s
a whole nine by himself. And--blistering billikens! Look at that!”
The “that” was a hot liner that Weston had sent right over the box.
Like a flash Joe had leaped into the air and speared it with his gloved
hand. The force of the hit was so great that it knocked him down, but
he came up smiling with the ball in his hand.
There was a moment of stupefied silence, and then the stands rocked
with applause, contributed by the Cub as well as the Giant rooters.
That play alone was worth the price of admission.
Joe drew off his glove and came in from the box, while the Chicagos ran
out to take their places in the field.
“Great stuff, Joe,” cried Jim jubilantly, as he hit his chum a
resounding whack on the shoulder. “They didn’t have a chance. Keep it
up and you’ll have those Cubs crawling into their hole and licking
their wounds.”
“Oh, it will do for a start,” said Joe, modestly. “But that’s only one
inning out of nine, and those fellows may break loose any time. But if
our fellows will only give me a run or two, I’ll try to hold them down.”
But the wished-for runs did not materialize in the Giants’ second turn
at bat. Wheeler made a strong bid for a run when he sent the ball on
a high line between right and center, but the Chicago rightfielder was
off at the crack of the bat and just managed to get his hands on the
ball and shut off what seemed to have all the earmarks of a homer. It
was a sparkling catch and evoked rounds of applause from the Chicago
rooters.
McGuire dribbled a slow one to the box that Axander had no trouble in
getting to first on time. Renton was an easy victim on strikes.
“Looks as if you’d have to win your own game, Joe,” grumbled McRae.
“These boobs have more holes in their bats than a chunk of Swiss
cheese.”
In the Cubs’ half Joe mowed them down as fast as they came to the bat.
His curve and hop ball were working to perfection. He varied his fast
and slow ones with such cunning that he had his opponents up in the
air. It was just a procession of bewildered batters to the plate and
then back to the bench. It looked as though Joe were in for one of the
best days of his brilliant career.
In the third inning the Giants at last broke the ice. Barrett lay down
a well-placed bunt along the third base line that the Cub third baseman
got all mixed up on in his efforts to field. When at last he did get
his hands on it he threw wild, and Barrett easily reached second before
the ball was retrieved.
It looked like the possible beginning of a rally, and instantly all
was commotion on the Giants’ bench. McRae himself ran out to the
coaching line near first, while he sent Jim over to third. The Giant
players began a line of chatter designed to rattle the Cub pitcher.
But Axander only smiled as he took up his position in the box. He
was too much of a veteran to let his opponents get him fussed. But
his smile, though it did not entirely disappear, lost some of its
brightness when he saw that Baseball Joe was the next man to face him.
Cries of encouragement rose from Joe’s mates and from the Giant rooters
in the stands.
“Oh, you home-run slugger!”
“Give the ball a ride!”
“Show him where you live!”
“Send it to kingdom come!”
Amid the babel of cries, Joe took up his position at the plate. His
brain was alert and his nerves like steel.
“Sorry, Matson, but I’ll have to strike you out,” said Axander, with a
grin. “All Giants look alike to me to-day. Giant killer is my middle
name.”
“Don’t waste any sympathy on me,” retorted Joe. “You can send flowers
to my funeral later on. But first give me a chance at the ball.”
Axander wound up and put one over the corner of the plate with all the
force he could muster. Joe caught it near the end of his bat and sent
it soaring out toward rightfield. It was a mighty clout, but when it
came down it was just about six inches on the wrong side of the foul
line.
Joe, who was well on his way to second, came back and again took up his
position at the bat.
But that tremendous hit had given Axander food for thought. The next
ball that came over was so wide of the plate that the catcher had to
jump for it.
Another ball followed in the same place, and the stands began to murmur.
“He’s afraid to let him hit it!”
“He’s going to walk him!”
“Matson’s got his goat!”
But Axander had resolved to play safe, and the next ball was so wide
that it was plain he was doing it with deliberate design.
“Thought you were a giant killer,” jeered Joe. “Have you lost your
nerve? I can see from here you’re trembling.”
Stung by the taunt, Axander put all the stuff he had on the ball and
sent in a swift incurve.
Joe timed it perfectly. There was a terrific crash as the bat met the
ball, and the next instant Joe had dropped the bat and was running to
first like a deer.