TROUBLE BREWING
Still Jackwell and Bowen stood mute, neither of them venturing to meet
Joe’s gaze.
“If you don’t tell it to me, you’ll have to tell it to McRae,”
suggested Joe. “I’m trying to let you down easy, without calling it
to his attention. If we can settle it among ourselves, so much the
better. Is it some trouble at home that’s weighing on your mind? Is it
something about money matters? If it’s that, perhaps I can help you
out.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Matson,” said Jackwell, who seemed by
common consent to be the spokesman for the two. “But it isn’t either of
those two. It’s something else that neither Ben nor I are quite ready
yet to talk about.
“I know very well that you have a right to know anything that’s
interfering with our playing the game as it ought to be played. And
I’ll admit, and I guess Ben will, too, that we were off our game
to-day. But I think we’ll soon be able to settle the trouble so it
won’t bother us any more.
“I wish you could see your way clear to give us a little more time.
Let Ben and me have time to think and talk it over together. If we can
settle the matter without letting any one else know about it, we’d much
rather do so.”
Joe pondered for a moment.
“I’m willing to go as far as this,” he announced at last. “I’ll give
you a little more time, on this condition. If I note any further
falling off in your play, or you come to me with any excuses to be let
off from a game, I’m going to come down on you like a load of brick.
Then you’ll have to come across, and come across quick, or you’ll be
put off the team. Do you understand?”
“That’s all right,” said Jackwell. “You won’t have any further cause to
complain of me, Mr. Matson. I’ll play my very best.”
“I’ll work my head off to win,” declared Bowen.
They kept their promise in the series of games with the Western teams
that followed. Jackwell played at third with a skill that brought back
the memory of Jerry Denny, and Bowen covered his territory splendidly
in the outfield. It seemed as though Joe’s problem was solved, as far
as they were concerned.
But the worry about them was replaced by another regarding Jim. There
was no denying that the latter was not doing his best work. He was
intensely loyal and wrapped up in the success of the team. But the
opposing teams were getting to him much more freely than they had
before that season. He was getting by in many of his games because the
“breaks” happened to be with him, and because the Giants, with the
new spirit that Joe had infused into them, were playing a phenomenal
fielding game. But there was something missing.
There was nothing amiss in Jim’s physical condition. His arm was in
perfect shape and his control as good as ever. But his mind was not on
the game, as it had formerly been. He worked mechanically, sometimes
abstractedly. He was always trying, but it was as though he were
applying whip and spur to his energies, instead of having them act
joyously and spontaneously.
Joe knew perfectly well what was worrying his chum. Ever since that
involuntary hesitation of Mabel’s, when asked about Clara, Jim had been
a different person. Where formerly he and Joe had laughed and jested
together on the closest terms of friendship and mutual understanding,
there was now a shadow between them, a very slight and nebulous
shadow, but a shadow nevertheless. Jim’s old jollity, the bubbling
effervescence, the sheer joy in living, were conspicuous by their
absence.
It was a matter that could not be talked about, and Joe, grieved to
the heart, could only wait and hope that the matter would be cleared up
happily. To his regret on his chum’s account was added worry about the
influence the trouble might have on the chances of the Giants.
For if there was any weak place in the Giants’ armor, it was in the
pitching staff. At the best, it was none too strong. Joe himself, of
course, was a tower of strength, and Jim was one of the finest twirlers
in either League. But Markwith, though still turning in a fair number
of victories, was past his prime and unquestionably on the down grade.
In another season or two, he would be ready for the minors. Bradley
was coming along fairly well, and Merton, too, had all the signs of a
comer, but they were still too unseasoned to be depended on.
If the deal for Hays had gone through, he would have been a most
welcome addition to the ranks of the Giant boxmen. But the Yankees had
had a change of heart, and had decided to retain him for a while.
So Joe’s dismay at the thought of Jim, his main standby, letting down
in his efficiency was amply justified.
The Cincinnatis came back, as Hughson had prophesied, and took the next
game. But the two following ones went into the Giants’ bat bag, and
with three out of four they felt that they had got revenge for the
trimming that had been handed to them on their last trip to Redland.
St. Louis came next, and this time the Giants made a clean sweep of the
series. They were not so successful with the Pittsburghs, and had to be
satisfied with an even break. But when the latter went over the bridge
the Brooklyns rose in their might and took the whole four games right
off the reel, thus enabling the Giants to pass them and take second
place in the race.
Then came the Chicagos, who were still leading the League, but only by
the narrow margin of one game. If the Giants could take three out of
four from them, the Cubs would fall to second place.
Joe had made his pitching arrangements so that he himself would pitch
the first and fourth games. He did so, and won them both. He had never
pitched with more superb skill, strength and confidence, and the
ordinarily savage Cubs were forced to be as meek as lapdogs.
They got even, to an extent, with Markwith, whom they fairly clawed
to pieces in the second game. Jim pitched in the third, and but for a
senseless play might have won.
That play was made by Iredell in the ninth inning, with the Giants
making their last stand. The Cubs were three runs to the good. One man
was out in the Giants’ half, Curry was on third and Iredell was on
second, with Joe at the bat.
Suddenly, moved by what impulse nobody knew, Iredell tried to steal
third, forgetting for the moment that it was already occupied.
“Back!” yelled Joe in consternation. “Go back!”
With the shout, Iredell realized what he had done, and turned to go
back. But it was too late. The Cub catcher had shot the ball down to
second, and Holstein, with a chuckle, clapped the ball on Iredell as he
slid into the bag.
A roar, partly of rage, partly of glee, rose from the spectators, and
Iredell was unmercifully joshed as he made his way back to the bench.
Joe, a minute later, smashed out a terrific homer on which Curry and he
both dented the plate. But the next man went out on strikes, and with
him went the game. If Iredell had been on second, he also would have
come home on Joe’s circuit clout and the score would have been tied.
The game would have gone into extra innings, with the Giants having at
least an even chance of victory.
As it was, the Chicagos were still leading the League by one game when
they packed their bats and turned their backs upon Manhattan.
McRae was white with rage, as he told Iredell after the game what he
thought of him.
“You ought to have your brain examined,” he whipped out at him. “That
is, if you have enough brain to be seen without a microscope. To steal
third when there was a man already on the bag! You ought to have a
guard to see that the squirrels don’t get you. What in the name of the
Seven Jumping Juggernauts did you do it for?”
“I didn’t know there was a man there,” said Iredell lamely.
McRae looked as though he were going to have a fit.
“Didn’t know a man was there!” he sputtered. “Didn’t know a man was
there! Didn’t know a-- Look here, you fellows,” he shouted to the rest
of the Giants gathered round. “I want you to understand there are no
secrets on this team. You tell Iredell after this whenever there’s a
man on third. Understand?”
He stalked away from the clubhouse in high dudgeon to share his woes
with the ever-faithful Robbie.
It was a hard game to lose, but Joe, as he summed up the results of the
Western invasion felt pretty good over the record. The Giants had won
eleven out of sixteen games from the strongest teams in the League, and
were now only one game behind the leaders. They had climbed steadily
ever since he had become captain.
But though he was elated at the showing of the team his heart was
heavily burdened by his personal troubles. His mother was still in a
precarious condition. He tore open eagerly every letter from home, only
to have his hopes sink again when he learned that she was no better.
Sometimes the strain seemed more than he could bear.
Then there was Jim, dear old Jim, with the cloud on his brow and look
of suffering in his eyes that made Joe’s heart ache whenever he looked
at him. From being the soul of good fellowship, Jim had withdrawn
within himself, a prey to consuming anxiety. He seemed ten years older
than he had a year ago. And as a player, he had slipped undeniably. He
was no longer the terror to opposing batsmen that he had been such a
short time before. Joe gritted his teeth, and mentally scored Clara,
who had brought his friend to such a pass.
But, troubled as he was, Joe summoned up his resolution and bent to his
task. His work lay clearly before him. He was captain of the Giants.
And the Giants must win the pennant!