OUT FOR REVENGE
“Joe,” said McRae, on the eve of the Giants’ second trip West, “I want
to have a serious talk with you.”
“That sounds ominous, Mac,” replied Joe, with a twinkle in his eye.
“What have I been doing?”
“What I wish every member of the team had been doing,” responded McRae.
“Pitching like a wizard, batting like a fiend, and playing the game
generally as it’s never been played before in my long experience as
a manager. No, it isn’t you, Joe, that I have to growl about. You’re
top-notch in every department of the game, and as a captain you’ve more
than met my expectations. You’ve brought the team up from the second
division to a point where any day they may step into the lead.”
“Give credit to the boys,” said Joe, modestly. “They’re certainly
playing championship ball. That is, with one exception,” he added
hesitatingly.
“With one exception,” repeated McRae. “Exactly! And it’s just about
that exception I want to talk to you. Of course, we’re both thinking of
the same man--Iredell.”
Joe nodded assent.
“I’ve worked myself half sick trying to brace him up,” he said. “But
he’s taken a bitter dislike to me since he was displaced as captain
of the team. He only responds in monosyllables, or oftener yet with
a grunt. He’s such a crack player when he wants to be that I’ve been
hoping he’d wake up and change his tactics.”
“Same here,” said McRae. “He’s been with the team for a long time, and
for that reason I’ve been more patient with him than I otherwise would.
But there comes a time when patience ceases to be a virtue, and I have
a hunch that that time is now.”
“You may be right,” assented Joe. “I’m sorry for Iredell.”
“So am I,” replied McRae. “I’m sorry to see any man throw himself away.
And that’s just what Iredell is doing. If it were only a slump in his
playing, such as any player has at times, it would be different. But
it’s more than that. I’ve had detectives keeping track of him for
the last week or two, and they report that he has been drinking and
frequenting low resorts. You know as well as I do, that no man can do
that and play the game. So I’m going to bench him for a while and see
if that doesn’t bring him to his senses. If it does, well and good. If
it doesn’t, I’ll trade him at the end of the season.”
“That’ll mean Renton in his place,” said Joe, thoughtfully.
“Do you think he measures up to the position?” inquired McRae.
“I’m inclined to think he will,” affirmed Joe. “Of course, he isn’t the
player that Iredell is when he’s going right. But he’ll certainly play
the position as well as Iredell has since we returned from the last
trip. He is an upstanding, ambitious young chap, and he’ll play his
head off to make good. He has all the earmarks of a coming star. With
Larry on one side of him and Jackwell on the other, and with you and me
to drill the fine points of the game into him, I think he’ll fill the
bill.”
“Then it’s a go,” declared McRae. “I’ll have a talk with Iredell
to-night. You tell Renton that he’s to play short to-morrow, and that
it’s up to him to prove that he’s the right man for the job.”
Joe did so, and the young fellow was delighted to learn that his chance
had come.
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Matson,” he promised, “and give you and the team
all I’ve got. If I fall down, it won’t be for the lack of trying.”
Pittsburgh was the first stop on the Giants’ schedule, and Forbes
Field was crowded to repletion when the teams came out on the field.
The local fans had been worked up to a high pitch of enthusiasm by the
closeness of the race, and they looked to see their favorites put the
Giants to rout, as they had on the first visit of the latter to the
Smoky City.
“Look who’s here,” said Jim to Joe, as the two friends drew near to the
grandstand before the preliminary practice.
“Meaning whom?” asked Joe, as his eyes swept the stands without
recognizing any one he knew.
“In the second row near that post on the right of the middle section,”
indicated Jim.
Joe glanced toward that part of the stand, and gave a violent start of
surprise, not unmixed with a deeper emotion.
“That lob-eared scoundrel, Lemblow!” he ejaculated. “And confabbing
with Hupft and McCarney.”
“Evidently as thick as thieves,” commented Jim. “A precious trio. I
wonder they have the face to show themselves at a baseball game when
they’ve done the best they could to bring the sport into disgrace.”
“Three of the worst enemies we have in the world,” murmured Joe, as his
mind ran over the exciting events of the previous season.
Hupft and McCarney had been members of the Giant team that year. They
were good players, but had entered into a conspiracy with a gang of
gamblers--who had bet heavily against the Giants--to lose the pennant.
Lemblow was a minor-league pitcher who had long wanted to get a chance
to play with the Giants. If Joe, their star pitcher, could be put
out of the game, Lemblow figured that his chance for a berth would
be better. He also, therefore, had fallen in with the plans of the
gambling ring, and had, seemingly, stopped at nothing to bring Joe to
grief. How their plans miscarried, how Hupft and McCarney had been put
on the blacklist that debarred them forever from playing in organized
baseball, how Lemblow had been exposed and disgraced, are familiar to
those who have read the preceding volume of this series.
“Wonder what they’re doing here,” puzzled Joe.
“Rogues naturally drift together,” said Jim. “I heard some time ago
that the bunch was playing with one of the semi-pro teams in the
Pittsburgh district. But they usually play only on Saturdays and
Sundays, so I suppose they’re choosing this way to spend their off
time. I suppose if we could hear what they’re saying about us at this
moment, our ears would be blistered.”
“Whatever it is doesn’t matter,” laughed Joe. “They made acquaintance
with our fists once, and I don’t think they’re anxious to repeat the
experience. But I guess we’d better pick out catchers and begin to warm
up. I’ve a hunch that the Pirates are going to pitch Miles to-day, and
if they do we’ll need the best we have in stock to turn them back.”
By the time the bell rang for the beginning of the game, the stands
were black with spectators. The Giant supporters were comparatively
few, but they made up in vehemence what they lacked in numbers.
From the beginning it was evident that the game would be a pitchers’
duel. Miles was in superb form, and up to the ninth inning had only
given three hits, and these so scattered that no runs resulted.
But Joe was in the box for the Giants and was pitching for a no-hit
game. Up to the ninth, not even the scratchiest kind of hit had been
registered from his delivery.
Could he keep it up? The crowd waited breathlessly for the answer.