A TEST OF NERVE
The play was so close and so much depended on it that there was a rush
of Pirate players to the plate to dispute the decision. But the umpire
refused to change it, and curtly ordered them to get back into the game.
Joe picked himself up, and, smiling happily, walked into the Giants’
dugout, where he was mauled about by his hilarious clubmates, while
McRae and Robbie beamed their delight.
“You timed that exactly, Joe,” cried Robbie, “and you came down that
base path like a streak. It’s plays like that that stand the other
fellows on their heads. Look at Miles. He’s mad enough to bite nails.
You’ve got his goat for fair.”
“It looks like the winning run,” said McRae. “And it’s lucky that you
didn’t depend on Wheeler to bring you in, for there goes the third
strike. Now it’s up to you to hold the Pirates down in their last half.”
“And rub it in by making it a no-hit game,” adjured Robbie, as Joe put
on his glove and went out to the box.
Joe needed no urging, for his blood was up and his imagination was
fired by the prospect of doing what had not been done in either League
so far that season.
But the Pirates were making their last stand in that inning, and he
knew that he would have his work cut out for him. Their coachers were
out on the diamond, trying to rattle him and waving their arms to get
the fans to join in the chorus. From stands and bleachers rose a din
that was almost overpowering.
Joe sized up Murphy, the first man up, and sent one over that fairly
smoked. Murphy lashed out savagely and hit only the empty air.
“Strike one!” cried the umpire.
Murphy gritted his teeth, got a good toe hold, and prepared for the
next. Joe drifted up a slow one that fooled him utterly.
Then for the third, Joe resorted to his fadeaway, and Murphy, baffled,
went back to the bench.
Jamieson, who succeeded him, gauged the ball better and sent it on a
line to the box. A roar went up that died away suddenly when Joe thrust
out his gloved hand, knocked it down and sent it down to first like a
bullet, getting it there six feet ahead of the runner.
Then Miles, the last hope, came up, and Joe wound up the game in a
blaze of glory by letting him down on three successive strikes.
The Giants had won 1 to 0 in the best-played game of the year. The
newspaper correspondents exhausted their stock of adjectives in
describing it in the next day’s papers.
Only twenty-seven men had faced Joe in that game. Not a man had reached
first. Not a pass had been issued. Not a hit had been made. It was one
of the rarest things in baseball--a perfect game.
And as the crowning feature, the one run that gave the victory to the
Giants had been scored by Joe himself by those dazzling steals to third
and home.
It was a good omen for the success of the Western trip, and the Giant
players were jubilant.
“No jinx after us this time,” chuckled Larry.
“If there is, he got a black-eye to-day,” laughed Jim. “Gee, Joe, that
was a wonderful game. You won it almost by your lonesome. The rest
didn’t have much to do.”
“They had plenty,” corrected Joe. “More than one of those Pirate clouts
would have gone for a hit if it hadn’t been for the stone-wall defense
the boys put up. No man ever won a no-hit game with bad playing behind
him.”
At the hotel table that night Joe noticed that Iredell was not present.
“Wonder where Iredell is,” he remarked to Jim, who was sitting beside
him.
“Search me,” answered the latter. “He may be in later. He’s so grouchy
just now that he seems to be keeping away from the rest of the fellows
as much as he can. You can’t get a pleasant word out of him these days.
I spoke to him to-day on the bench, and he nearly snapped my head off.”
“Too bad,” remarked Joe, regretfully. “I’ve gone out of my way to be
friendly with him, but he won’t have it. Seems to think that I’m to
blame for all his troubles.”
They would have been still more concerned about the missing member of
the team, could they have seen him at that moment.
Iredell, on his way to the hotel, had drifted into one of the low
resorts which ostensibly sold only soft drinks, but where it was easy
enough to get any kind of liquor in the back room. To his surprise, he
saw Hupft, McCarney and Lemblow sitting at one of the tables.
There was a momentary hesitation on the part of the trio before they
ventured to speak to him, for they did not feel sure how their advances
would be received. But a glance at his face showed that he was in a
dejected and reckless mood, and that decided them.
“Hello, Iredell,” called out McCarney, with an assumption of boisterous
cordiality. “Sit down here and take a load off your feet. Have
something with us at my expense.”
Three months before, Iredell would have scorned the invitation. Now he
accepted it.
They talked of indifferent matters, the others studying Iredell
intently.
“I noticed you weren’t playing to-day,” remarked McCarney, with a
sickly grin.
“No,” said Iredell, bitterly. “I ain’t good enough for the Giants any
more. They’ve benched me and put that young brat, Renton, in my place.”
“Case of favoritism, I suppose,” said McCarney, sympathetically. “Why,
you can run rings around Renton when it comes to playing short!”
“That fellow, Matson, has got it in for me,” growled Iredell. “But I’ll
get even with him yet.”
“Sure, you will,” broke in Hupft. “Nobody with the spirit of a man
would take that thing lying down. He’s jealous of you, that’s what he
is. You’ve been captain once, and he’s afraid you may be again, and so
he wants to freeze you off the team.”