CHAPTER XXVI

OFF HIS STRIDE

Joe pitched the next day against the Phillies, and won a hard fought battle. Atkins, the Philly pitcher, was in capital form, and the game was a seesaw affair, first one and then the other getting the lead, and it was not until the ninth inning that the contest was decided.

Farley, the third baseman of the Quaker team, was a “rough house” player, who never hesitated to transgress the rules of the game, provided that he could get away with it.

One of his favorite tricks was to grab the belt of an opposing player as he rounded third base. This was often sufficient to throw the runner off his stride and slow him up for a second, and in a game where fractions of a second often marked the difference between a run and an out, the momentary delay many times permitted the ball to get to the plate before the runner.

He resorted to the same trick also, when the third base was occupied by an opponent and a long fly was hit to the outfield. If the ball was caught, the runner, of course, had to touch the bag after the catch before he started for the plate. Just as he started, Farley would grab his belt. The umpire’s eyes would be on the ball to see if it were caught, and Farley could do this with impunity.

It was of little use complaining to the umpire, for that functionary, not having seen the action, could not well punish it. His eyes were his only guide in making decisions.

Twice in this series with the Phillies the Giants had lost in this way what would have been sure runs.

On the day in question, Joe had made a two-bagger and had got to third on a fielder’s choice. There was but one man out, and the proper play at this juncture was a long sacrifice fly to the outfield.

Wheeler got the signal and obeyed orders. He sent out a towering fly that settled into the rightfielder’s hands. The ball had gone high rather than far, which gave the outfielder a good chance to get it home in time to nail the runner.

If Joe was to make the plate, he had to get a quick start and do some fast running. The fly was caught, and Joe broke from the bag just as Farley grabbed his belt. But not for a second did Joe slacken speed. He flew along the base path at a rattling clip and beat the ball to the rubber by an eyelash.

With the roar that went up from the crowd was mingled boisterous laughter.

Farley was standing at third with a ludicrous look of bewilderment on his face, holding in his hand Joe’s belt. He did not seem to know what to do with it, and shifted it from one hand to another as though it were a hot potato.

Joe had unfastened it on the sly as he stood at the bag, and when Farley grabbed it, it came away in his hand without Joe even feeling it. Farley had braced himself for the pull, and the lack of resistance nearly threw him to the ground. He had to stagger some steps before he could regain his balance.

Peal after peal of uproarious laughter at Farley’s foolish appearance rose from the spectators. If ever there was a case of being “caught with the goods,” Farley furnished it at that moment.

And the merriment swelled up anew when Joe walked out to third, and with his hand on his heart and a ceremonious bow, politely asked Mr. Farley to return his property. With his face flaming red from mortification, Farley threw it to him with a scowl and a grunt, and Joe with a tantalizing grin took his time in putting it on.

“Joe,” said McRae, as he shook his hand, “when it comes to outguessing the other fellow there’s nobody in the game that can compare with you. You spring things that nobody ever thought of before. To-day’s an instance. More power to you, my boy.”

Though the Giants had made an immense improvement over their previous recent showing, they were still far from the form they had showed on their last Western trip. And a great part of this, Joe had to admit to himself, was due to Jim’s indifferent showing.

It was not that Jim did not try. He was intensely loyal to the team, of which he had been one of the principal supports. But the old spontaneity was lacking. He had to force himself to his work, where formerly it had been a joy to him. And no man can do his best work under those conditions. Twice within the last few weeks he had been batted out of the box.

“Joe,” said McRae to his captain, “on the dead level, what is the matter with Jim? He isn’t the pitcher he was last season or in the early part of this. What ails him?”

“I’ll tell you, Mac,” replied Joe, who saw the opening he desired. “Jim has heart trouble.”

“What?” cried McRae, in consternation. “Did a doctor tell him so?”

“It isn’t a case for a doctor,” explained Joe. “The only one who can cure Jim’s trouble is a certain girl.”

“Oh, that’s it!” exclaimed McRae with relief. “The girls! The girls! The mischief they make!”

“Don’t forget you were young once yourself, Mac,” said Joe, with a grin. “Now I want to ask you a favor. I have an idea that five minutes’ talk with that girl will set things all right. Why not give Jim a few days off? I don’t ask this simply because Jim is my friend. I think it will be for the good of the team.”

“We’re pretty hard up for pitchers,” said McRae, dubiously.

“I’ll double up while he’s gone,” promised Joe. “I’ll pitch his game as well as my own. I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

“You’re always that,” answered McRae. “Well, have it your own way,” and he walked away muttering again: “The girls! The girls!”

“Jim,” said Joe, later that afternoon, “how about taking a train to-morrow afternoon for Riverside?”

Jim jumped about a foot.

“Do you mean it?” he cried.

“Sure thing,” replied Joe. “I’ve fixed it up with Mac.”

“Glory hallelujah!” shouted Jim. “Joe, you’re the best ever! Where’s that suitcase of mine?”