CHAPTER XIV

A DELIGHTFUL SURPRISE

"Well, we wound up the trip in a blaze of glory, anyway," remarked Jim to Baseball Joe, as they sat in the Pullman coach that was carrying them and the rest of the team back to New York.

"Yes, and we just saved our bacon by doing it," replied Joe. "Those last four games gave us eight out of fifteen for the trip. Not so awfully bad for a team on a trip, and yet not good enough to win the championship. But even at that I guess McRae won't supplant us with a team from the old ladies' home," he added, with a laugh.

"We've got a long series of games on the home grounds now," put in Larry, the optimist. "We'll show these other fellows how the game ought to be played. Just watch us climb."

"Here's hoping you're right," chimed in Burkett. "A slice of the World Series money this year would look mighty good to me."

"That's looking pretty far ahead," said Curry. "Still, if Joe keeps up the batting he's been showing us in Pittsburgh, I'll bet we cop the flag."

"That may be just a flash in the pan," cautioned Joe. "I may have had just a few good days when everything broke just right for me. I'm a pitcher, not a batter."

"Not a batter, eh?" remarked Larry, in feigned surprise. "How surprised Dawley and Hooper and the other Pittsburgh pitchers will be to hear that. They seemed to think you could pickle the pill all right."

The players found the baseball circles of New York in a ferment of interest and excitement over the team. There had been considerable despondency over the poor showing of the Giants in the first three series they had played on the trip. But the four rattling victories they had gained over Pittsburgh had redeemed them in the minds of their followers, and hopes for the pennant had revived.

But the one thing that obscured everything else was the tremendous batting that Joe had done in that last series. The sporting columns of the newspapers had headlines like: "The New Batting Star;" "A Rival to Kid Rose;" "Is There to Be a New Home-Run King?" and "The Colossus of Swat." Joe found his footsteps dogged by reporters eager to get interviews telling how he did it. Moving picture operators begged the privilege of taking him in all positions--as he gripped his bat--the way he stood at the plate--as he drew back for his swing. Illustrated weekly papers had full page pictures of him. Magazines offered him large sums for articles signed with his name. He found himself in the calcium light, holding the center of the stage, the focus of sporting interest and attention.

Joe was, of course, pleased at the distinction he had won, and yet at the same time he was somewhat uneasy and bewildered. He was not especially irked at the attention he was attracting. That had already become an old story as to his pitching. He was hardened to reporters, to being pointed out in the streets, to having a table at which he happened to be dining in a restaurant or hotel become the magnet for all eyes while whispers went about as to who he was. That was one of the penalties of fame, and he had become used to it.

But hitherto his reputation had been that of a great pitcher, and in his own heart he knew he could sustain it. The pitching box was his throne, and he knew he could make good. But he was somewhat nervous about the acclamations which greeted his batting feats. He was not at all sure that he could keep it up. He had never thought of himself as any more than an ordinary batter. He knew that as a pitcher he was not expected to do much batting, and so he had devoted most of his training to perfecting himself in the pitching art. Now he found himself suddenly placed on a pedestal as a Batting King. Suppose it were, as he himself had suggested, merely a flash in the pan. It would be rather humiliating after all this excitement to have the public find out that their new batting idol was only an idol of clay after all.

He confided some of his apprehension to Jim, but his chum only laughed at him.

"Don't worry a bit over that, old man," Jim reassured him. "I only wish I were as sure of getting a million dollars as I am that you've got the batting stuff in you. You've got the eye, you've got the shoulders, you've got the knack of putting all your weight into your blow. You're a natural born batter, and you've just waked up to it."

"But this is only the beginning of the season," argued Joe. "The pitchers haven't yet got into their stride. By midsummer they'll be burning them over, and then more than likely I'll come a cropper."

"Not a bit of it," Jim affirmed confidently. "You won't face better pitching anywhere than we stacked up against in Pittsburgh, and you made all those birds look like thirty cents. They had chills and fever every time you came to the bat."

The matter was not long left in doubt. In the games that followed Joe speedily proved that the Pittsburgh outburst was not a fluke. Home runs rained from his bat in the games with the Brooklyns, the Bostons and the Phillies. And when the Western teams came on for their invasion of the East, they had to take the same medicine. All pitchers looked alike to him. Of course he had his off days when all he could get was a single, and sometimes not that. Once in a long while he went out on strikes, and the pitcher who was lucky or skilful enough to perform that feat hugged it to his breast as a triumph that would help him the next season in demanding a rise in salary. But these occasions were few and far between. The newspapers added a daily slab to their sporting page devoted to Joe's mounting home run record, giving the dates, the parks and the pitchers off whom they were made. And there was hardly a pitcher in the league whose scalp Joe had not added to his rapidly growing collection.

In the business offices of the city, in restaurants, at all kinds of gathering places, the daily question changed. Formerly it had been: "Will the Giants win to-day?" Now it became: "Will Baseball Joe knock out another homer?"

And the fever showed itself in the attendance at the Polo Grounds. Day by day the crowds grew denser. Soon they were having as many spectators at a single game as they had formerly looked for at a double-header. The money rolled into the ticket offices in a steady stream, and the owners and manager of the club wore the "smile that won't come off." The same effect was noted in all the cities of the circuit. The crowds turned out not so much to see the Giants play as to see if Baseball Joe would knock another home run. Joe Matson had become the greatest drawing card of the circuit. If this kept up, it would mean the most prosperous season the League had ever known. For the Giants' owners alone, it meant an added half million dollars for the season. Already, with not more than a third of the games played, they had taken in enough to pay all expenses for the year, and were "on velvet" for the rest of the season.

Nothing in all this turned Joe's head. He was still the same modest, hardworking player he had always been. First and all the time he worked for the success of his team. Already the Giants' owners had voluntarily added ten thousand dollars to his salary, and he was at present the most highly paid player in his League. He knew that next year even this would be doubled, if he kept up his phenomenal work. But he was still the same modest youth, and was still the same hail fellow well met, the pal and idol of all his comrades.

What delighted Baseball Joe far more than any of his triumphs was the information contained in a letter he wore close to his heart that Mabel was coming on to New York with her brother Reggie for a brief stay on her way to her home in Goldsboro. They had been in almost daily correspondence, and their affection had deepened with every day that passed. Jim also had been equally assiduous and equally happy, and both players were counting the days that must elapse before the wedding march would be played at the end of the season.

Luck was with Joe when, in company with Jim, he drove to the station to meet Mabel and Reggie. The rain was falling in torrents. Ordinarily that would have been depressing. But to-day it meant that there would be no game and that he could count on having Mabel to himself with nothing to distract his attention.

Jim was glad on his friend's account, but nevertheless was unusually quiet for him.

"Come out of your trance, old boy," cried Joe, slapping him jovially on the knee.

Jim affected to smile.

"Oh, I know what you're thinking about," charged Joe. "You're jealous because I'm going to see Mabel and you're not going to see Clara. But cheer up, old man. The next time we strike Chicago we'll both run down to Riverside for a visit. Then you'll have the laugh on me, for you'll have Clara all to yourself while Mabel will be in Goldsboro."

Jim tried to find what comfort he could from the prospect, but the Chicago trip seemed a long way off.

They reached the station ahead of time and walked up and down impatiently. The rain and wet tracks had detained the train a little, but at length its giant bulk drew into the station. They scanned the long line of Pullmans anxiously. Then Joe rushed forward with an exclamation of delight as he saw Reggie descend holding out his hand to assist Mabel--Mabel, radiant, starry-eyed, a vision of loveliness.

Jim had followed a little more slowly to give Joe time for the first greeting. But his steps quickened and his eyes lighted up with rapture as behind Mabel Joe's sister Clara came down the steps, sweet as a rose, and with a look in her eyes as she caught sight of Jim that made that young man's heart lose a beat.