CHAPTER XXIV

A CRUSHING BLOW

The play had been so swift that the eye could scarcely follow the ball, and it was a few seconds before the majority of the spectators could grasp what had happened.

Then a tremendous shout went up that rolled across the field in increasing volume as the crowds realized that they had seen what would probably never be seen again in a single game. They had seen the New York team break its own record for straight wins, and in addition they had witnessed that rarest of pitching exploits, a no-hit game. Not even a scratch hit had marred Joe's wonderful performance, nor had he given a single base on balls. It was a red-letter day for the Giants and for Joe, and the people who had been there would talk about that game for years.

If any one should have been elated by the marvelous result of that day's work, it was Joe. He had never stood on a higher pinnacle, except perhaps when he had won the last game of the World Series the preceding year. He was more than ever a hero in the eyes of the baseball public of New York, and within five minutes after the game was over the wires had flashed the news to every city of the country. But despite his natural pride in his achievement and his pleasure in knowing that he had won this critical game for his team, it was a very subdued and worried Joe that hurried to the clubhouse after the game was over. There his mates gathered, in the seventh heaven of delight, and there was a general jubilee, in which McRae and Robson joined.

"We did it, we did it!" cried Robbie, bouncing about like a rubber ball in his excitement. "We broke the record! Twenty-seven games in a row!"

"Where do you get that 'we' stuff, you old porpoise," grinned McRae, poking him jovially in the ribs. "Seems to me that Joe had something to do with it. Put it there, Matson," he went on, extending his hand. "You pitched a game that will go down in baseball history and you saved our winning streak from going up in smoke."

Joe put out his left hand, and McRae looked a little surprised. Then he glanced down at Joe's right hand, and a look of consternation swept over his face.

"Great Scott!" he cried. "What's the matter with your hand? It's swelled to twice its usual size."

"It was that drive of Bemis', I guess," replied Joe. "When I nabbed it, I seemed to feel something crack in the hand. Perhaps, though, it's only strained. It will probably be all right by to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" roared McRae, as all crowded around anxiously. "There'll be no waiting till to-morrow. That hand is worth a half million dollars to the New York club, to say nothing of its worth to yourself. Where's the trainer? Where's the doctor? Jump, some of you fellows, and get them here quick!"

There was a general scurrying around, and in a few minutes both of those men were examining the injured hand with the greatest solicitude. They looked grave when they had finished.

"It's hard to tell just what has happened until the swelling has been reduced," pronounced the doctor, as he busied himself with splints and lotions. "I'm afraid, though, that it's more than a sprain. When it swells as much as that it generally means that a bone has been broken."

There was a general groan.

"That means, does it, that he will be out of the game for the rest of the season?" asked McRae, in notes of despair.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," the doctor hastened to reassure him. "It may be only a trifling fracture, and in that case he will have to be out only for a short time. But for the next few weeks anyway, he isn't likely to do any more pitching."

"Who's the best specialist in New York?" demanded McRae.

The doctor named a surgeon of national reputation.

"'Phone him to come at once," commanded McRae. "Or, better yet, Joe, you'd better come right with me now. My car's outside and I'll get you up there in fifteen minutes. Every minute counts now."

Joe hurriedly finished dressing, and McRae bundled him into his automobile. It was a speedy machine, and it was to be feared that the traffic laws were not strictly observed as it made its way downtown. But the traffic policemen all knew McRae and Joe, and there was nothing to prevent their getting to their destination in record time.

A telephone call from the clubhouse had already notified the eminent surgeon that the pair were coming, and he was waiting for them. Without a moment's delay, they were ushered into his inner office, where he stripped off the bandages from the hand and made a thorough examination.

"There is a small dislocation," he said when he had finished. "But I think it will yield readily to treatment. It will not be a permanent injury, and in a little while the hand will be as good as ever."

Both drew a sigh of immense relief.

"A little while," repeated McRae. "Just what do you mean by that, Doctor? You know we're fighting for the pennant, and we're depending on this king pitcher of ours more than on any one else to win out. Every day he's out of the race weakens our chances."

"I can't tell that definitely until to-morrow morning," the doctor replied. "But offhand I should say for two or three weeks at least."

"Two or three weeks!" repeated McRae in tones of mingled dismay and relief. "In those two or three weeks we may lose the flag. But thank heaven it's no worse."

After making an appointment for the next morning, McRae drove Joe to his hotel.

"It's bad enough, Joe," he said to him in parting. "I don't know how we're going to spare you while we're in the thick of the fight. But when I think of what it would mean to the team if you were knocked out altogether, I've got no kick coming. We're ahead of the Pittsburghs now, anyway, thanks to your splendid work, and if we can just hold our own till you get back, we'll pull out all right yet."

Joe found Jim waiting for him, full of anxiety and alarm. But his face lighted up when he learned that the injury was not a permanent one.

"It would have been a mighty sight better to have lost the game to-day than to have bought it at such a price," he said. "But after all, nothing matters as long as your hand is safe. That hand is your fortune."

"To-day was my unlucky day," remarked Joe ruefully, as he looked at his bandaged hand.

"In one sense it was," replied Jim, "but in another it wasn't. To-day you hung up a record. You saved the Giants' winning streak and you pitched a no-hit game!"