CHAPTER XII

THE TABLES TURNED

Baseball Joe waited just long enough to wave his cap at the box in which his party sat, and then raced with his companions to the clubhouse before the crowd that was rushing down over the field should overwhelm them.

Mabel turned towards Mrs. Matson, who had been watching the game with the most intense interest and yet with a sense of complete bewilderment. The intricacies of the game were new to her, but she knew that her boy had won, and at the applause showered upon him her fond heart swelled with motherly pride.

“What do you think of that son of yours now?” Mabel asked gaily. “Didn’t I tell you he was going to win?”

“It was j-just wonderful,” replied Mrs. Matson, reaching for her handkerchief to stay the happy tears that had not been far from her eyes all through the game.

Mr. Matson had renewed his youth, and his eyes were shining like a boy’s. Clara clapped her hands and laughed almost hysterically.

“Oh, oh, oh!” she cried. “And he’s my brother!”

Mabel laughed and gave her a little affectionate pat.

“I don’t wonder that you’re proud of him,” she said. Joe would have been glad to hear the slight tremble in her voice.

In the clubhouse there was, of course, a mighty celebration. A lead of one game in such a series as that promised to be was, as “Robbie” exultantly said, “not to be sneezed at.” Now they would have to win only three more to be sure of the flag, while the Red Sox needed to take four.

And yet, despite the victory, there was no undue boasting or elation. They had not won by any such margin as to justify too rosy a view of the future. The Red Sox had fought for the game tooth and nail, and at various stages a hair would have turned the balance one way or the other. The Bostons were an enemy to be dreaded, and a profound respect for their opponents had been implanted in the Giants’ breasts.

Besides, McRae knew that he had “played his ace” in putting Joe into the box. He had no pitcher of equal rank to bring out on the morrow, while at least two of the Red Sox boxmen were quite as high as Fraser in quality.

“You did splendidly to-day, Matson,” said McRae to Joe, clapping him jovially on the shoulder.

“I’m glad we won,” responded Joe. “But that Fraser is no slouch when it comes to putting them over.”

“He’s a crackerjack,” the manager admitted. “But you topped him all the way through. We raked him for seven hits, though he kept them pretty well scattered. But they only got to you for three, and one of them was a scratch. And he was wobbly twice, while you only gave one pass.”

“That crack of Burkett’s was a dandy,” observed Joe. “And it came just in the nick of time.”

“It was a lulu,” chuckled McRae. “My heart was in my mouth when I saw Cooper making for it. Mighty few hits get away from that bird, but it was just a bit too high for him.”

Both teams were to leave for Boston that night. A special train made up entirely of Pullman cars had been prepared to carry them, together with hundreds of enthusiasts who had planned to go with them back and forth and see each game of the Series. They would reach the city a little after midnight, and in order that the athletes might not be disturbed, they would be shunted into a remote part of the railroad yards where they could slumber peacefully until morning.

But several hours were to elapse before the train started. Joe hurried into his street clothes, and, accompanied by Jim Barclay, was whirled away in a taxicab to the Marlborough, where they had arranged to have a jolly dinner with his family and the Varleys.

The baseball players found everything ready for them, and the welcome that greeted them warmed their hearts.

“What a pity that we haven’t a band here ready to strike up: ‘Hail the conquering heroes come,’” said Mabel, mischievously.

“‘Hero,’ you mean,” corrected Jim. “I’m shining with only reflected glory. Here’s the real hero of the piece,” indicating Joe. “I’m only one of the Roman populace.”

“And who’s the villain?” smiled Mr. Matson.

“Oh, Fraser was the villain,” responded Jim. “But Joe foiled him just as he was about to carry away the che-ild.”

Barclay had not yet met Joe’s family, but now Joe introduced him to his parents and Clara. They greeted him cordially, and Clara’s eyes fell before the admiration that leaped into Jim’s merry blue ones.

It is barely possible that that young lady had thought more than once of what Joe had said of Barclay in the letter that had enclosed the thousand dollar bill. And now as she studied him shyly from time to time while he chatted away gaily, she had no difficulty in understanding why Joe had spoken so enthusiastically of his friend. And she was not sorry that Mabel had arranged that she and Jim should sit next each other at the table.

They were soon talking with freedom and animation.

“You ought to be awfully proud of that brother of yours,” Jim declared.

“I should say so!” Clara exclaimed. “He’s the dearest brother that ever lived.”

“He’s a prince,” assented Jim. “A finer fellow never trod in shoe leather. I owe an awful lot to him, Miss Matson. I was feeling as forlorn as only a ‘rookie’ can feel when I broke into the big league, but he took me up at once and we’ve been like brothers ever since.”

“He’s often spoken of you in his letters home,” replied Clara. “I’d tell you what he said of you, only it would make you too conceited.”

“And he’s raved to me about that sister of his,” said Jim. “He’s done more than that. He’s shown me your picture. I’ve been tempted more than once to steal it from him.”

“What a desperate criminal,” laughed Clara, her cheeks growing pink.

“I think any jury would justify me if they once saw the picture,” replied Jim, gallantly, “and they certainly would if they caught sight of the original.”

From this it can be seen that these young folks were fast becoming very friendly.

“It has been the dream of my life to see New York and Boston,” observed Clara.

“Is that so?” said Jim, eagerly. “I know both of them like a book. You must let me show you around.”

“That’s very nice of you,” said Clara, demurely. “But I suppose Joe will want----”

“Oh, of course,” said Jim. “But Joe will be so busy you know with the games. He’ll be under a big strain, while I’ll probably have plenty of time. I’m only a sort of fifth wheel to the coach, while Joe’s the whole thing. And then, too, Joe’s already got Mabel, and it isn’t fair that he should have two lovely girls while I’m left out in the cold. You really must take pity on me.”

Few girls would have been so hard-hearted as to let such a handsome young fellow as Jim die of grief, and Clara had no intention of hastening his demise by excessive cruelty on her part. So she assented, though with the proper degree of maidenly hesitation, and they began merrily to map out plans for the coming week.

Joe, seated with Mabel on one side and his mother on the other, had also been enjoying himself hugely through the dinner, while Reggie and Mr. Matson found plenty to talk about in discussing the events of the day. The time passed all too swiftly and before they knew it they had to begin preparations for the journey.

“Let’s look at the weather probabilities for to-morrow,” said Joe, buying an evening paper at the newsstand as they passed through the Grand Central Terminal.

“Um--cloudy and unsettled,” he read.

“That means that we’ll have to get busy and win in the first five innings before the rain comes,” laughed Jim.

“It ought to be a good day to pitch Markwith,” returned Joe. “With a cloudy day and that blinding speed of his they won’t be able to see the ball.”

The two young athletes saw their party to their car, and after a few moments of pleasant chat bade them good-night and repaired to the Pullmans that had been reserved for the Giant team.

All were in a most jovial mood and filled with highest hopes for the morrow. Joke and banter flew back and forth, until the watchful McRae asserted the claims of discipline and sent them all to their berths.

The next morning when they drew the curtains, they found that the weather man’s prognostications had been correct. Dull, leaden-colored clouds chased each other across the sky and a bleak wind came from the east.

“Looks like soggy weather, sure enough,” commented Jim, as he met Joe in the lavatory.

“It certainly does,” assented Joe. “Hope it holds off till after the game. It may cut down the attendance.”

“No danger of that unless it rains cats and dogs,” rejoined Jim. “Boston is the best baseball city in the country, and it’ll take more than a few clouds or even a drizzle to keep the crowds away.”

They breakfasted in the dining car, and then Joe’s party adjourned to the hotel where rooms had been reserved. There was not much time for sight seeing, but they all had a pleasant little stroll on the Common and in the wonderful Botanical Gardens, before their duties called the young men away to the baseball grounds.

The weather still continued threatening, but as Jim had prophesied, this did not affect the attendance. Boston was as wild over the Series as New York, and long before noon Commonwealth Avenue and Gaffney Street were packed with the oncoming throngs. By the time the game started the enormous Braves Field was packed to its utmost capacity.

Personally, McRae welcomed the overcast sky. It was a pitcher’s day, a day that called for speed, and speed as everybody knew was Markwith’s “long suit.”

“Smoke ’em over, Red,” was McRae’s admonition, when he told Markwith he was slated to pitch. “If we can only put this game on the right side of the ledger, the world’s flag is as good as won. Give us a lead of two games and it will take the spine out of those birds. They’ll never catch up.”

“I get you, Mac,” grinned the pitcher. “I’ll zip ’em over so fast they’ll have to use glasses to see ’em.”

For four innings it looked as though his prophecy would be fulfilled. His companions played like fiends behind him, and although the Bostons got to him for three bingles, they were scattered ones, and not a man got as far as third base.

“Looks as though Red had their goat, John,” Robson remarked to McRae.

“He’s doing fine,” McRae returned, “and our boys seem to be getting to Banks pretty freely.”

The Giants had, in fact, got a pretty good line on Banks, the port flinger of the Red Sox, and had accumulated three runs, which, with Markwith going as he was, seemed a very comfortable lead.

But the glorious uncertainty of the national game was demonstrated in the next inning. The Giants had been disposed of in their half with a goose egg, and the Red Sox came in to bat.

The first man up was given a base on balls. The next hit a sharp bounder to Denton, who ought to have made an easy out either at first or second, but he juggled the ball and both men were safe.

The error seemed to unnerve Markwith, and he gave another pass, filling the bases.

“Get to him, boys!” screamed the Boston coacher on the side lines near first base. “He’s got nothing on the ball but his glove and a prayer.”

Walters, the slugging center fielder, caught the second ball pitched right on the seam and sent it on a line between left and center for the cleanest of home runs, clearing the bases and denting the rubber himself for the fourth run. In jig time, the Red Sox had wiped out the Giants’ advantage and taken the lead.

The crowd went wild and the “Tessie” song swelled up from the stands.

McRae, with his brow like a thunder cloud, beckoned Red from the box and called in Jim, who, as a matter of precaution but with little idea of being called upon, had been warming up in a corner of the grounds.

“It’s up to you, Barclay,” he said as he handed him the ball. “Let’s see now what stuff you’re made of.”

Joe gave Jim an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

“Steady does it, old man,” he said. “They’re only one run ahead and the bases are empty. Hold them down and our boys will hand you enough runs to win out.”

It was a trying position for a young and comparatively new pitcher, but Jim was a “comer” and had already proved in other games that he had both skill and nerve.

“Knock this one out of the box, too,” came from the stands.

“Sew up the game right now!”

“Eat him up!”

“He’ll be easy!”

“Oh, you Red Sox!”

Jim wound up and shot one over for a strike.

“Easy, is he?” came back from the Giant supporters. “Just watch that boy’s smoke.”

Another strike followed, and the stands sobered down a little.

“You’re out,” called the umpire, as a third strike split the plate.

Shouts of delight and encouragement came from the Giants’ bench, and McRae’s face lightened somewhat.

The next man went out on a high foul, and the inning ended when Stock popped an easy fly to the box.

“Bully for you, old man!” came from his mates, as Jim walked in from the mound.

“Knock out some runs now, you fellows,” admonished McRae. “Barclay can’t do it all. And do it in a hurry, too. I don’t like the way those clouds are coming up.”

The sky was blackening rapidly, and the wind, coming from the east in strong gusts, told that a storm was on the way.

The Giants knew the need of haste, and they went at their work fiercely. Larry started proceedings with a rattling two bagger. Denton sacrificed him to third. Willis lined out a single, bringing in Larry and reaching second himself a moment later on a passed ball. Becker sent one to right that scored Willis and netted two bags for himself. Iredell went out on an infield catch, but Mylert came to the rescue with a sizzling hit that brought Becker to the plate amid frantic shouts from the New York rooters.

Three runs had been scored and New York was again in the lead by six to four. Two men were out. But now rain began to fall, although at first it was only a drizzle, and McRae, frenzied with anxiety, ordered Burkett to strike out.

Now, of course, it was the Bostons’ cue to delay the game. If they could prevent the sixth inning from being fully played out before the rain stopped proceedings, the score would revert to what it was at the end of the fifth inning and Boston would be declared the winner.

They came in slowly from the field, stopping frequently to talk to each other. Then when at last they were at their bench, the first batter took unusual pains in selecting his bat. And all the time the rain was falling more heavily.

McRae rushed at the umpire.

“Can’t you see what they’re doing?” he demanded. “Make them play ball.”

The umpire turned sternly to the batter.

“Hurry up there,” he commanded. “None of your monkey tricks or I’ll forfeit the game to the New Yorks.”

Thus adjured, the batter sauntered as slowly as he dared to the plate.

Jim put over a strike.

“That wasn’t a strike,” argued the Boston captain. “It didn’t come within six inches of the plate.”

“No argument,” snapped the umpire, who saw through the tactics. “Go ahead there,” he called to Jim.

Jim put over two more. The batter did not even offer at them. He had figured that with an occasional ball switched in it would take more time to put him out on strikes than if he gave a fielder’s chance. But there were no balls and he was declared out.

The second man crawled like a snail to the plate. It was pouring now and the bleachers were black with umbrellas. The Giants were fairly dancing up and down with impatience and apprehension.

Jim pitched like lightning, not waiting to wind up. But before he could dispose of the batsmen, the heavens opened and the rain came down in torrents.

Play was impossible. The umpire called the game and everybody scurried for shelter.

Old Jupiter Pluvius had taken a hand in the game.