CHAPTER XIII

A GALLANT EFFORT

It is needless to paint the exasperation on the faces of McRae and Robson and the rest of the Giant team, as they saw victory taken from them just as they were tightening their grip upon it.

“Talk about luck,” growled McRae. “Those fellows have got hogsheads of it.”

“Why couldn’t that rain have held off for ten minutes more?” groaned the rotund Robson.

“It may let up even yet enough to let the game go on,” remarked Larry, though without much conviction.

“Such a chance,” grunted Willis. “Why, you could take a swim at second base already.”

There was, indeed, little hope of resuming the game, although in accordance with the rules, if the rain ceased in half an hour and the grounds were in condition for play, the umpires could call the teams back to the field. But the rain was blinding, and to wait around any longer was only a matter of form.

Joe and Jim had worked their way through the crowds to the box in which their party sat. In the neat, gray, traveling uniforms that set their athletic figures off to perfection, the girls thought they looked handsomer than ever.

All gave them a hearty welcome and gladly made room for them. It was, of course, only by a coincidence that Joe found himself next to Mabel while Jim sat close to Clara.

“I’m so glad your side won, Joe,” said motherly Mrs. Matson, beaming lovingly on her son and heir.

“But we didn’t, Momsey,” Joe laughed a little ruefully.

“Why, I kept count of the runs,” said his mother in surprise, “and your side made six while the others had only four.”

“That’s right, but our last three don’t count,” explained Joe. “If we could only have finished out this last inning, we’d have won. But it wasn’t finished, and so the score went back to the end of the fifth inning when the Bostons were ahead four to three.”

“I think that’s a shame!” exclaimed his mother, with as near an approach to indignation as her kindly nature was capable of feeling.

“Those old Bostons were just horrid to try to delay the game that way,” declared Clara.

“It wasn’t a bit sportsmanlike,” declared Mabel, warmly.

Joe favored Jim with a solemn wink. Both knew that the Giants would have done precisely the same thing if positions had been reversed. It was a legitimate enough part of the game if one could “get away with it.”

“Yes,” assented Joe, keeping his face straight. “It didn’t seem exactly the thing.”

“I don’t wonder Mr. McRae was angry,” said Mabel. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have done a thing like that.”

Joe had a sudden choking fit.

“Well,” he said, “there’s no use crying over spilt milk. We ought to have made those runs earlier in the game, that’s all.”

“I felt so sorry for poor Mr. Markwith,” said Mrs. Matson. “It must have been very mortifying to have to give up before so many people.”

“Poor Red,” said Joe. “It was too bad, especially when he got away to such a splendid start. But every pitcher has to take his medicine some time. Pitchers are very much like race horses. One day no one can beat them and another day any one can beat them.”

“I think you did splendidly, Mr. Barclay,” said Clara, shyly.

“Oh, I didn’t have much to do,” said Jim. “Just the same,” he added, dropping his voice a trifle, “I’d rather hear you say that than any one else I know.”

The flush that made Clara look like a wild rose deepened in her cheeks not only from the words but the quick look that accompanied them.

“Don’t you think it might clear up yet?” she asked, changing the subject.

Jim followed her gaze reluctantly. He had something better to look at than the weather.

“The clouds do seem to be breaking away a little,” he assented. “But the base paths are a sea of mud, and the outfield is a perfect quagmire. There go the umpires now to look at it.”

Those dignitaries (there were four of them that officiated at each game, one behind the plate, one at the bases and the two others at the foul lines in right and left field, respectively) were, as a matter of fact, solemnly stalking out on the field.

From the stands went up a thunderous roar: “Call the game! Call the game!”

The Boston rooters were taking no chances and were perfectly willing to go without further baseball that afternoon, now that their favorites had the game won.

But their exhortations were unnecessary. Even McRae, clinging desperately to the last chance, could not in justice to his common sense urge that play should be continued. It was clearly impossible, and would have degenerated into a farce that would have risked the limbs of his athletes, to say nothing of the harm it would work to the game.

So there was no protest when the game was formally and finally declared off, and the disgruntled New Yorks gathered up their bats and strode from the field.

“Never mind, boys,” comforted McRae. “We can beat the Red Sox but we can’t beat them and the rain together. Better luck next time.”

“That listens good,” grumbled “Robbie,” who refused to be consoled. “But now we’ve lost the jump on them and it’s all to be done over again.”

“Well, we’re no worse off than they are, anyway,” returned the Giant manager.

“If we could only pitch Matson every day, the Series would be a cinch,” mused Robson.

“A copper-riveted cinch,” agreed McRae. “But I was mightily encouraged at the way young Barclay mowed them down. The ball didn’t look any bigger than a pea as it came over the plate.”

“He certainly had lots of stuff on the ball,” admitted Robson. “I wonder if he can stand the gaff for a full game.”

“I don’t know whether he’s seasoned enough for that yet,” said McRae, thoughtfully. “But it’ll stand a lot of thinking about. We’ll see first though how Hughson’s feeling when we get back to New York.”

The return journey to New York was not by any means so joyful as the trip out had been. Still, there was no discouragement in the Giants’ camp. They had played good ball and with the lead they had and the way Jim was pitching would probably have won if it had not been for the rain. And on the theory that the good and bad luck of the game usually struck an average, they felt that they were due to have the break in their favor the next time.

As for Joe and Jim, although, of course, they shared the chagrin of their mates, their cloud had plenty of silver lining. They had played their own parts well so far in the Series, and had no painful recollections to grow moody about. And then, too, were they not in the company of the two girls whom they devoutly believed to be the most charming in the world?

They made the most of that company in the quiet Sunday that followed. Mr. and Mrs. Matson smilingly declined Reggie’s cordial invitation, on the ground that they were feeling the need of rest after the excitement. The young people bundled into the car and they had a delightful ride through the woods of Westchester, whose trees were putting on their autumn tints of scarlet and russet and gold. A supper at the Claremont put the finish to a day in which the blind god with his bow and arrows had been extremely busy, and the drive home through the twilight was something none of them ever forgot.

The next morning, Joe, scanning the paper, gave a delighted exclamation.

“What’s the matter?” asked Jim, disturbed in a pleasing reverie that had nothing to do with baseball.

“Matter enough,” returned Joe, handing him the paper. “Hughson’s going to pitch. McRae must have fixed it up with him yesterday.”

“Gallant old scout!” cried Jim, his eyes kindling. “I was sure he’d get into the scrap somewhere. The only way you could keep that old war horse out of the World Series would be to hit him with an axe!”