CHAPTER XIV

MORE HARD LUCK

“Won’t this make Boston feel sore!” Baseball Joe exulted.

“You bet it will,” chuckled Jim. “That’s the one thing they were banking on more than anything else. With Hughson out, they thought we didn’t have a chance.”

“Let’s get through breakfast in a hurry and run up and see the old boy,” cried Joe.

Jim needed no urging and they were soon in a taxicab and on their way to Hughson’s home.

They were met at the door by Mrs. Hughson, who greeted them with a pleasant smile and ushered them into the living room, where they found the great pitcher stretched out at his ease and running over the columns of the morning paper.

He jumped to his feet when he saw who his visitors were, and there was a hearty interchange of handshakes.

“So Richard is himself again,” beamed Joe.

“Best news we’ve had in a dog’s age,” added Jim.

“Yes, I guess the old salary wing is on the job again,” laughed Hughson.

“How’s it feeling?” asked Joe, eagerly.

“Fine as silk,” Hughson responded. “I’ve been trying it out gradually, and I don’t see but what I can put them over as well as ever I did. It hurts me a little on the high, fast ones, but everything else I’ve got in stock seems to go as well as I could ask.”

“What does the doctor say about your pitching?” asked Jim.

“Oh, he’s dead set against it,” was the answer. “Tells me it isn’t well yet by any means, and that it may go back on me any minute. But you know how those doctors are. They always want to make a sure thing of it. But McRae and I have been talking it over, and we’ve concluded that in the present condition of things it might be well to take a chance.”

“That head of yours is all right, anyway, you old fox,” laughed Joe. “You’ve always pitched with that as much as with your arm. You’ll outguess those fellows, even if you have to favor your arm a little.”

“We’ll hope so, anyway,” was the reply. “That was hard luck the boys had in Boston on Saturday, wasn’t it? Pity we couldn’t have had it played here that day. It didn’t rain a drop in New York.”

“We were surely up against it,” replied Joe. “But to-day’s another day and we’ll hope it tells a different story.”

“By the way,” grinned Hughson, “an old friend of yours was up here yesterday.”

“Is that so?” asked Joe. “Who was it?”

“‘Bugs’ Hartley.”

The two young men gave vent to an exclamation of surprise.

“He’s a great friend of mine,” said Joe, dryly. “He met me on the street the other night and showed me that I was as popular with him as a rattlesnake at a picnic party.”

“He certainly is sore at you,” Hughson laughed. “He started in to pan you but I shut him up in a hurry. I told him that you’d always done everything you could to help him, and I hinted to him that we knew pretty well who drugged your coffee that day you pitched against the Phillies. He swore, of course, that he didn’t do it.”

“I know that he did,” Joe replied. “But still I’ve never felt so sore against poor old Bugs as I would have felt against any one else who did such a thing, because I knew that he was a little queer in the head. Even now I’d gladly do him a favor if I could. What did he come here for?”

“He wanted to get on to Boston but didn’t have the price,” answered Hughson. “He thought that if he could see Rawlings he might get a chance with the Braves for next season. And he might, at that. You know what Rawlings has done with a lot of cast-offs from other teams, and if he could keep Bugs from kicking over the traces he might get something out of him next year. You know as well as I do what Bugs can do in the pitching line if he’ll only brace up and cut out drink. So I coughed up enough to send him on and I hope he’ll get another chance.”

“I hope so,” rejoined Joe, heartily. “There are mighty few teams that can beat him when he’s right.”

“But keep your eyes open, Joe, just the same,” counseled Hughson. “He’s holding a grudge against you in that old twisted brain of his, and you’d be as safe with him as if you were on a battlefield.”

“I guess he’s done his worst already,” Joe laughed carelessly.

They talked a few minutes longer, and then, as the rubber came in to give Hughson’s arm its daily massage, they took their way downtown.

The whole city was alive with excitement at the news that the famous standby of the Giants was to be in the box that afternoon. Yet mingled with this was an under current of anxiety. Was he in shape to pitch? Would that mighty arm of his hold out, so soon after his injury?

If wild and long-continued cheering could have won the game, it would have been won right at the start when Hughson came out on the field a little while before the gong sounded.

It was a tribute of which any man might have been proud. For more than a dozen years he had been the mainstay of the team. His record had never been approached in baseball history.

Year in and year out he had pitched his team to victory. Several times they had won the pennant of the National League, and even when they failed they had always been up among the contenders. And more than to any single man, this had been due to Hughson’s stout heart and mighty arm.

And the affection showered upon him was due not only to his prowess as a twirler, but to his character as a man. He was a credit to the game. The fines and discipline, so necessary in the case of many brilliant players, had never been visited upon him. He had steered clear of dissipation in any form. He was sportsmanlike and generous. Players on opposing teams liked him, the umpires respected him, his mates idolized him, and the great baseball public hailed him with acclamations whenever he appeared on the field.

And to-day the applause was heartier than ever because of the importance of the game and also in recognition of his gameness in coming to the help of his team so soon after a serious accident.

“They’re all with you, Hughson,” smiled McRae, as the bronzed pitcher lifted his cap in response to the cheers that rose from every quarter of the field.

“They seem to be, John,” replied Hughson. “Let’s hope they won’t be disappointed.”

As the game went on, it seemed as though the hopes of the spectators were to be gratified.

The veteran pitched superbly for seven innings. His twirling was up to the standard of his best games. He mowed the opposing batsman down one after the other, and as inning after inning passed with only two scratch hits as the Bostons’ total, it began to look as though it would be a shutout for the visitors.

“They’ve got holes in their bats,” cried McRae, gleefully, as he brought his hand down on Robson’s knee with a thump.

“It sure looks like it!” ejaculated Robbie. “But for the love of Mike, John, go easy. That ham of yours weighs a hundred pounds.”

But the Boston pitcher, stirred up by the fact that he was pitted against the great Hughson, was also “going great guns.” Larry and Burkett had been the only Giants so far to solve his delivery. Each had hammered out a brace of hits, but their comrades had been unable to bring them in from the bags on which they were roosting.

“Get after him, boys,” raged McRae. “You’re hitting like a bunch from the old ladies’ home. Split the game wide open.”

They promised vehemently to knock the cover off the ball, but the Red Sox pitcher, Landers, was not a party to the bargain and he obstinately refused to “crack.”

In the first half of the eighth, Cooper, of the Bostons, knocked up an infield fly that either Larry or Denton could have got easily. But they collided in running for it and the ball fell to the ground and rolled out toward center. Iredell, who was backing up the play, retrieved it, but in the mix-up, Cooper, by fast running, reached second.

Though both men had been shaken up by the collision they were not seriously injured, and after a few minutes play was resumed.

But in the strained condition of the players’ nerves, the accident had to some degree unstrung them. So that when Berry chopped an easy roller to Denton that the latter ordinarily would have “eaten up,” he juggled it for a moment. Then, in his haste to make the put-out at first, he threw wild and the ball went over Burkett’s head. Before he could get it back, Cooper had scored and Berry was on third.

The Boston rooters howled like wild men, and their hats went sailing into the air.

Hughson, cool as an iceberg, brought his fadeaway into play and whiffed the next man up. Then Hobbs rolled one to the left of the box. Hughson made a great reach for it and got it, though he slipped and fell as he did so. He snapped the ball, however, to Mylert, nipping Berry at the plate.

Mylert returned the ball to Hughson who took his position in the box and began to wind up. But almost instantly his hand dropped to his side.

He tried again but fruitlessly.

McRae ran out to him in consternation.