CHAPTER XV

FLEMING TURNS UP AGAIN

“What’s the matter, Hughson?” McRae cried.

“The old arm won’t work,” replied the pitcher. “Guess I hurt it in the same old place when I fell.”

His fellow players crowded around him, and the umpire, who had called time, came up to ascertain the damage.

The club doctor also ran out from his seat in the stands near the press box and made a hurried examination.

“You’ve strained those ligaments again,” he remarked, “and as far as I can tell now one of them is broken. I told you that they weren’t healed enough for you to pitch.”

McRae groaned in sympathy with Hughson and in dismay for himself and his team. He had been congratulating himself that with Hughson in the fine form he had showed that afternoon the world’s pennant was as good as won.

“It’s too bad, old man,” he said to Hughson. “You never pitched better. You were just burning them over.”

“I’m fearfully sorry,” Hughson answered. “I did want to be in the thick of the fight with the rest of the boys. But I guess all I can do from now on is to root for them.”

He took off his glove and walked over to the bench, amid a chorus of commiserating shouts from the stands.

McRae beckoned to Joe.

“Jump in, Joe,” he directed briefly, “and hold them down. They’ve only got one run. I’m depending on you to see that they don’t get any more.”

Joe went into the box and tossed two or three to Mylert to get the range of the plate. He had a greeting from the fans that warmed the cockles of his heart.

There were two men out and Hobbs was dancing around first. Joe saw out of the corner of his eye that he was taking too big a lead, and snapped the ball like a bullet to Burkett. Hobbs tried desperately to get back but was nipped by a foot.

Joe had finished putting out the side without pitching a ball.

“Some speed that,” came from the stands.

“I guess Matson’s slow.”

“We don’t have to pitch to beat you fellows,” piped a fan and the crowd roared.

But nothing could hide the fact that the Red Sox were ahead. McRae brought all his resources into play and sent two pinch hitters to the plate. But though one of them, Browning, knocked out a corking three-bagger, the inning ended without results.

In the ninth, Joe had no trouble in disposing of the men who faced him. His slants and cross fire had them “buffaloed.” One went out on a foul, another was an easy victim at first, and he put on the finishing touch by striking the third man out.

McRae tore round among his men like an elephant on a rampage as they came in for their half of the ninth. They, however, needed no urging. They were as wild to win as he was himself, and they were almost frantic as they saw victory slipping from them.

They did do something, but not enough. By the time two men were out, there was a Giant on first and another on second. Larry, the slugger of the team, was at the bat. He picked out a fast one and sent it hurtling on a line to left. It looked like a sure hit, but Stock, the shortstop, leaped high into the air and speared it with his gloved hand, and the shout that had gone up from the stands ended in a groan.

Three games of the Series had been played and the Red Sox had won two of them!

It was a disgruntled band of athletes who went under the shower in the Giant clubhouse that afternoon, and when Joe and Jim joined their party at the Marlborough in the early evening, the air of jubilation they had worn on the day of the first game was conspicuous by its absence.

“If you had that band here you were talking about Friday, what do you suppose they would play?” Joe asked of Mabel, after the first greetings were over.

“They ought to play the ‘Dead March in Saul,’” Jim volunteered.

“Not a bit of it,” denied Mabel, cheerily.

“There’s a better day coming and dinna’ ye doubt it, So just be canty wi’ thinking about it,”

she quoted, flashing a sunny smile at Joe that made him feel more cheerful at once.

“It was too bad,” comforted Mrs. Matson. “But, anyway, Joe, it wasn’t your fault,” she added, beaming fondly on her son.

“Call it misfortune then, Momsey,” Joe smiled back at her. “But it surely was that. We lost the game, we lost it on our own grounds, we were whitewashed, and worst of all Hughson is out for the rest of the Series.”

“That’s enough for one day,” acquiesced Jim.

“Stop your grouching, you fellows,” admonished Reggie. “You’ll have plenty of chances to even things up.”

“Oh, we’ll fight all the harder,” agreed Joe. “There isn’t a streak of yellow in the whole Giant team. The boys will fight like wildcats and never give up until the last man is out in the deciding game. We’re looking for revenge to-morrow.”

“And maybe revenge won’t be sweet!” chimed in Jim.

“Who is going to pitch for your side to-morrow?” asked Mr. Matson.

“McRae gave me a tip that I was to go in,” Joe answered.

“Then we might as well count the game as good as won,” declared Mabel.

“That certainly sounds good,” laughed Joe. “But suppose I should be batted out of the box? I wouldn’t dare show my diminished head among you folks then.”

“We’re not worrying a bit about that,” put in Clara, looking proudly at her idolized brother.

But the question was not to be settled on the morrow, for when the day dawned in Boston the rain was falling steadily, and the weather predictions were that the rain would continue for the greater part of the day.

For once, at least, the much maligned weather prophet was right, for at noon the rain had not abated, and, much to the disgust of the expectant public, the game was declared off.

By the rules that had been made to cover such an event, the teams were to stay in Boston until the first fair day should permit the game to be played.

The different members of Joe’s party were rather widely scattered, when the sun finally peeped out in the course of the afternoon. Reggie had taken his sister out to a country club where he had a number of acquaintances. Mrs. Matson and Clara were doing some shopping in the Boston stores and Mr. Matson had gone out for a stroll.

Joe and Jim had been downtown with the rest of the team having a heart-to-heart talk with McRae and Robson about the strategy to be adopted in the forthcoming games.

By four o’clock the sun was shining gloriously and the roads were beginning to dry out. Just the day, Joe thought, to hire a runabout just big enough for two and take Mabel out for a spin.

He conjectured that by the time he got the car and reached the hotel Mabel would have returned from her trip with Reggie and be ready for him.

“Come along, Jim, and help me to pick out the car,” he said.

They went to a neighboring garage and selected one which both agreed was a good one.

“Jump in, Jim,” said Joe, “and I’ll give you a ride as far as the hotel.”

They were bowling rapidly along, when an automobile passed them, moving at a rate of speed that was almost reckless. Joe saw that a man and a woman were the only occupants.

He glanced carelessly at the man and was startled when he saw that it was Beckworth Fleming.

But he was still more startled when his eyes passed to the face of Fleming’s companion.

It was Mabel!

Jim, too, was staring as though he could not believe his eyes.

For a moment Joe saw red and his blood boiled with rage. He stopped the car and looked back.

Then his rage turned to alarm, for Mabel was looking back and waving to him frantically, while her companion seemed to be trying to draw her back.

She was in peril!

Instantly, Joe turned his car and tore away in pursuit.