CHAPTER V

GETTING READY FOR THE FRAY

“Come along, Jim!” cried Joe, jumping to his feet. “Put down that old paper and let’s go up to the Polo Grounds. You know we’ve got to meet McRae and the rest of the gang there at two o’clock, and it’s almost one now. We’ll just have time to get a bite of lunch before we go.”

“I’m with you,” responded Jim.

They hurried through their lunch and took the train at the nearest elevated station.

“Some difference to-day from the way we felt when we were going up yesterday, eh, Joe,” grinned Jim, as he stretched out his legs luxuriously and settled back in his seat.

“About a million miles,” assented Joe. “Then my heart was beating like a triphammer. Then the work was all to do. Now it’s done.”

“And well done, too, thanks to you,” returned Jim. “Say, Joe, suppose for a minute--just _suppose_ that the Chicagos had copped that game yesterday.”

“Don’t,” protested Joe. “It gives me the cold shivers just to think of it.”

When they entered the clubhouse, a roar of welcome greeted them from the members of the team who were already there. They crowded round Baseball Joe in jubilation, and the air was filled with a hubbub of exclamations.

“Here’s the man to whom the team owes fifty thousand dollars!” shouted the irrepressible Larry Barrett, the second baseman, who had led the league that year in batting.

“All right,” laughed Joe. “If you owe it to me, hand it over and I’ll put it in the bank.”

In the laugh that ensued, McRae and Robson, the inseparable manager and trainer of the Giants, came hurrying up to Joe. Their faces were beaming and they looked years younger, now that the tremendous strain of the last few weeks of the league race had been taken from their shoulders.

They shook hands warmly.

“You’re the real thing, Joe,” cried Robson.

“You won the flag for us,” declared McRae. “That home run of yours was a life saver. It brought home the bacon.”

Joe flushed with pleasure. Praise from these veterans meant something.

“It took the whole nine to win for us,” he said modestly.

“Sure it did,” agreed McRae. “The boys put up a corking good game. But your pitching held Brennan’s men down, and it was that scorching hit that put on the finishing touch.”

“It was the trump that took the trick,” supplemented Robson.

Denton, the third baseman and wag of the team, stepped up and gravely put his hands around Joe’s head as though measuring it.

“Not swelled a bit, boys,” he announced to his grinning mates. “He can wear the same size hat that he did yesterday.”

They were all so full of hilarity that it was hard to get down to serious business, and McRae, who was as happy as a boy, made no attempt at his usual rigid discipline.

But when they had at last quieted down a little, he gathered them about him for a talk about the forthcoming World Series.

“You’ve done well, boys,” he told them, “and I’m proud of you. You’ve played the game to the limit and made a splendid fight. I don’t believe there’s another team in the league that wouldn’t have gone to pieces if the same thing had happened to their crack pitcher that happened to Hughson. It was a knockout blow, and I don’t mind admitting to you now that for a time my own heart was in my boots. But you stood the gaff, and I want to thank you, both for the owners of the club and for myself.”

There was a gratified murmur among the players, and then Larry shouted:

“Three cheers for McRae, the best manager in the league!”

The cheers were given with a will and the veteran’s face grew red with pleasure.

“And three more for Robson, the king of trainers!” cried Jim.

They were given with equal heartiness, and Robson waved his hand to them with a grin.

“I’m glad we all feel that way,” resumed McRae, when the tumult had subsided. “If at times I’ve been a bit hasty with you lads and given you the rough side of my tongue, it’s been simply because I was wild with excitement and crazy to win. And now for the big fight that lies before us. It’s a great thing to be champions of the National League. But it’s a greater thing to be champions of the world.”

A rousing shout rose from the eager group.

“Sure, we’ve got it copped already,” cried Larry.

McRae smiled.

“That’s the right spirit to tackle the job with,” he replied, “but don’t let the idea run away with you that it’s going to be an easy thing to do. It isn’t. Those American Leaguers are tough birds, and any one who beats them will know he’s been in a fight.

“There used to be a time,” he went on, “when the bulk of the talent was in the National League. But it isn’t so any longer. They have just as good batting, just as good pitching and just as good fielding as we have.

“Of course, we don’t know yet just which team we’ll have to face, but we may know before night. If the Bostons win to-day that will settle it. Even if they lose, provided the Athletics lose, too, the Red Sox will be the champions. Of course, there’s nothing sure in baseball, but all the chances are in favor of the Bostons.

“In any case, it will be an Eastern club, and that cuts out the matter of the long jumps. But whichever one it happens to be, it’ll prove a hard nut to crack.”

“Nut-crackers is our middle name,” murmured Denton.

“You proved that yesterday,” laughed McRae, “and you’re going to have a good chance to prove it again.

“Just as soon as the American race is decided,” he continued, “and it’s known in what city we are to play, the National Commission will have a meeting to fix all the details of the World Series. If they follow precedent, as they probably will, the first game will be appointed for a week from this Friday. They’ll toss a coin to see whether it shall be here or in the other city. I’m rooting for it to be here. It’ll give us a better chance to win the first game if we play it on the home grounds, and you know what it means to get the jump on the other fellows.”

“You bet we do!” went up in a chorus.

“Just as soon as it is decided who our opponents are to be,” the manager resumed, “I’m going to send some of you fellows out as scouts to see some of the practice games of the other fellows and get a line on their style of play. You can pick up a lot of useful information that way, and we’ve got so much at stake that we can’t afford to overlook a single point of the game.”

“How about our own practice?” asked Larry.

“I was coming to that,” replied McRae. “I’m going to get together just as husky a bunch of sluggers and fielders as can be found in the National League.”

He took a sheaf of telegrams from his pocket.

“I’ve got a lot of wires here from every club in the league, offering the services of any of their players I want,” he said. “We’ve had our own fight, and now that it’s over they’re all eager to help the National League to down the American. It means a good deal to each of them to have us come out winner. Even Brennan has offered to let me have some of the Chicagos to practise against. I saw him at the hotel last night, and, although of course he was sore that he didn’t win yesterday, he told me I could call upon him for any men I wanted.”

“He’s a good sport,” ejaculated Jim.

“Sure he is,” confirmed McRae, heartily. “He’s a hard fighter but he’s as white as they make ’em.”

He consulted a list on which he had jotted down a few names in pencil.

“How will this do for an All National team to practise against,” he asked.

“Konetchky, First base. Niehoff, Second base. Wagner, Shortstop. Zimmermann, Third base. Wheat, Left field. Carey, Center field. Schulte, Right field. Pfeffer, Alexander, Pitchers. Archer, Gibson, Catchers.”

A murmur went up from the players.

“Some sweet hitters!” exclaimed Markwith.

“A bunch of fence breakers,” echoed Jim.

“They’ll give you mighty good practice,” grinned McRae. “If they can’t straighten out the curves of you twirlers, nobody can. I’ll have them all on here in a day or two, and then we’ll start in training.”

The conference lasted till late in the afternoon, and just as it was breaking up, a telegraphic report was handed to McRae. He scanned it hastily.

“That settles it!” he exclaimed. “Boston won to-day, three to two. We’re up against the Red Sox in the World Series!”