CHAPTER XXVII

FROM BAD TO WORSE

Whatever the drug that Hartley had used, it was of such a nature that it did not take effect at once. Joe felt in his usual good shape for some time after he got into his baseball togs. It is true that the ball seemed to feel a little heavier than usual when he was warming up, but he suspected nothing when the time came for him to go into the box.

The first thing that he noticed was that he did not have his usual control. His curves would not break at the right place, and he could not seem to get them over the plate. Then too, his speed was missing. He called on all his resources, but the ball sailed up to the plate as “big as a balloon.”

The Phillies were quick to notice that something was wrong with that “wing” of Matson’s, which in previous games they had learned to respect. Before the first inning was over, they had lined out two slashing hits which, with three bases on balls, netted them three runs to start with.

“What’s the matter, Matson?” asked McRae, as the Giants came in to bat.

“Oh, I’m all right, I guess,” answered Joe. “I’ll steady down in the next inning. I guess I didn’t warm up enough.”

The Giants were quickly disposed of for a goose egg and Joe again took his place on the mound. He walked out to it a little unsteadily, a fact that McRae’s keen eyes were quick to notice.

“If that were anybody else than Matson, I’d say he’d been drinking,” he remarked to Robson.

“Nothing like that,” replied Robson. “We’ll see how he makes out this time.”

But the very first ball he sent over, Cravath, the chief slugger of the Phillies, knocked clear over the right field fence for a home run.

A fusillade of hits followed until the bases were full.

“Look here, Matson,” said McRae, sharply, walking over to him. “What’s the matter with you? They’ve put the game on ice already. Take a brace, man.”

Shouts of derision came from the Phillies’ bench.

“He hasn’t anything on the ball but his glove!” one of them jeered.

“It’s a shame to take the money!” yelled another.

“All aboard for the airship!” cried a third.

A flush of humiliation passed over Joe’s face.

He could see that Robson was hurrying a couple of the second string pitchers out into a corner of the field to warm up. It was a new experience for him and a bitter one.

“I’ll get them yet,” he said to McRae, and the latter noticed that his voice was thick. “Let me play the inning out.”

“Play ball!” called the umpire, and McRae walked back to the coaching line. Joe made a mighty effort, but the first ball he pitched was sent into left on a line, and the three men on bases scampered home.

“That’s enough,” cried McRae sharply, while the rejoicing Phillies held a jubilee at their bench. “Take off your glove and go to the clubhouse.”

Joe took off his glove and with his face scarlet walked unsteadily off the field. He had been batted out of the box in one of the crucial games of the season. What would his folks say when they read of it? What would Mabel say?

By this time his head was throbbing, and every bone had its own particular ache. The shower brightened him up a little, but in a few minutes he was worse than ever, and it was all he could do to get to his hotel. There he stumbled and would have fallen if it had not been for one of the attendants. He took him to his room, where he lay down upon the bed and fell into a stupor. There Jim found him when he returned and immediately called a physician. Together they worked over him until after a couple of hours the effects of the drug had been counteracted to a large extent, and although weak and white he began to feel more like his natural self.

“What on earth could have been the matter, Joe?” asked Jim. “Could it have been a case of ptomaine poisoning? All the doctor was sure of was that it was a drug or poison of some kind. What have you been eating?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” answered Joe. “In fact I just had a couple of sandwiches and an omelet for lunch. And coffee,” he added, and then as a sudden thought struck him he sat up straight in bed.

“I had some coffee with Bugs Hartley,” he added, slowly. “And it was Bugs that put the cream and sugar in both cups.”

They looked at each other for a full minute without speaking.

“I see a great light,” said Jim at last. “The first thing I shall do is to hunt up Hartley and thrash him within an inch of his life.”

“No, don’t do that,” said Joe, earnestly. “We haven’t positive proof, and it’ll only bring scandal on the game. I’ll be as well as ever in a day or two. The worst of it is that I’m afraid McRae thought I had been drinking.”

“He must know better than that,” replied Jim, indignantly. “But just to make sure I’ll give him a quiet tip as to the real state of things.”

“I certainly felt sore to be batted out of the box,” said Joe, his thoughts reverting to the game. “What was the score, anyway?”

Jim hesitated a second.

“Fifteen to three,” he got out at last. Joe’s face lengthened.

“That was a massacre sure enough,” he groaned. “The biggest score any team has rolled up against us this season. Who went in after I was taken out?”

“Markwith,” answered Jim. “But he couldn’t do a thing with them. They simply slammed him to all corners of the lot. But by that time the game was gone anyway, and McRae just let him stay in and take his medicine.”

“And how did the Chicagos make out today?” asked Joe.

“They trimmed the Pittsburghs, four to three,” replied Jim. “Those fellows seem to have taken a new lease of life. A little while ago we were ten games ahead of them. Now they’re only six games behind and coming fast.”

“Their pitchers are working well too,” commented Joe. “You notice that they’re holding down their opponents to mighty small scores and they’re handing out quite a few shut-outs. We’ve got our work cut out for us if we want to beat those birds.”

“And we’ll have to do it in a hurry, too,” said Jim. “The season’s pretty near an end. It’s a case of now or never.”