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Baseball Joe in the Central League

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<h2>CHAPTER XV JOE’S PLUCK</h2> Joe’s distress at receiving the bad news was so evident, at least to Gregory, that the manager hurried over to the young pitcher and asked: “What’s the matter, old man? Something upset you?” For answer Joe simply held out the message. “I say! That’s too bad!” exclaimed Gregory sympathetically. “Let’s see now. You can get a train in about an hour, I think. Skip right off. I’ll make it all right.” It was his business to know much about trains, and he was almost a “walking timetable.” “Awfully sorry, old man!” he went on. “Come back to us when you can. You’ll find us waiting.” Joe made up his mind quickly. It was characteristic of him to do this, and it was one of the traits that made him, in after years, such a phenomenal pitcher. “I—I’m not going home,” said Joe, quietly. [121] “Not going home! Why?” cried Gregory. “At least not until after the game,” went on Joe. “The telegram says my father isn’t in any immediate danger, and I could not gain much by starting now. I’m going to stay and pitch. That is, if you’ll let me.” “Let you! Of course I’ll let you. But can you stand the gaff, old man? I don’t want to seem heartless, but the winning of this game means a lot to me, and if you don’t feel just up to the mark——” “Oh, I can pitch—at least, I think I can,” said Joe, not wishing to appear too egotistical. “I mean this won’t make me flunk.” “That’s mighty plucky of you, Joe, and I appreciate it. Now don’t make a mistake. It won’t hurt your standing with the club a bit if you go now. I’ll put Collin in, and——” “I’ll pitch!” said Joe, determinedly. “After that it will be time enough to start for home.” “All right,” assented Gregory. “But if you want to quit at any time, give me the signal. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Have you a ’phone at home?” “Yes.” “Then I’ll have someone get your house on the long distance wire, and find out just how your father is. I’ll also send word that you’ll start to-night.” [122] “That will be fine!” cried Joe, and already he felt better. The bad news had shocked him for the time, though. “Play ball!” called the umpire, for there had been a little delay over the talk between Joe and the manager. “Just keep quiet about it, though,” advised the manager to the young pitcher. “It may only upset things if it gets out. Are you sure you can stand it?” “I—I’m going to stand it!” responded Joe, gamely. He faced his first batter with a little sense of uncertainty. But Nelson, who was catching, nodded cheerfully at him, and gave a signal for a certain ball that Joe, himself, had decided would best deceive that man with the stick. He sent it in rushingly, and was delighted to hear the umpire call: “Strike one!” “That’s the way!” “Two more like that and he’s a goner!” “Slam ’em in, Matson!” Joe flushed with pleasure at the encouraging cries. He wondered if Mabel was joining in the applause that frequently swept over the grandstand at a brilliant play. Again Joe threw, and all the batter could do was to hit a foul, which was not caught. [123] Then came a ball, followed by another, and Joe began to get a bit anxious. “That’s the boy!” welled up encouragingly from the crowd. Joe tried a moist ball—a delivery of which he was not very certain as yet, but the batter “fell for it” and whirled around as he missed it cleanly. “Three strikes—batter’s out!” howled the umpire, and the man went back to the bench. The next candidate managed to get a single, but was caught stealing second, and Joe had a chance to retire his third man. It was a chance not to be missed, and he indulged in a few delaying tactics in order to place, in his mind, the hitter and his special peculiarities. With a snap of his wrist Joe sent in an out curve, but the manner in which the batter leaped for it, missing it only by a narrow margin, told our hero that this ball was just “pie,” for his antagonist. “Mustn’t do that again,” thought Joe. “He’ll slam it over the fence if I do.” The next—an in-shoot—was hit, but only for a foul, and Joe, whose heart had gone into his throat as he heard the crack of the bat, breathed easier. Then, just to puzzle the batter, after delivering a “moistener” that fell off and was called a ball, Joe sent in a “teaser”—a slow one—that fooled the player, who flied out to shortstop. [124] Joe was beginning to feel more confidence in himself. The others of the Pittston team grinned encouragingly at Joe, and Gregory clasped his arms about the young pitcher as he came in to the bench. “Can you stick it out?” he asked. “Sure! Have you any word yet on the ’phone?” “No. Not yet. I’m expecting Hastings back any minute,” naming a substitute player who had not gone into the game, and whom the manager had sent to call up Joe’s house. “But are you sure you want to keep on playing?” “Sure,” answered Joe. He had a glimpse of Collin, and fancied that the eager look on the other pitcher’s face turned to one of disappointment. “You’re beating me out,” said Tooley, the south-paw, with an easy laugh. “I’m sorry,” said Joe, for he knew how it felt to be supplanted. “Oh, I’m not worrying. My turn will come again. One can’t be up to the mark all the while.” Pittston managed to get a run over the plate that inning, and when it came time for Joe to go to the mound again he had better news to cheer him up. Word had come over the telephone that Mr. Matson, while making some tests at the Harvester Works, had been injured by an explosion of acids.[125] Some had gone into his face, burning him badly. His life was in no danger, but his eyesight might be much impaired, if not lost altogether. Nothing could be told in this respect for a day or so. Hastings had been talking to Joe’s sister Clara, to whom he explained that Joe would start for home as soon as the game was over. Mrs. Matson was bearing up well under the strain, the message said, and Joe was told not to worry. “Now I’ll be able to do better,” said the young pitcher, with a little smile. “Thanks for the good news.” “You’re doing all right, boy!” cried Gregory. “I think we’re going to win!” But it was not to be as easy as saying it. The Newkirk men fought hard, and to the last inch. They had an excellent pitcher—a veteran—who was well backed up with a fielding force, and every run the Pittstons got they fully earned. Joe warmed up to his work, and to the howling delight of the crowd struck out two men in succession, after one had gone out on a pop fly, while there were two on bases. That was a test of nerve, for something might have broken loose at any moment. But Joe held himself well in hand, and watched his batters. He so varied his delivery that he puzzled them, and working in unison with Nelson very little got past them. [126] Then came a little spurt on the part of Newkirk, and they “sweetened” their score until there was a tie. It was in the ninth inning, necessitating another to decide the matter. “If we can get one run we’ll have a chance to win,” declared Gregory. “That is, if you can hold them in the last half of the tenth, Joe.” “I’ll do my best!” “I know you will, my boy!” For a time it looked as though it could not be done. Two of the Pittston players went down in rapid succession before the magnificent throwing of the Newkirk pitcher. Then he made a fatal mistake. He “fed” a slow ball to John Holme, the big third baseman, who met it squarely with his stick, and when the shouting was over John was safely on the third sack. “Now bring him home, Joe!” cried the crowd, as the young pitcher stepped to the plate. It was not the easiest thing in the world to stand up there and face a rival pitcher, with the knowledge that your hit might win the game by bringing in the man on third. And especially after the advent of the telegram. But Joe steadied himself, and smiled at his opponent. He let the first ball go, and a strike was called on him. There was a groan from grandstand and bleachers. [127] “Take your time, Joe!” called Gregory, soothingly. “Get what you want.” It came. The ball sailed for the plate at the right height, and Joe correctly gaged it. His bat met it squarely, with a resounding “plunk!” “That’s the boy!” “Oh, what a beaut!” “Take third on that!” “Come on home, you ice wagon!” “Run! Run! Run!” It was a wildly shrieking mob that leaped to its feet, cheering on Joe and Holme. On and on ran the young pitcher. He had a confused vision of the centre fielder running back to get the ball which had dropped well behind him. Joe also saw Holme racing in from third. He could hear the yells of the crowd and fancied—though of course it could not be so—that he could hear the voice of Mabel calling to him. On and on ran Joe, and stopped, safe on second, Holme had gone in with the winning run. But that was all. The next man struck out, and Joe was left on the “half-way station.” “But we’re one ahead, and if we can hold the lead we’ve got ’em!” cried Gregory. “Joe, my boy, it’s up to you! Can you hold ’em down?” He looked earnestly at the young pitcher. “I—I’ll do it!” cried Joe. <hr class="chap" /> [128] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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