“You timed that exactly, Joe,” cried Robbie, “and you came down that base path like a streak. It’s plays like that that stand the other fellows on their heads. Look at Miles. He’s mad enough to bite nails. You’ve got his goat for fair.”
“It looks like the winning run,” said McRae. “And it’s lucky that you didn’t depend on Wheeler to bring you in, for there goes the third strike. Now it’s up to you to hold the Pirates down in their last half.”
“And rub it in by making it a no-hit game,” adjured Robbie, as Joe put on his glove and went out to the box.
Joe needed no urging, for his blood was up and his imagination was fired by the prospect of doing what had not been done in either League so far that season.
But the Pirates were making their last stand in that inning, and he knew that he would have his work cut out for him. Their coachers were out on the diamond, trying to rattle him and waving their arms to get the fans to join in the chorus. From stands and bleachers rose a din that was almost overpowering.
Joe sized up Murphy, the first man up, and sent one over that fairly smoked. Murphy lashed out savagely and hit only the empty air.
“Strike one!” cried the umpire.
Murphy gritted his teeth, got a good toe hold, and prepared for the next. Joe drifted up a slow one that fooled him utterly.
Then for the third, Joe resorted to his fadeaway, and Murphy, baffled, went back to the bench.
Jamieson, who succeeded him, gauged the ball better and sent it on a line to the box. A roar went up that died away suddenly when Joe thrust out his gloved hand, knocked it down and sent it down to first like a bullet, getting it there six feet ahead of the runner.