Then Burkett, the burly first baseman of the Giants, strode to the plate. He caught the first ball pitched right near the end of his stick and belted it into the rightfield stands. It looked like a sure homer, and the contingent of loyal Giant rooters burst into a cheer. But the cheer was premature, as the umpire called it a foul, and Burkett, who had already rounded first, returned, disgruntled, to the plate.
“Had your eyes tried for glasses lately?” he asked the umpire.
“That’ll be about all from you,” returned that functionary. “Another wise crack like that, and it’s you for the showers.”
Axander’s next throw went for a ball. On the next Burkett whaled a sharp single over second. A moment later, however, he was caught napping at first by a quick throw from the pitcher, and the inning ended without a score. Burkett, who found himself in his regular position at first, put on his glove and stayed there, glad enough that he was not near enough to the Giants’ dugout to get the tongue lashing that McRae had all ready for him.
“Did you see that boob play, Robbie?” McRae growled. “Did you see the way that perfectly good hit was wasted?”
“Sure, I saw it, John,” replied Robson, laying his hand soothingly on the knee of his irate friend. “’Twas enough to make a man tear his hair out by the roots. But the game’s young yet and we may have the last laugh. I’m banking heavily on what Joe’s going to do to them birds.”
Joe in the meantime had walked out to the box. It was a tribute to the admiration that was felt for him by fans everywhere that even the Chicago partisans welcomed his coming with a hearty round of applause. He was more than a Giant standby. He was the idol of all true lovers of the national game.
Burton, the heaviest slugger on the Chicago team, was first at bat. Joe looked him over and then sent the ball over for a perfect strike. It came in like a bullet. Burton did not even offer at it.
“Strike one!” called the umpire.