“I guess we’ll have to depend on Markwith,” replied McRae. “The Chicagos have never been able to do much against his southpaw slants. Other things being equal, I’d put Barclay in the box. But he pitched the last part of to-day’s game, and perhaps it will be too soon to ask him to repeat. Even at that I may take a chance. I’ll see how they warm up before the game.”
“It’s too bad that Matson was hurt in to-day’s game,” remarked Robbie. “We were counting on him to take at least two games from St. Louis. Barclay, perhaps, could take another. Three out of four would help us some in winding up the trip. But if they trim us, too, as all the other Western teams have done, I’ll hate to go back and face the New York fans.”
“I’ll work Jim in two of them,” said McRae. “Markwith, Bradley and Merton will have to help him out. Possibly Joe will be in shape for the last game. And maybe the team will take a brace and wake up. At any rate, we can only hope. There isn’t much nourishment in hope, but it’s all we’ve got.”
In the meantime, Jim and Joe had finished their dressing and were preparing to leave the clubhouse.
Jackwell and Bowen were the only occupants left in the place. They were sitting in a corner engaged in earnest conversation.
“How is the leg, Matson?” asked Bowen, as the two chums passed near them.
“None too good,” returned Joe. “But it doesn’t feel as sore as I feel inside to see that game go flooey. Pity you fellows weren’t in it. McGuire and Renton weren’t so bad in the field, but they’re not as good stickers as you fellows, and your bats might have turned the tide. By the way, are you feeling any better now?”
“I’m all right,” answered Jackwell, a little confusedly.
“I’m not feeling exactly up to snuff,” said Bowen. “But I guess I’ll be able to go in to-morrow.”