Mallinson, sure that this time he was going to be double-crossed, got ready for a high fast one, and the outcurve that Joe pitched cut the corner of the plate and settled in Mylert’s glove for the second strike.
“You see!” complained Joe. “There you are again. What’s the use of my tipping you off if you don’t take advantage? Don’t you believe me? Doesn’t anybody ever tell the truth in Philadelphia?”
Mallinson tried to say something, but he was so mad that he could only stutter, while his face looked as though he were going to have a fit of apoplexy.
“Now,” said Joe, “this is your last chance. I’m going to give you my hop ball this time, and that’s just because it’s you. I wouldn’t do it for everybody. It’ll take a jump just as it comes to the plate.”
By this time Mallinson was in an almost pitiable state of bewilderment. Would the pitcher again keep his word? Or would Joe figure that now that he had twice tipped him off correctly, Mallinson would really get set for the hop ball and that now was the time to fool him with something else?
He was so up in the air by this time that he could not have hit a balloon, and he struck six inches below the hop ball that Joe sent whistling over the plate for an out. The game was over and the Giants had won.
“What was all that chatter that was going on between you and Mallinson?” asked McRae, as he and Robbie, with their faces all smiles, came up to Joe. “I couldn’t quite get what it was from the bench. But you seemed to get his goat for fair.”
Joe told them, and the pair went into paroxysms of laughter, Robbie choking until they had to pound him on the back.
“For the love of Pete, Mac!” he gurgled, as soon as he could speak, “you’ll have to do something with this fellow or he’ll be the death of me yet. To win a ball game just by telling the batsman what he was going to pitch to him! Did you ever hear anything like it before in your life?”