Baseball Joe’s mates crowded around him and patted and thumped him until he was sore.
“Let up, boys,” he laughingly protested. “You’ll make a cripple of me if you keep on.”
As for McRae and Robbie, their relief and delight were beyond words.
“Wrigglin’ snakes!” ejaculated Robbie. “Such pitching! Such batting! Joe, old boy, I thought I was going to die of heart failure!”
“You won the game almost alone, Joe,” declared McRae as he wrung his hand. “I never saw anything like it. They’ll be barring you from the league if you pitch many games like that. They’ll figure that no other team has a chance.”
Elwood himself, although a hard loser, was a good sport, and came over to extend his congratulations.
“I’m as sore as a boil at losing the game, Matson,” he said. “But I want to say that I’ve been in the game as player and manager for twenty-five years, and I don’t think I ever saw such magnificent work. No team in the league could have beaten you to-day.”
Jim Barclay was in the seventh heaven of delight. For weeks past his heart had been as heavy as lead at Joe’s unexplainable slump. Now it was as light as thistledown.
“You were the old master for fair to-day, Joe,” he said exultingly, as after the game he and his chum made their way to their hotel. “They couldn’t touch you, couldn’t come within a mile of you. And how you whaled the ball!”
“Well,” laughed Joe, “as Reggie said, one swallow doesn’t make a drink, but I hope that this is a good omen for the rest of the trip. But, do you know, Jim, I have the feeling that if this game had been played on the Polo Grounds I’d have lost it?”