“And that’s enough, for I never saw that boy in better shape,” said Robbie jubilantly. “I’ll be going now and look up the matter of transportation.”
“All right,” agreed McRae. “But don’t buy the tickets till after the game.”
In the meantime Joe had sent off another long telegram to Mabel, with sublime disregard of the cost, telling her what the doctors had said. Then he left an order with the florist for a lot of flowers to be sent to the hospital for Mrs. Bultoza, who, he had assured himself by a telephone call, was getting along favorably and would probably be up and around again in a week at furthest.
That afternoon the Giants played an exhibition game with one of the crack teams of the Southern League. The mere fact that the Giants naturally outclassed such opponents was no proof that they would win the game, for on such occasions the “bushers” usually played their heads off to win while their haughty opponents, knowing that there was nothing particular at stake, were apt to suffer from over-confidence.
Jim had been selected to pitch, and the wily Robbie, taking care that McRae was not within hearing distance, gave him a word of advice.
“Trot out everything you have in stock to-day, Jim,” he urged. “Just try to think that you’re pitchin’ against Axander of the Cubs or Rance of the Brooklyns.”
“I’ll do my best,” replied Jim, somewhat surprised. “But what’s the big idea?”
“There’s a reason,” said Robbie, with a portentous wink that spoke volumes.
Whether or not Robbie’s mysterious hint had anything to do with it, Jim pitched a superb game that ranked well up with that of Joe’s the day before. He held his opponents in the hollow of his hand. His speed and control were as good as anything he was accustomed to show in mid-season, and McRae’s eyes gleamed with gratification as Jim mowed down the batsmen as fast as they came to the plate. He decorated the bushers with a row of goose eggs, not a man getting farther than third.