“Highway robbery, Joe,” condoled McRae, as Joe came in. “That was a whale of a hit.”
“It was a whale of a catch too, and don’t you forget it,” replied Joe, with a smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen a finer one since I’ve been in the National League.”
“Well, anyway,” Robbie consoled himself, “it shows that the boys are getting to Axander.”
The second inning was a blank for both sides. Joe was invincible and Axander, too, had tightened up.
But even at this early stage a difference could be noted between the two masters. Not one of the Chicagos met the ball full and square. They either struck out, knocked up fouls, or dribbled little ones into the dirt that were easily gathered up by the infield.
Axander, on the contrary, while he permitted no scoring, had allowed one base on balls and two of the outs had been on long flies to the outfield, which, though they had been gathered in by the men of the outer garden, had left the bats with a decided ring that was music to the ears of Robbie and McRae.
“They’re finding him,” gloated the rubicund coach. “It’s only a matter of time before he’ll wilt.”
But the fulfillment of Robbie’s prophecy was long postponed. Again and again Axander was saved by splendid support. Wherever the Giants sent the ball a Chicago fielder seemed to be in the way. Up to the sixth inning Axander had allowed six hits, but most of them came when two men were out and the batter, though he gained his base, could not complete the circuit.
Joe, on the other hand, was pitching like a man inspired. He was at the top of his form. He played with his opponents as a cat plays with a mouse. His control was perfect and his change of pace had his opponents up in the air. Never had his consummate artistry been more in evidence.
When at the end of the sixth inning the crowd woke to the realization that he had not yielded a hit, not given a pass, and that not a single one of the Chicagos had reached first base, excitement reached fever heat. The spectators realized that they were looking on at an epic of the ball field.