It was no longer a question of seeing one side or the other win the game. That was lost in the other question that passed from lip to lip.
Could he keep it up? Could he hold that bunch of sluggers down? Were they really looking on at what would prove to be that rarest of all things on the diamond, a no-hit game?
In the seventh inning Joe turned the Chicagos back to the bench as fast as they came up to the plate, and the tumult as the last man went out on strikes was deafening.
“Frozen hoptoads!” ejaculated Robbie, so keyed up that he seemed threatened with apoplexy. “He’s put a spell on the ball.”
“He’s got them eating out of his hand all right,” declared McRae. “I never saw such demon pitching, and all so easy that it looks as if he wasn’t half trying. But now get busy, you fellows,” he stormed at his men. “Are you going to let Joe do it all alone? He can hold the other fellows down, but it’s up to you to give him some runs. Get up there now and knock the cover off the ball.”
It seemed at first that his adjurations would have their effect. Jackwell and Bowen cracked out two singles in succession. It looked as though the long expected rally had arrived.
Robbie ran down to first on the coaching lines, his face as red as the setting sun.
“Here’s where we score, boys!” he shouted. “We’ve got him going! He’s due for the showers! On your toes, now, on your toes!”
As he bent over with his hands on his knees he looked like a round gigantic ball.