Hudson, the manager of the Yankees, was also pinning his faith on the leader of his pitching staff, Phil Hays. He was a master of the underhand delivery, and had already captured for the Yankees the two games of the series in which he had pitched. In both games he had sorely puzzled the Giants, for there was no pitcher in the National League who used that delivery, and they had found it almost impossible to gauge it. He also had a crossfire, that he used at times with telling effect. He had not yet matched his pitching strength against Joe’s, and the crowd was all agog with curiosity to see them battle against each other.
Jim had been a little later than Joe in slipping into his uniform, and was still in the clubhouse, after his friend had gone out on the field, when Reggie came rushing in, panting and out of breath.
“Where’s Joe?” he asked, looking wildly around.
“He’s just gone out to practice,” answered Jim. “Why, what’s the matter, Reggie?”
“I’ve got to get Joe,” Reggie panted, making a dash for the door.
But Jim caught his arm.
“Look here, Reggie,” he said, holding to him tightly. “Joe mustn’t be upset. I can see that something’s happened. Tell me what it is, and I’ll see about letting Joe know.”
“It’s M-Mabel!” answered Reggie, stammering in his excitement. “She’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared!” echoed Jim, in bewilderment. “What do you mean?”
“Just that,” answered Reggie. “She went out this morning to call on a friend, but said she’d get back to go with me to the game. I got anxious when she didn’t come, and called up her friend, who said she hadn’t seen her. Just then a messenger boy brought me this,” and he handed over a typewritten, unsigned note, which read: