Filled to overflowing were the big bleachers. Crowded were the grandstands. Above the noise made by the incoming elevated trains, and the tramp of thousands of feet along the boarded run-ways leading to the big concrete Brush Stadium at the Polo Grounds, could be heard the shrill voices of the vendors of peanuts, bottled ginger ale and ice cream cones.
Out on the perfect diamond, laid out as though with rule and compass, men in white and other men in darker uniforms were practicing. Balls were being caught, other balls were being batted.
It was a sunny, perfect day, hot enough to make fast playing possible, and yet with a refreshing breeze.
"Well, Joe, are we going to win?" asked Rad, as he and his chum went to the bench after their warm-up work.
"I don't know," answered the young pitcher slowly. "They're a hard team to beat."
It was the final game between the Giants and the Cardinals. To win it meant for the St. Louis team that they would reach third place. And if they did get third position, it was practically certain that they could keep it, for their closing games in St. Louis were with the tail-enders of the league.
"Are you going to pitch, Joe?"
"I don't know that, either. Haven't heard yet," was the answer.
Just then a messenger came up to Joe.
"There's somebody in that box," he said, indicating one low down, and just back of home plate, "who wants to speak to you."