To his relief the next batter up was one of the weakest of the Giants, and Joe was glad. And even yet a weak batter might make a hit that would turn the tables.
"I've got to do it!" murmured Joe, and he wound up for the delivery.
"Strike!" announced the umpire. Joe's heart beat hard.
"Here goes for the fadeaway," he said to himself, "though it will hurt like fun!"
It did, bringing a remembrance of the old hurt. But it fooled the batter, and there were two strikes on him.
The game was all but over. With two out, and two strikes called, there could be but one result, unless there was to be something that occurs but once in a lifetime. And it did not occur.
"Strike! You're out!" was the umpire's decision, and that was the end. The Cardinals had won, thanks, in a great measure, to Joe Matson's splendid work.
"That's the stuff!"
"Third place for ours!"
"Three cheers for Joe Matson—Baseball Joe!" called his teammates, who crowded around him to clap him on the back and say all sorts of nice things. Joe stood it, blushingly, for a moment, and then he made his way over to the box. As he walked along, a certain quiet man who had been intently watching the game said softly to himself.