But he was hard put to it now to handle his crippled staff to the best advantage. He did not dare to use Joe too often for fear of hurting his effectiveness by overwork. Markwith was brilliant but unreliable. Sometimes he would pitch superbly for the better part of a game. Then all too often there would be a fatal inning when he would lose his “stuff” entirely, and before he could be replaced the game would have gone to pieces.
“I may pitch Jim to-morrow,” McRae went on reflectively. “If he wins, we will have the edge on the Sox, and I can take a chance on Red for Friday’s game. Then I’ll have you, Joe, to put the kibosh on them in the final game on Saturday.
“But if Jim loses to-morrow the Sox will have three games tucked away and only need one more. In that case, Joe, I’m going to pitch you Friday to even up and Saturday to win. Think you can stand two games in succession and win out?”
“I’d work my head off to do it,” replied Joe earnestly.
“It’ll put a big strain on your head and arm too,” said the manager, “but you’ll have all winter to rest up in afterwards, and we may have to chance it.”
He chatted with them a minute or two longer, and then, as the berth had been made up, he left them.
“Gee whiz, Joe!” ejaculated Jim, as he crept into the upper berth, his teeth chattering in his excitement. “To think of me pitching a game in the World Series before that whale of a crowd at the Polo Grounds!”
“It’s the chance of your life, Jim,” responded Joe. “You’re made as a pitcher if you win. And you will win, too. I’m sure of it. You had those fellows right on your staff in that inning or two you pitched at Boston.”
“Well, here’s hoping,” murmured Jim, getting in between the sheets. “If I don’t, it won’t be for lack of trying.”
It was, indeed, a “whale of a crowd” that greeted the Giants on their victorious return. All New York was jubilant, and comments were rife everywhere on the gameness of their pets in the fight they were making against accident and hard luck.