“That’s a sportsmanlike thing to do,” commented Mabel, warmly.
“It certainly is,” echoed her brother.
“Oh, the days of the old cutthroat policy have gone by,” said Joe. “The National and American Leagues used to fight each other like a pair of Kilkenny cats, but they’ve found that there is nothing in such a game. This act of the Boston people shows the new spirit. We saw it, too, when the grandstand was burned at the Polo Grounds. The ruins hadn’t got through smoking before the Yankee management offered the use of its grounds to McRae as long as he needed them. And then a little later when the Yankees lost their grounds because streets were going to be cut through them, McRae returned the favor by giving them the use of the Polo Grounds. It’s the right spirit. Fight like tigers to win games, but outside of that, let live and wish the other luck.”
“Tell me honestly, Joe, what you think the New York’s chances are, in case they have to stack up against Boston,” said Reggie.
“Well,” answered Joe, thoughtfully, toying with his spoon, “if you’d asked me that question a week ago, I’d have said that New York would win in a walk. But just now I wouldn’t be anywhere near so sure of that.”
“You mean the accident to Hughson?” put in Mabel.
“Exactly that. He was going like a house afire just before that. You saw what he did to Chicago in the first game. He had those fellows eating out of his hand. He was simply unhittable. That fadeaway of his was zipping along six inches under their bats. They didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance.
“Then, too, in addition to that splendid pitching his reputation helps a lot. The minute it is announced that Hughson is going to pitch, the other fellows begin to curl up. They’re half whipped before they start, because they feel that he has the Indian sign on them, and it’s of no use to try.”
“That’s so,” assented Reggie. “Besides, when he’s in the box his own team feel they’re in for a victory and they play like demons behind him.”