“You won the flag for us,” declared McRae. “That home run of yours was a life saver. It brought home the bacon.”
Joe flushed with pleasure. Praise from these veterans meant something.
“It took the whole nine to win for us,” he said modestly.
“Sure it did,” agreed McRae. “The boys put up a corking good game. But your pitching held Brennan’s men down, and it was that scorching hit that put on the finishing touch.”
“It was the trump that took the trick,” supplemented Robson.
Denton, the third baseman and wag of the team, stepped up and gravely put his hands around Joe’s head as though measuring it.
“Not swelled a bit, boys,” he announced to his grinning mates. “He can wear the same size hat that he did yesterday.”
They were all so full of hilarity that it was hard to get down to serious business, and McRae, who was as happy as a boy, made no attempt at his usual rigid discipline.
But when they had at last quieted down a little, he gathered them about him for a talk about the forthcoming World Series.
“You’ve done well, boys,” he told them, “and I’m proud of you. You’ve played the game to the limit and made a splendid fight. I don’t believe there’s another team in the league that wouldn’t have gone to pieces if the same thing had happened to their crack pitcher that happened to Hughson. It was a knockout blow, and I don’t mind admitting to you now that for a time my own heart was in my boots. But you stood the gaff, and I want to thank you, both for the owners of the club and for myself.”