It had been an especially busy week for Joe. He had spent one day in Boston, to which city he had run over on the midnight train at the direction of McRae, in order that he might observe the practice of the Red Sox and get a line on their batters. He had been impressed but not dismayed by their show of strength, and had come back knowing that his work was cut out for him.
He had taken advantage, too, of his presence in Boston to arrange for rooms for his family, as well as for Reggie and Mabel, as they expected to go back and forth during the fateful week the Series lasted on the same trains taken by the two teams.
Thursday was made memorable to the New Yorks by the appearance of Hughson. There was an affectionate roar and rush for the veteran as he came into the clubhouse among his adoring mates.
To the torrent of questions poured out on him as to his condition, he responded that he was feeling fine physically, but was not yet sure of his arm. His shoulder was still somewhat lame and tender, but he hoped to get into some of the games later on. He tossed the ball about for a little while, but made no attempt to cut loose with any curves or fast ones. But the very sight of their crack pitcher once more in uniform was a tonic and inspiration to his mates, and they put an amount of “ginger” into their practice game that afternoon that was full of promise to McRae and Robson, as they watched their men from the side lines.
“I think we’re going to cop the Series, Robbie,” declared the former when the practice was over. “The men are as full of pep as so many colts.”
“They certainly look good to-day, John,” was the response. “But I’d give a thousand dollars out of my pocket at this minute if Hughson was in shape.”
That evening Joe’s parents and sister reached New York. Joe had received a wire telling him on what train they were coming and was at the station to meet them, full of affection and impatience.
He scanned eagerly the long train as it rolled into the station. Then he detected the familiar figures descending the steps of a Pullman coach, and in a moment more there was a joyful family reunion.
“Momsey—Dad!” he cried, grasping his father’s hand and kissing his mother, who had all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around his neck then and there. “And Sis, you darling! Sweet and pretty as a picture!” he exclaimed, holding her out at arms’ length so that he could look at her sparkling face. “Poor, poor Jim!” he teased. “I see his finish!”