Clara’s color deepened, but before she could retort, Joe was hurrying the little party through the crowd to the street, where he hailed a taxicab and had them whirled away to their rooms at the Marlborough.
He had arranged to have a nice supper served in their suite that night, as he knew that they would be tired and excited after their long journey. So they dined cosily and happily, and the hour or two of dear familiar talk that followed marked one of the happiest experiences the united little family had ever known.
But Joe could not stay nearly as long as he wanted to, for to-morrow was the day of the first game and he had to retire early so as to be in perfect condition.
McRae had told Joe that afternoon that he was slated to pitch the opening game.
“I’m banking on you, Joe,” the manager told him. “You’ve never failed me yet, and I don’t think you’ll do it now. If you fall down, we’re dead ones.”
“I’ll do my very best,” declared Joe earnestly.
“Your best is good enough for any one,” replied McRae. “Just show them the same stuff you did the Chicagos in that last game and I won’t ask for anything more.”
The next morning dawned bright and clear, and the city was agog with expectation. New York, usually so indifferent to most things, had gone wild over the Series. The morning papers bore the flaring headlines: “Matson Pitches the First Game.” Crowds gathered early about the bulletin boards. Long before the time set for the game, cars and trains disgorged their living loads at the gates of the Polo Grounds, and before the teams came out for practice the grandstands and bleachers were black with swarming, jostling humanity. The metropolis was simply baseball mad.
Within the gates, hundreds of special officers lined the field to keep order and prevent the overflow back of centerfield from encroaching on the playing space. The Seventh Regiment Band played popular airs. Movie men were here, there and everywhere, getting snapshots of the scene. The diamond lay like so much green velvet under the bright sun, and the freshly marked white base lines stood out in dazzling contrast. It was a scene to stir to the depths any lover of the great national game.
There was a thunderous roar as the teams marched down from the clubhouse, and there were bursts of applause for the sparkling plays that marked the preliminary practice. Then the field was cleared, the gong rang and the umpire, taking off his hat and facing the stands, bellowed in stentorian tones: