Baseball Joe waited just long enough to wave his cap at the box in which his party sat, and then raced with his companions to the clubhouse before the crowd that was rushing down over the field should overwhelm them.
Mabel turned towards Mrs. Matson, who had been watching the game with the most intense interest and yet with a sense of complete bewilderment. The intricacies of the game were new to her, but she knew that her boy had won, and at the applause showered upon him her fond heart swelled with motherly pride.
“What do you think of that son of yours now?” Mabel asked gaily. “Didn’t I tell you he was going to win?”
“It was j-just wonderful,” replied Mrs. Matson, reaching for her handkerchief to stay the happy tears that had not been far from her eyes all through the game.
Mr. Matson had renewed his youth, and his eyes were shining like a boy’s. Clara clapped her hands and laughed almost hysterically.
“Oh, oh, oh!” she cried. “And he’s my brother!”
Mabel laughed and gave her a little affectionate pat.
“I don’t wonder that you’re proud of him,” she said. Joe would have been glad to hear the slight tremble in her voice.
In the clubhouse there was, of course, a mighty celebration. A lead of one game in such a series as that promised to be was, as “Robbie” exultantly said, “not to be sneezed at.” Now they would have to win only three more to be sure of the flag, while the Red Sox needed to take four.
And yet, despite the victory, there was no undue boasting or elation. They had not won by any such margin as to justify too rosy a view of the future. The Red Sox had fought for the game tooth and nail, and at various stages a hair would have turned the balance one way or the other. The Bostons were an enemy to be dreaded, and a profound respect for their opponents had been implanted in the Giants’ breasts.