Besides, McRae knew that he had “played his ace” in putting Joe into the box. He had no pitcher of equal rank to bring out on the morrow, while at least two of the Red Sox boxmen were quite as high as Fraser in quality.
“You did splendidly to-day, Matson,” said McRae to Joe, clapping him jovially on the shoulder.
“I’m glad we won,” responded Joe. “But that Fraser is no slouch when it comes to putting them over.”
“He’s a crackerjack,” the manager admitted. “But you topped him all the way through. We raked him for seven hits, though he kept them pretty well scattered. But they only got to you for three, and one of them was a scratch. And he was wobbly twice, while you only gave one pass.”
“That crack of Burkett’s was a dandy,” observed Joe. “And it came just in the nick of time.”
“It was a lulu,” chuckled McRae. “My heart was in my mouth when I saw Cooper making for it. Mighty few hits get away from that bird, but it was just a bit too high for him.”
Both teams were to leave for Boston that night. A special train made up entirely of Pullman cars had been prepared to carry them, together with hundreds of enthusiasts who had planned to go with them back and forth and see each game of the Series. They would reach the city a little after midnight, and in order that the athletes might not be disturbed, they would be shunted into a remote part of the railroad yards where they could slumber peacefully until morning.
But several hours were to elapse before the train started. Joe hurried into his street clothes, and, accompanied by Jim Barclay, was whirled away in a taxicab to the Marlborough, where they had arranged to have a jolly dinner with his family and the Varleys.