“Looks like soggy weather, sure enough,” commented Jim, as he met Joe in the lavatory.
“It certainly does,” assented Joe. “Hope it holds off till after the game. It may cut down the attendance.”
“No danger of that unless it rains cats and dogs,” rejoined Jim. “Boston is the best baseball city in the country, and it’ll take more than a few clouds or even a drizzle to keep the crowds away.”
They breakfasted in the dining car, and then Joe’s party adjourned to the hotel where rooms had been reserved. There was not much time for sight seeing, but they all had a pleasant little stroll on the Common and in the wonderful Botanical Gardens, before their duties called the young men away to the baseball grounds.
The weather still continued threatening, but as Jim had prophesied, this did not affect the attendance. Boston was as wild over the Series as New York, and long before noon Commonwealth Avenue and Gaffney Street were packed with the oncoming throngs. By the time the game started the enormous Braves Field was packed to its utmost capacity.
Personally, McRae welcomed the overcast sky. It was a pitcher’s day, a day that called for speed, and speed as everybody knew was Markwith’s “long suit.”
“Smoke ’em over, Red,” was McRae’s admonition, when he told Markwith he was slated to pitch. “If we can only put this game on the right side of the ledger, the world’s flag is as good as won. Give us a lead of two games and it will take the spine out of those birds. They’ll never catch up.”
“I get you, Mac,” grinned the pitcher. “I’ll zip ’em over so fast they’ll have to use glasses to see ’em.”
For four innings it looked as though his prophecy would be fulfilled. His companions played like fiends behind him, and although the Bostons got to him for three bingles, they were scattered ones, and not a man got as far as third base.