“They’re all with you, Hughson,” smiled McRae, as the bronzed pitcher lifted his cap in response to the cheers that rose from every quarter of the field.
“They seem to be, John,” replied Hughson. “Let’s hope they won’t be disappointed.”
As the game went on, it seemed as though the hopes of the spectators were to be gratified.
The veteran pitched superbly for seven innings. His twirling was up to the standard of his best games. He mowed the opposing batsman down one after the other, and as inning after inning passed with only two scratch hits as the Bostons’ total, it began to look as though it would be a shutout for the visitors.
“They’ve got holes in their bats,” cried McRae, gleefully, as he brought his hand down on Robson’s knee with a thump.
“It sure looks like it!” ejaculated Robbie. “But for the love of Mike, John, go easy. That ham of yours weighs a hundred pounds.”
But the Boston pitcher, stirred up by the fact that he was pitted against the great Hughson, was also “going great guns.” Larry and Burkett had been the only Giants so far to solve his delivery. Each had hammered out a brace of hits, but their comrades had been unable to bring them in from the bags on which they were roosting.
“Get after him, boys,” raged McRae. “You’re hitting like a bunch from the old ladies’ home. Split the game wide open.”
They promised vehemently to knock the cover off the ball, but the Red Sox pitcher, Landers, was not a party to the bargain and he obstinately refused to “crack.”