In the ninth, Joe had no trouble in disposing of the men who faced him. His slants and cross fire had them “buffaloed.” One went out on a foul, another was an easy victim at first, and he put on the finishing touch by striking the third man out.
McRae tore round among his men like an elephant on a rampage as they came in for their half of the ninth. They, however, needed no urging. They were as wild to win as he was himself, and they were almost frantic as they saw victory slipping from them.
They did do something, but not enough. By the time two men were out, there was a Giant on first and another on second. Larry, the slugger of the team, was at the bat. He picked out a fast one and sent it hurtling on a line to left. It looked like a sure hit, but Stock, the shortstop, leaped high into the air and speared it with his gloved hand, and the shout that had gone up from the stands ended in a groan.
Three games of the Series had been played and the Red Sox had won two of them!
It was a disgruntled band of athletes who went under the shower in the Giant clubhouse that afternoon, and when Joe and Jim joined their party at the Marlborough in the early evening, the air of jubilation they had worn on the day of the first game was conspicuous by its absence.
“If you had that band here you were talking about Friday, what do you suppose they would play?” Joe asked of Mabel, after the first greetings were over.
“They ought to play the ‘Dead March in Saul,’” Jim volunteered.
“Not a bit of it,” denied Mabel, cheerily.
“There’s a better day coming and dinna’ ye doubt it,
So just be canty wi’ thinking about it,”
she quoted, flashing a sunny smile at Joe that made him feel more cheerful at once.