On the night before the first game, McRae dropped into the uptown hotel where the Chicagos were quartered, to have a word of friendly greeting with Brennan, the manager of the Windy City warriors.
While they were bitter enemies on the ball field, each fighting like a wildcat for every shred of advantage, they were the best of friends when once they had discarded their uniforms and gotten into their street clothes. In this they were not unlike the lawyers who berate each other bitterly while the case is on, and after the court has adjourned go to lunch together arm in arm.
Brennan saw his opponent enter, and, rising from the group of reporters who were trying to get from him his views on the series, came forward to greet him with extended hand, a broad grin on his features.
“How are you, John?” he queried. “Have you come in to ask me to let you off easy tomorrow?”
“Not a bit of it, Roger,” laughed McRae as he shook hands. “I simply heard that there were a lot of dead ones in town and I wanted to know what cemetery you’d prefer to be buried in. I’ll make it Woodlawn or Greenwood or any place you say. Or if you like, I’ll ship your remains back to Chicago.”
“You always were a good bluffer, John,” retorted Roger. “But I can see that you’re just whistling to keep your courage up. When we go back to Chicago it won’t be in boxes, but in Pullmans; and we’re going to take the pennant along with us.”
“Where do you get that stuff?” rejoined McRae. “I’ll set the squirrels after you if you don’t stop your foolishness. I’m only wondering whether I’ll take four straight or let you have just one of the series as a sort of booby prize.”
They chaffed each other good-naturedly for a while, to the great delight of the reporters and hotel guests, who had gathered in a dense crowd about them.