They shook hands and parted with the mutual respect of hard fighters and gallant sportsmen.
The city was wild with excitement and it was a foregone conclusion that the four games would draw bigger crowds than had ever before been packed into the Polo Grounds.
Mabel, true to her promise, had come to the city, accompanied by Reggie, and Joe had secured seats for them in a box so located that they could follow every move of the game. It is needless to say that every spare minute that he could take from his work was spent in the vicinity of the Marlborough Hotel, at which the visitors were again staying.
“You simply must win, Joe,” Mabel declared. “You surely wouldn’t have the heart to lose after I’ve come all the way from Goldsboro.”
“I haven’t any heart to lose anyway,” replied Joe. “I lost that long ago.”
“I see Hughson is going to pitch the first game,” said Mabel, hastily changing the subject to a safer ground. “Do you think he will win?”
“Sure I do,” replied Joe, enthusiastically. “He’s the greatest pitcher that ever threw a ball.”
“They say there’s a good deal of professional jealousy among artists,” laughed Mabel, “but you don’t seem to be troubled that way.”
“Not a particle where Hughson is concerned,” affirmed Joe, stoutly. “He’s one of the best friends I have on the team and I root for him for all I’m worth every time he goes into the box.”
“You’ll pitch the second game, I suppose,” she went on.