But when he reached the clubhouse, distressing news awaited him. A disaster had come upon the New York camp.
The great Hughson had had his arm twisted in an auto accident and was out of the game for the series!
Joe was knocked off his balance by the news. He realized at once the far reaching consequences of the calamity. He knew the panic it would create in the New York camp and the renewal of heart and hope that would come to the enemy now that their most dreaded foe was out of the running.
McRae was stamping about the clubhouse like a crazy man. Robson sat moodily in one corner, his arms folded on his breast. The players, in various conditions of undress, were white and shaken at the report that had just come over the telephone from Hughson’s house.
It was not advisable to approach McRae in his present frantic condition and Joe made his way over to Robson.
“How did it happen?” he asked. “And how bad is it?”
“So bad that it may knock us out of winning the pennant,” groaned Robson. “I don’t know anything about how it happened. Mrs. Hughson, who called us up, was so excited that she couldn’t tell us very clearly. Mac has sent for a taxi, and as soon as it comes we’re going up to Hughson’s house.”
At that moment word was brought that the taxicab was waiting, and McRae and Robson hurried toward the door.
McRae caught sight of Joe standing near.
“You come along with us,” he ordered. “Even if Hughson’s arm is hurt, his tongue and brain are probably all right, and he may be able to give you some fresh pointers on those Chicago sluggers after facing them yesterday.”