“Wouldn’t give a dime for me, eh?” jeered Mornsby. “I wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for you. That home run broke your heart, didn’t it? I told you you were a false alarm.”
Markwith, usually ready with a retort, was too discomfited to make reply.
“It’s up to you, Joe,” said McRae. “I know you pitched yesterday, but I’ll have to call on you to save this game if it isn’t already past saving.”
Joe was not altogether unprepared for the call, for in the previous inning McRae, seeing that Markwith was faltering, had sent him out to do a little warming up.
“All right, Mac,” he responded, and walked out to the box.
His coming was the signal for a storm of cheers from stands and bleachers. It seemed almost hopeless, but they had seen him so often lead a forlorn hope to victory.
As was his right, Joe tossed up a few balls to Mylert to get the location of the plate. Then he took his stand in the box as Munson came to the plate, eager to send his comrades home. Even a single would probably bring in two of them. A long sacrifice to the outfield would account for one run. And a sharp two-bagger would clear the bases.
Joe wound up and shot a fast high one over the plate. Munson missed it by inches.
“Strike one!” called the umpire, and the crowd cheered boisterously.
Mylert returned the ball to Joe on the bound. Joe muffed it and it dropped at his feet.