“Come now, Joe,” coaxed Jim, as they drew near the family hotel where they were staying at the time, and which they had chosen for its proximity to the Polo Grounds. “Don’t go so far as you have without coming across with whatever’s on your chest. I’ve noticed for some time past that you were acting as though you had something on your mind.”
“Nothing much except my hat, I guess,” remarked Joe, with a laugh that, however, did not sound very genuine.
“Yes, you have,” Jim pressed him. “Something’s worrying you. I haven’t been with you so long, old boy, without being able to read your moods. A few weeks ago you were kicking up your heels like a colt let out to pasture. Lately you seem at times to be brooding over something. More than once when I’ve spoken to you you haven’t seemed to hear me. What’s bothering you? Out with it!”
“Well,” said Joe, after a moment’s thought, “I suppose I might as well tell you. You’re the best friend I have on earth and there isn’t anybody else that I’d breathe a word to about it.”
“Count on me, old boy, to be as silent as the grave,” asseverated Jim.
“You were speaking about McCarney and Hupft and the off days they seemed to have in their playing,” said Joe slowly. “Well, have you ever happened to notice that most of those off days have been when I was pitching?”
“By Jove, I hadn’t!” replied Jim, as his mind ran rapidly over some of the more recent games. “But now you speak of it, I can remember several times when they fell down badly when you were in the box. Yesterday was a case in point. I remember, too, that game with the Bostons when McCarney made three errors. And then there was that Philly game when you had them eating out of your hand and yet came within an ace of losing because of two boob plays by Hupft in center.”
“Yes, that’s what you can remember offhand,” replied Joe. “But I’ve made a study of it and I could point out three or four other games when their work seemed queer. On the other hand, when the rest of the staff are pitching you couldn’t ask for much better support than they give. Now, once or twice wouldn’t mean anything. One swallow, or even two, doesn’t make a summer. But when it occurs so often, with me chosen as the goat, don’t you think there’s something more in it than mere coincidence?”
“I certainly do,” agreed Jim. “Gee, Joe, you’ve knocked me all in a heap! What do you think it means? Have you had any words with them?”
“None at all,” replied Joe. “In fact, I’ve tried to be especially nice to them, chiefly because they came from St. Louis, which, as you know, was my old team. I’ve gone out of my way to be friendly. But they’ve never thawed out, and lots of times when I’ve been going past them they’ve shut up as if they’d been talking about me and only resumed again after I got out of earshot. But there’s something more than that.