But that was not enough. Joe knew it, and every member of the team, as well as the clamoring crowd in grandstand and bleachers, knew it too.
Three, four, five innings passed without changing the score. Then in the first part of the sixth Neale of the Bostons knocked a homer that made wild men of their little band of supporters.
Three to nothing the score stood now, in the first half of the sixth, and the Giants were in the throes of what promised to be a first-class slump.
“Looks as if you had to carry the whole team on your shoulders, Joe,” said Robbie, adding, with a comprehensive glance: “They look broad enough to stand it, at that. Listen, Joe, pretty soon you’re going behind that bat and you’re going to smash that score into little bits and make a brand new one, understand?”
And Joe did. He waited till he was sure of his ball, and then with all the weight of his shoulders behind it he caught the ball squarely on the end of his bat, sent it winging skyward as though its ambition were to see just how far up in the clouds it could go and manage to get back to earth at all.
At the crack of the bat Joe started and reached home without sliding just as the ball connected with the catcher’s glove.
The crowd went mad. There was a storm of cheering and stamping and frantic yells, but Joe took no notice of them. He was thinking of Mabel. Was his little wife waiting for him, wondering why he did not come, perhaps reproaching him?
At the end of the sixth the score stood as Joe had made it: 3 to 1 in favor of Boston. In various innings there had been men on first and second and, at one time, on all three, but, somehow, they fell just short of scoring.
“It’s just what I tell you, Joe,” growled Robbie. “You have to carry the whole team. You give them an opening and they don’t even see it.”