The roars of the crowd were like music in Jim’s ears. Still more grateful were the praise and congratulations from his comrades on the team. But, perhaps, he treasured more than all the shy tribute that came that evening from the lips of a remarkably pretty girl.
“You were just splendid to-day, Mr. Barclay,” said Clara, her eyes shining brightly. “Just splendid!”
The feeling in Boston was in marked contrast to that in the metropolis, when the news was flashed over the wires that for the second day in succession the Red Sox had lost.
To be sure they were by no means out of it, and a victory the next day would leave the clubs even up. But the odds now were on the New York side, especially as it was certain that Baseball Joe would pitch in one of the games.
The Red Sox stood in no particular fear of Markwith, although his ability was freely recognized. Still he could be handled. But they had the profoundest respect for Joe, not to say dread, and they had begun to share the feeling that he had the game won when he appeared upon the mound.
Perhaps by none was this conviction felt more keenly than by two men who sat at a table in a café. A groan had just arisen from a throng surrounding the ticker and in that groan the two men read defeat.
“That makes three games the Giants have won,” growled Connelly. “One more and the Series is theirs.”
“But they haven’t won that other one yet,” suggested Fleming, whose face by this time had renewed more nearly its usual appearance, “and it’s up to us to see that they don’t.”
“That sounds good,” growled Connelly. “But so did our other plan sound good. But you see what came of it.”
“It not only sounded good but it was good,” replied Fleming. “You know as well as I do that we only missed putting it over by an eyelash.”
“I haven’t got over wondering yet how Matson slipped out of that net,” Connelly ruminated. “It seemed a dead open and shut certainty that we had him.”
“He’s a slippery customer,” said Fleming, “but because we didn’t get him once doesn’t say that we won’t the next time. But whatever we do, we’ll have to do in a hurry. He’s to be in Boston only one more day.”
“What was it you were telling me about that Hartley?” asked Connelly.
“I don’t know how much there may be in that,” answered Fleming, thoughtfully. “The fellow’s fearfully sore on Matson for some reason or other that I can’t just make out. He’d like well enough to do him a personal injury, too, if he could.