had been pouring into the gates that afternoon, until now the stands and bleachers were crowded with enthusiastic fans. For if there was anything in the world that Chicago dearly loved, it was to see the Giants beaten. One game from the haughty Giants, the champions of the world, was more keenly relished than two games from any other club.

The rivalry between the teams of the two great cities was intense, dating from the days when the old Chicagos, with “Pop” Anson and Frank Chance at their head, had been accustomed to sweeping everything before them. Now the tables had been turned, and for the last few years, the Giants, with McRae as their astute manager and Baseball Joe as their pitching “ace,” had had the upper hand. Twice in succession the Giants had won the championship of the National League and had wound up the season in a blaze of glory by also winning the World Series.

This year they were desperately anxious to repeat. And, as Jim had said, it looked at the beginning of the season as though they were going to do it. They got off on the right foot and had an easy time of it in the games with the other Eastern clubs.

But with the Western clubs it was another story. A “jinx” seemed to be pursuing them. Pittsburgh had tied the can to them, and the Reds, not to be outdone, had tightened the knot. The Cubs thus far had clawed them savagely. They had tasted blood, and their appetite had grown with what it had fed upon. And for that reason the sport lovers of the Windy City had turned out in force to see the Cubs once more make the Giants “their meat.”

McRae, the manager, was sitting on the bench with Robson, his assistant, as Joe and Jim approached. There was an anxious furrow on his brow, and even the rotund and rubicund “Robbie,” usually jolly and smiling, seemed in the depths of gloom.

McRae’s face lightened a little when he saw Joe.

“I’m going to put you in to pitch to-day, Matson,” he said. “How’s the old soup-bone feeling?”

“Fine and dandy,” returned Joe, with a smile.

“I want you to stand those fellows on their heads,” said the manager. “They’ve been making monkeys of us long enough.”

“I’ll do my best, Mac,” promised Joe, as he picked up a ball preparatory to going out for warming-up practice.

“Your best is good enough,” replied McRae.

Joe and Jim went out with their respective catchers and limbered up their pitching arms.

“How are they coming, Mylert?” Joe called out to the veteran catcher, who was acting as his backstop.

“Great,” pronounced Mylert. “You’ve got speed to burn and your curves are all to the merry. That hop of yours is working fine. You’ll have them breaking their backs to get at the ball.”

McRae, in the meantime, had beckoned to Iredell, the captain of the team.

“Look here, Iredell,” he asked abruptly, “what’s the matter with this team? Why are they playing like a lot of old women?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Iredell, flushing and twirling his cap nervously.

“Don’t know?” snapped McRae. “Who should know if you don’t? You’re the captain, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” admitted Iredell. “But for all that, I can’t always get onto what’s in the minds of the fellows. I’ve talked to them and razzed them and done everything except to lam them. They’re just in a slump, and they don’t seem able to get out. Some of them think a jinx is on their backs. I’m playing my own position well enough, ain’t I?”

“Yes, you are,” McRae was forced to admit, for Iredell was one of the crack shortstops of the League, and so far had been batting and fielding well. “But that isn’t enough. To be a good shortstop is one thing, and to be a good captain is another. I figured you’d be both. Tell me this. Are there any cliques in the team? Any fellows out to do another or show him up? Any fights in the clubhouse that I haven’t been told about?”

“No,” replied Iredell, “nothing that’s worth noticing. Of course, the boys are as sore as boils over the way they keep on losing, and their tempers are on a hair trigger. Once in a while something is said that makes one of them take a crack at another. But that’s usually over in a minute and they shake hands and make up. There aren’t any real grudges among the boys that I know of.”

“Well, things have got to change, and it’s largely up to you to change them,” growled McRae. “If the job’s too big for you, perhaps somebody else will have to take it. I’ve often found that a shake up in the batting order will work wonders. Perhaps the same thing’s true of a shake up in captains.”

The flush in Iredell’s face grew deeper and his eyes glinted with anger. But he said nothing, and as McRae turned to say something to Robbie, indicating that the interview was ended, he moved away sullenly from the dugout.

Just then the bell rang as a signal for the Giants to run out for practice. The white uniforms of the Chicagos faded away from the diamond, while the gray-suited Giants scattered to their several positions in the field and on the bases.

Jackwell, who had been standing near Joe while the latter was putting the balls over to Mylert, started to run out with the rest, but suddenly he halted and stood in his tracks like a stone image.

Joe, who, out of the corner of his eye, had noted the action, turned to him in surprise.

“What’s the matter, Jackwell?” he asked, eying the new third baseman keenly.

“I—I can’t go on,” stammered Jackwell.

Joe noted that he had suddenly turned white.

CHAPTER II
A BITTER STRUGGLE

Jackwell’s legs were sagging, and Joe, alarmed at his condition and afraid that he was going to fall, put his arm about the baseman’s shoulder to support him.

“Brace up, old man,” he counseled. “What’s come over you?”

“I—I don’t know,” answered Jackwell, trying desperately to get a grip on himself. “I suddenly felt faint. Everything got black before my eyes.”

“Touch of the sun, maybe,” said Joe, kindly. “Come over and get a drink of water and then sit down on the bench for a few minutes. I’ll ask one of the other fellows to take your place at third for practice.”

Jackwell sank down on the bench, while Joe returned to his practice with Mylert, somewhat upset by the incident.

A moment later, Bowen, the new centerfielder, came along, and Jackwell beckoned to him. He sat down beside him, and the two conversed in whispers, casting surreptitious glances at a part of the grandstand almost directly behind the third-base position.

Joe kept his eye on the two men and saw Bowen start violently at something Jackwell whispered to him. His face seemed suddenly to have been drained of every drop of blood, and he shook like a man with the ague.

Just then McRae, who had been having an exchange of repartee with Evans, the manager of the Chicago team, who had chaffed him unmercifully about the playing of the Giants, came back to the dugout. He glanced in surprise at the two players.

“What are you fellows doing here?” he asked sharply, glowering at them. “Didn’t you hear the bell ring for practice? Why aren’t you in your places on the field?”

“I’m sick, Mr. McRae,” replied Jackwell. “I wish you’d put somebody else in my place. I ain’t in condition to play to-day.”

“I’m in the same fix,” put in Bowen. “I feel like thirty cents.”

“That’s what the whole team’s