worth,” growled McRae. “And even at that price the fellow that bought them would get stung. What do you mean, sick? Are you sick or just lazy, soldiering on the job? You seemed husky enough this morning.”

“It—it may have been something we ate at noon,” suggested Jackwell, rather lamely. “A touch of ptomaine poisoning, or something like that.”

“Of course, I’ll play if you tell me to,” put in Bowen. “But I don’t feel up to my work.”

McRae stood for a moment in exasperated study of the two. For some reason their excuses did not ring true. Yet their pale faces and evidently unstrung condition seemed to bear out their words.

“Guess there is a jinx after this team all right,” he growled. “You fellows go over to the club doctor and let him find out what’s the matter with you. I’ll put other men in your places for the present.”

They hurriedly availed themselves of the permission, and McRae, after a consultation with Robbie, put Renton in Jackwell’s place and sent McGuire out in center to hold down Bowen’s position.

Again the bell rang, and the Cubs took their final practice. That they were in fine condition for the fray was evident from the way they shot the ball across the diamond. Dazzling plays and almost impossible catches brought round after round of applause from the spectators. It was plain that the whole team was in fine fettle, and that the Giants had their work cut out for them if they were to win.

The Giants, as the visiting team, were first at bat. Axander, the star twirler of the Cubs, picked up the ball and went into the box with a jaunty air that bespoke plenty of confidence.

“Play ball!” cried the umpire.

Axander dug his toes into the box and wound up for the first pitch.

And while the crowd watched breathlessly to see the ball leave his hand, it may be well for the benefit of those who have not read the preceding volumes of this series to tell who Baseball Joe was and trace his career up to the time this story opens.

Joe Matson had been born and brought up in the little town of Riverside in a middle western state. From early boyhood he had been a great lover of the national game, especially of the pitching end of it, to which he had taken naturally. His coolness, quick thinking, good judgment and powerful arm specially fitted him for the box. He soon became known for his skill as a twirler on his home team, and his reputation spread to surrounding towns. His early exploits and the difficulties he had to encounter and overcome are told in the first volume of this series, entitled: “Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars; or, The Rivals of Riverside.”

Later, on his school nine, he overcame the obstacles thrown in his way by the bully of the school and pitched his team to victory over his rivals. His field was widened when he went to Yale, and in an emergency he assumed the pitcher’s burden and downed Princeton in a glorious battle.

That victory proved a turning point in Joe’s life, for the game had been witnessed by a scout for a minor-league team, always on the alert for talent, and he made Joe an offer to join the Pittston team of the Central League. Joe accepted the offer, and soon climbed to the position of the leading twirler in the League.

Still, he was only a “busher,” and his delight can be imagined when, at the end of the season, he was drafted into the St. Louis team of the National League. Now he was really in fast company, and had to test his skill against the greatest twirlers in the country. But the fans were quick to learn that he could hold his own with the best of them.

McRae, the manager of the Giants, one of the ablest men in baseball when it came to judging the ability of a player, determined to get Joe for the Giants. He did get him, and had never ceased congratulating himself on the stroke that brought Joe to his team. He soon became its mainstay, and had been the main factor in winning the championship of the National League and the World Series twice in succession. He was a wizard in the box, and his record as pitcher had never been equaled in the history of the game.

And not only in the box, but at the bat he had proved himself without a peer. He was a natural batsman, timing and meeting the ball perfectly and leaning all the weight of his mighty shoulders against it so that it soared far beyond the reach of the fielders. When he hit the ball it was very often ticketed for a homer, and at every city on the League circuit thousands were attracted to the games not only to see a marvelous exhibition of pitching but to see Matson “knock out another home run.” What celebrity he gained by his work in both departments is told in a previous volume, and the way in which he saved the game from scandal when it was threatened by a gang of crooked gamblers is narrated in the last volume of the series entitled: “Baseball Joe Saving the League; or, Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy.”

But Joe had won other triumphs than those of baseball. He had fallen in love with Mabel Varley, a charming girl whose life he had saved in a runaway accident, and he had married her at the end of the previous season on the diamond. They were ideally happy.

Jim Barclay, a Princeton man who had joined the Giants, had speedily developed into a pitcher only second to Joe himself. He and Joe had become the closest of chums, and on a visit to Riverside Jim had fallen a victim to the charms of Joe’s pretty sister, Clara, and was now engaged to her and hoped for an early marriage.

And now to return to the tense situation on the Chicago ball field, where the Cubs and Giants faced each other in one of the critical games of the series.

Curry, the rightfielder of the Giants, was first at bat. He was a good hitter and was as fast as a flash in getting to first.

Axander shot over a high fast one at which Curry refused to bite, and it went as a ball. Then came a pretty first strike right over the heart of the plate. Axander came back with a slow one that lobbed up to the plate looking as big as a balloon. Curry nearly dislocated his spine reaching for it, and though he connected with it he raised an easy fly, which the Cubs’ third baseman caught without moving from his tracks.

Iredell came next to the plate, swinging three bats. He threw away two of them, tapped each of his heels with the other for luck, faced the pitcher and glared at him ferociously.

“Put one over, you false alarm, and see me murder it,” he called to Axander.

Axander grinned at him.

“You’re the captain of the team, aren’t you?” he asked. “Well, you’ll be only a lieutenant when I get through with you.”

He whizzed one over that Iredell swung at savagely and missed. The next he fouled off, making the second strike. Then came a ball and then a third strike, so swift that Iredell struck at it as it settled in the catcher’s glove.

“You’re out!” shouted the umpire.

Iredell threw down his bat in chagrin and retired to the bench.

Then Burkett, the burly first baseman of the Giants, strode to the plate. He caught the first ball pitched right near the end of his stick and belted it into the rightfield stands. It looked like a sure homer, and the contingent of loyal Giant rooters burst into a cheer. But the cheer was premature, as the umpire called it a foul, and Burkett, who had already rounded first, returned, disgruntled, to the plate.

“Had your eyes tried for glasses lately?” he asked the umpire.

“That’ll be about all from you,” returned that functionary. “Another wise crack like that, and it’s you for the showers.”