Axander’s next throw went for a ball. On the next Burkett whaled a sharp single over second. A moment later, however, he was caught napping at first by a quick throw from the pitcher, and the inning ended without a score. Burkett, who found himself in his regular position at first, put on his glove and stayed there, glad enough that he was not near enough to the Giants’ dugout to get the tongue lashing that McRae had all ready for him.

“Did you see that boob play, Robbie?” McRae growled. “Did you see the way that perfectly good hit was wasted?”

“Sure, I saw it, John,” replied Robson, laying his hand soothingly on the knee of his irate friend. “’Twas enough to make a man tear his hair out by the roots. But the game’s young yet and we may have the last laugh. I’m banking heavily on what Joe’s going to do to them birds.”

Joe in the meantime had walked out to the box. It was a tribute to the admiration that was felt for him by fans everywhere that even the Chicago partisans welcomed his coming with a hearty round of applause. He was more than a Giant standby. He was the idol of all true lovers of the national game.

Burton, the heaviest slugger on the Chicago team, was first at bat. Joe looked him over and then sent the ball over for a perfect strike. It came in like a bullet. Burton did not even offer at it.

“Strike one!” called the umpire.

The next one had a fast hop on it, and Burton swung six inches beneath it.

“Strike two!”

Burton set himself for the next one, and succeeded only in fouling it off. Mylert got the ball and returned it to Joe on the bound. The latter caught it carelessly and then, without his usual wind-up, sent it whistling across the plate. It caught Burton entirely off his guard, and his futile stab at it caused even the Chicago fans to break into laughter.

“Out!” cried the umpire, and the discomfited Burton retired sheepishly to the bench.

“That’s showing them up, Joe,” called up Larry Barrett from second.

“Why didn’t you soak that first ball?” demanded Evans, the Chicago manager. “It was a beauty, right in the groove.”

“Aw,” growled Burton, “how can I hit a ball that I can’t see? That came like a shot from a rifle. I ain’t no miracle man.”

Gallagher came next and had no better luck. One strike was called on him, and the other two he missed.

“Look at that boy, John,” exulted Robbie, his red face beaming. “He’s got them fellows buffaloed right from the jump. He’s making them eat out of his hand. He’s skinning ’em alive.”

“Fine work,” agreed McRae, his anxious features relaxing somewhat. “’Twas the best day’s work I ever did when I got him on the team. He’s a whole nine by himself. And—blistering billikens! Look at that!”

The “that” was a hot liner that Weston had sent right over the box. Like a flash Joe had leaped into the air and speared it with his gloved hand. The force of the hit was so great that it knocked him down, but he came up smiling with the ball in his hand.

There was a moment of stupefied silence, and then the stands rocked with applause, contributed by the Cub as well as the Giant rooters. That play alone was worth the price of admission.

Joe drew off his glove and came in from the box, while the Chicagos ran out to take their places in the field.

“Great stuff, Joe,” cried Jim jubilantly, as he hit his chum a resounding whack on the shoulder. “They didn’t have a chance. Keep it up and you’ll have those Cubs crawling into their hole and licking their wounds.”

“Oh, it will do for a start,” said Joe, modestly. “But that’s only one inning out of nine, and those fellows may break loose any time. But if our fellows will only give me a run or two, I’ll try to hold them down.”

But the wished-for runs did not materialize in the Giants’ second turn at bat. Wheeler made a strong bid for a run when he sent the ball on a high line between right and center, but the Chicago rightfielder was off at the crack of the bat and just managed to get his hands on the ball and shut off what seemed to have all the earmarks of a homer. It was a sparkling catch and evoked rounds of applause from the Chicago rooters.

McGuire dribbled a slow one to the box that Axander had no trouble in getting to first on time. Renton was an easy victim on strikes.

“Looks as if you’d have to win your own game, Joe,” grumbled McRae. “These boobs have more holes in their bats than a chunk of Swiss cheese.”

In the Cubs’ half Joe mowed them down as fast as they came to the bat. His curve and hop ball were working to perfection. He varied his fast and slow ones with such cunning that he had his opponents up in the air. It was just a procession of bewildered batters to the plate and then back to the bench. It looked as though Joe were in for one of the best days of his brilliant career.

In the third inning the Giants at last broke the ice. Barrett lay down a well-placed bunt along the third base line that the Cub third baseman got all mixed up on in his efforts to field. When at last he did get his hands on it he threw wild, and Barrett easily reached second before the ball was retrieved.

It looked like the possible beginning of a rally, and instantly all was commotion on the Giants’ bench. McRae himself ran out to the coaching line near first, while he sent Jim over to third. The Giant players began a line of chatter designed to rattle the Cub pitcher.

But Axander only smiled as he took up his position in the box. He was too much of a veteran to let his opponents get him fussed. But his smile, though it did not entirely disappear, lost some of its brightness when he saw that Baseball Joe was the next man to face him.

Cries of encouragement rose from Joe’s mates and from the Giant rooters in the stands.

“Oh, you home-run slugger!”

“Give the ball a ride!”

“Show him where you live!”

“Send it to kingdom come!”

Amid the babel of cries, Joe took up his position at the plate. His brain was alert and his nerves like steel.

“Sorry, Matson, but I’ll have to strike you out,” said Axander, with a grin. “All Giants look alike to me to-day. Giant killer is my middle name.”

“Don’t waste any sympathy on me,” retorted Joe. “You can send flowers to my funeral later on. But first give me a chance at the ball.”

Axander wound up and put one over the corner of the plate with all the force he could muster. Joe caught it near the end of his bat and sent it soaring out toward rightfield. It was a mighty clout, but when it came down it was just about six inches on the wrong side of the foul line.

Joe, who was well on his way to second, came back and again took up his position at the bat.

But that tremendous hit had given Axander food for thought. The next ball that came over was so wide of the plate that the catcher had to jump for it.

Another ball followed in the same place, and the stands began to murmur.

“He’s afraid to let him hit it!”

“He’s going to walk him!”

“Matson’s got his goat!”

But Axander had resolved to play safe, and the next ball was so wide that it was plain he was doing it with deliberate design.

“Thought you were a giant killer,” jeered Joe. “Have you lost your nerve? I can see from here you’re trembling.”

Stung by the taunt, Axander put all the stuff he had on the ball and sent in a swift incurve.

Joe timed it perfectly. There was a terrific crash as the bat met the ball, and the next