instant Joe had dropped the bat and was running to first like a deer.

CHAPTER III
THROWN AWAY

On went the ball almost on a dead line to center, but rising as it went as though it were endowed with wings. On and still on, as though it would never stop. The centerfielder had cast one look at it, and then he turned and ran toward the distant bleachers in the back of the field. He took another look over his shoulder and then threw up his hands in a gesture of despair.

The ball cleared the bleacher rail, still going strong, and finally came to rest in the top row, where it was hastily gobbled up and concealed by an enthusiastic bleacherite, anxious to retain a memento of one of the longest hits ever made on the Chicago grounds.

Joe rounded first, going like a railroad train, but as he saw where the ball was going he moderated his speed in order to conserve his wind and just jogged around the bases until he reached the plate, where Barrett had preceded him.

Again and again he was forced to doff his cap in response to the shouts of the crowd, who had forgotten all partisanship for the moment in the excitement of that mighty homer. And his teammates mauled and pounded him until he laughingly made them desist, and made his way to the bench, where McRae and Robbie were beaming.

“I’ve been thirty years in baseball, Joe,” said McRae, “and I’ve seen lots of home runs. But if any one of them was finer than that whale of a hit, I’ve forgotten it.”

“If it hadn’t been for the bleachers in the way, the ball would be going yet,” grinned Robbie. “That swat will break Axander’s heart.”

But the heart of the Cub pitcher was made of stouter material than Robbie gave it credit for, and Axander settled down and prevented further scoring for that inning. But the Giants had two runs to the good, and the way Joe was pitching made those two runs look as big as a house.

For the next two and a half innings the game developed into a pitchers’ duel. Neither side was able to tally, although a scratch hit put a Giant on first and a passed ball advanced him to second. It seemed quite possible that the game would end with the score still two to none.

Joe came up again in the sixth, amid cries by the Giant rooters to repeat. But Axander was going to take no more chances. The memory of that screaming homer still lingered. The catcher stood wide of the plate, and Axander deliberately pitched four bad balls, regardless of the jeers of the crowd.

It was the finest kind of a compliment to Joe’s prowess, but he was not looking for compliments. What he wanted was another crack at the ball. There was no help for it, however, and he dropped his bat and trotted down to first.

He watched Axander like a hawk, took a long lead off the bag, and on the second ball pitched started to steal second. He would have made it without difficulty, but the Cub catcher threw the ball to the right of the bag, and the second baseman, in order to grab it, had to get in the way of Joe. There was a mix-up as they came together, and both went down. The baseman dropped the ball, and Joe managed to get his hand on the base before the ball could be recovered.

But when Joe attempted to get up on his feet, his left leg gave way under him, and he had to steady himself by catching hold of Holstein, the second baseman. The latter looked at him in surprise.

“Trying to kid me?” he asked.

“Not at all,” replied Joe. “My leg’s gone back on me. Must have wrenched or twisted it, I guess, when we came together.”

The umpire saw that something had happened and called time, while McRae, Robbie, and the other men on the Giant team gathered around their injured comrade in alarm and consternation.

“Nothing broken, is there, Joe?” cried McRae, as he came running out to second.

“Nothing so bad as that,” answered Joe, summoning up a smile. “Guess it’s only a sprain. But I’m afraid it puts me out of the running for to-day. I can scarcely bear my weight on it.”

The club trainer, Dougherty, ran his hands over Joe with the dexterity of an expert.

“No breaks,” he pronounced. “But a wrench to the leg and the ankle sprained. No more work for you, Joe, for a week, at least. Here, some of you fellows help me get him over to the clubhouse.”

“Maybe after a little rest and rubbing I can go on with the pitching,” suggested Joe.

“Nothing doing,” replied Dougherty, laconically. “Get that right out of your noddle. Your work’s done for the day.”

A rookie was put on second to run for Joe, and the latter was assisted to the clubhouse, where Dougherty and his assistants set to work on the leg and ankle at once.

Gloom so thick that it could have been cut with a knife came down on the Giants’ bench. Here was another proof that the “jinx” was still camping on their trail.

But there was no time for grizzling then, for the game had to go on. Jim and Markwith were sent out to warm up, while the Giants finished their half of the inning.

Joe’s hit had not gone for nothing, for Ledwith, the rookie, got to third on a fielder’s choice, and came home on a long sacrifice fly to center. Iredell swung viciously at the ball and sent up a towering skyscraper that Axander was waiting for when it came down. The inning was over, and, despite the injury to their star pitcher, another run had been stowed away in the Giants’ bat bag.

McRae selected Jim to finish the game in his chum’s place.

“Go to it, Barclay, and show them what stuff you’re made of,” admonished the manager. “The boys have given you a lead of three runs, and all you’ve got to do is to hold those birds down.”

“I’ll pitch my head off to do it,” promised Jim.

He only permitted three men to face him in the Chicago’s sixth inning. All the attempts of the Cub coaches and players to rattle him at the send-off resulted in failure.

Mollocher, the first Cub at bat, let a speeder go past because it was a trifle wide. The next was a slow curve that the umpire called a strike. Mollocher looked surprised, but apart from glaring at the umpire made no protest. He laced out at the next one and fouled it to the top of the grandstand for a second strike. The next ball he hit on the upper side, and it went for a harmless hopper to Barrett, who fielded him out at first.

Greaves, who came next, refused to offer at the first, which was high and went as a ball. The next cut the plate for a strike. He fouled the next two in succession, and finally sent a looping fly to Renton at third.

Lasker stood like a wooden man as Jim sent over a beauty for the first strike. The second came over below his knees, and was a ball. He struck at the next and missed, and then Jim fanned him with a slow outcurve that he almost broke his back in reaching for.

It was good pitching, and showed that the Giants had more than one string to their bow. The score was now 3 to 0 on even innings, and, with only three more innings to go, it looked as though the Giants were due to break their long run of hard luck.

“You’re doing fine, Jim,” encouraged Robbie. “Just keep that up and we’ll not only beat ’em but rub it in by giving ’em a row of goose eggs.”

“Knock wood,” cautioned McRae, giving three sharp raps with his knuckles on the bench. “For the love of Pete, Robbie, cut out that kind of talk. The game isn’t over yet by a long shot.”

Axander, as cool as an iceberg, put on extra speed and set down the Giants in their half in one, two,