baseman.

Curry, the last hope of the Giants, came to the bat. He was in a frenzy of eagerness to redeem himself, as it was his inglorious muff that had started the Cubs on their way to those four unearned runs.

Axander himself was beginning to feel the strain, and was a bit wild. Curry looked them over carefully and let the bad ones go by. A couple of good ones were sandwiched in, at which he swung and missed.

With three balls and two strikes, both pitcher and batter were “in the hole.” Axander had to put the next one over under penalty of passing the batter. And if Curry missed the next good one, the game was over.

Axander wound up and let one go straight for the plate. Curry caught it full and fair and the ball soared off toward left.

Weston, the Cub leftfielder, was off with the crack of the ball, running in the direction the latter was taking. It seemed like a hopeless quest, but he kept on, and just as the ball was going over his head he made a tremendous leap and caught it with one hand. He was off balance and turned a complete somersault, but when he came up he still had hold of the ball. It was a catch such as is seldom seen more than two or three times in a season.

The game was over, and the Cubs had triumphed by a score of 4 runs to 3. The crowd swarmed down on the diamond to surround and applaud their favorites, who had plucked victory from the very jaws of defeat, or, to put it more correctly, had accepted the game which the Giants had generously handed over to them.

It was a sore and dejected band of Giants that made their way to the clubhouse. The end had come so suddenly that they could hardly realize what had happened. Some were inclined to blame the “jinx,” but the more intelligent knew that their own errors and those of some of their comrades had alone brought about their downfall. The defeat was all the more exasperating, because they had had superb pitching throughout—pitching that would have won nine games out of ten and would certainly have won that one if their twirlers had been given half-way decent support.

“Hard luck, Jim,” was Joe’s greeting to his comrade, as the latter came in and made ready for the showers. “You pitched a dandy game. It’s tough when four runs come in without one of them being earned.”

“All in a day’s work,” replied Jim, affecting a cheerfulness that he was far from feeling. “But you’re the one I’m worrying about. How’s that leg and foot?”

“Dougherty says it will be all right in a week,” replied Joe. “He’s rubbed most of the soreness out of them, but I’ll have to favor them for a while.”

“Glory be!” exclaimed Jim with fervor. “If you were out of the game for a long time it would be all up with the Giants. Then they’d go to pieces for fair.”

“Not a bit of it,” disclaimed Joe. “It’s too great a team to be dependent on any one man. I’m only just one cog in a fine machine.”

“Looked like a rather wobbly machine this afternoon,” said Jim, ruefully.

“Sure,” agreed Joe. “The boys did play like a bunch of hams. But every team does that once in a while. The boys will shake off this slump, and then they’ll begin to climb. Remember that time when we won twenty-six straight? What we’ve done once, we can do again. I’m not a seventh son of a seventh son, but I have a hunch that we’re just about due to do that very thing.”

“I hope you’re as good a prophet as you are a pitcher,” replied Jim, grinning. He was beginning to find Joe’s optimism contagious.

Their conversation was interrupted by the coming of McRae. A sudden silence fell over the occupants of the clubhouse, for they knew the danger signals, and a glance at the manager’s face told them that a storm was brewing.

“Giants!” exclaimed McRae, and they winced at the bitter sarcasm in his tone. “Where have I heard that word before? A fine bunch of pennant winners! Why, you couldn’t win the pennant in the Podunk League. Put you up against a gang of bushers, and they’d laugh themselves to death. Any high school nine would make you look foolish. Giants? Dwarfs, pigmies, runts! Easy meat for any team you come across! Champions of the world? Cellar champions! Sub-cellar champions! Just keep on this way, and the other teams will bury you so deep you’ll be coming out in China. I’m going to change my name. I’m ashamed to be known as the manager of such a bunch of dubs.”

Nobody ventured to interrupt the tirade, partly because they felt that he was justified in his anger and partly because no one cared to play the part of lightning rod. When McRae was in that mood, it was best to let him talk himself out.

From the general roast he came down to particulars. He glared around and singled out Curry. That hapless individual evaded his glance and pretended to be very busy in tying his shoe.

“You’re the one that started that bunch of errors in the eighth inning,” McRae shouted, pointing an accusing finger at him.

“Aw,” muttered Curry, “any one can make a muff once in a while.”

“It isn’t for the muff I’m calling you down,” retorted McRae. “I know that can happen to any man, and I never roast any one for it. Why, we lost the World’s championship one year in Boston when Rodgrass made that muff in centerfield. I never said a word to him about it, and in the next year’s contract I raised his salary. What I’m panning you for is that rotten throw that followed the muff. That’s when you lost your head. You could easily have caught Burton at second and stopped the rally.

“And you, Burkett,” he went on, turning to the first baseman. “For a man who calls himself a major leaguer, you certainly went the limit this afternoon. Don’t you get sleep enough at night that you have to go to sleep on first? And those wild throws, one over Renton’s head and the other over Mylert’s. Oh, what’s the use,” he continued, throwing his hands in the air. “I’ve got a doctor on this club that can take care of any bone in the leg or bone in the arm, but he can’t do anything with bones in the head.”

If they thought he had worn himself out, they were greatly mistaken. He turned to Iredell.

“Come outside, Iredell,” he said, “I want to have a word with you.”

Once outside the clubhouse, he turned a grim face on the captain.

“I didn’t want to call you down before your men, Iredell,” he snapped, “because I didn’t care to weaken the discipline of the team—that is, if there’s any discipline left in the club. But I want to tell you that if your work to-day is a sample of the way you captain the team, why, the sooner there’s a change in captains the better.”

“I don’t know just what you mean,” muttered Iredell, an angry red suffusing his face.

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” declared McRae. “How about that ball that fell to the ground between Larry and Burkett? Either one of them could have got it. Why didn’t they?”

Iredell remained silent, fingering his cap.

“Because you didn’t call out which was to take it,” McRae himself supplied the answer. “Their eyes were on the ball, and when each said he could get it each left it to the other. All you had to do was to call out the name of one of them, and he’d have got it. That’s what you’re captain for—to use your judgment in a pinch.

“Then there was that rotten coaching at third base,” McRae went on with his indictment. “Why didn’t you hold Larry there? You know what a terror Burton is on long throws to the plate and that he’d probably get him. With nobody