vision.

“They’ve been under a fearful strain for the last few weeks,” he commented; “and I guess they had to let themselves go in some fashion or they’d have burst.”

“Do you realize what that home run of yours meant in money, to say nothing of the glory?” jubilated Jim.

“I haven’t had time to do much figuring yet,” smiled Joe.

“It meant at least fifty thousand dollars for the team,” pursued Jim. “We’ll get that much even if we lose the World Series, and a good deal more if we win. And if the Series goes to six or seven games the management will scoop in a big pot of money, too—anywhere from fifty to a hundred thousand dollars.”

“That’s good,” replied Joe, a little absent-mindedly.

“Good?” echoed Jim, sharply. “It’s more than good—it’s great, it’s glorious! Wake up, man, and stop your dreaming.”

Joe came to himself with a little start.

“You’re—you’re right, Jim,” he stammered somewhat confusedly. “To tell the truth, I wasn’t thinking just then of money.”

Jim gave him a quick glance, and a sudden look of amused comprehension came into his eyes. Joe caught his glance and flushed.

“What are you blushing about?” demanded Jim with a grin.

“I wasn’t blushing,” defended Joe, stoutly. “It’s mighty warm in this cab.”

Jim laughed outright.

“Tell that to the King of Denmark,” he chuckled. “I’m on, old man. You told me in the clubhouse that you were going to the Marlborough Hotel, and I know just who it is that’s stopping there.”

“My friend, Reggie Varley, is putting up there,” countered Joe, feebly.

“My friend Reggie Varley,” mimicked Jim, “to say nothing of his charming sister. Oh, I’m not blind, old fellow. I’ve seen for a long time how the wind was blowing. Well,” he continued, dropping his light tone for a more earnest one, “go in and win, Joe. I hope you have all the luck in the world.”

He reached over and slapped his friend cordially on the shoulder. Then he signaled for the chauffeur to stop.

“What are you getting out here for?” asked Joe. “We haven’t got to your street yet.”

“I know it,” answered Jim, preparing to jump out. “I want to give you a chance to think up what you’re going to say to the lady fair,” he added, mischievously.

He ducked the friendly thrust that Joe made toward him and went away laughing, while the cab started on.

Joe knew perfectly well what he intended to say when he should meet Mabel Varley. He had wanted to say it for a long time, and had determined that if his team won the pennant he would wait no longer.

He had met her for the first time two years before under unusual circumstances. At that time he was playing in the Central League, and his team was training at Montville, North Carolina. He had saved Mabel from being carried over a cliff by a runaway horse, and the acquaintance thus formed had soon deepened into friendship. With Joe it had now become a much stronger feeling, and he had dared to hope that this was shared by Mabel.

Reggie Varley, Mabel’s brother, was a rather affected young man, who ran chiefly to clothes and automobiles and had an accent that he fondly supposed was English. Joe had met him at an earlier date than that at which he had formed Mabel’s acquaintance and under unpleasant conditions. Reggie had lost sight of his valise in a railway station, and had rashly accused Joe of taking it. He apologized later, however, and the young men had become the best of friends, for Reggie, despite some foolish little affectations, was at heart a thoroughly good fellow.

The brother and sister had come to New York to see the deciding games and were quartered at the Marlborough Hotel. Mabel had waved to Joe from a box at the Polo Grounds that afternoon, and her presence had nerved him to almost superhuman exertions. And he had won and won gloriously.

Would his good luck continue? He was asking himself this question when the taxicab drew up at the curb, and he saw that he was at the door of the Marlborough.

He jumped out and thrust his hand in his pocket to get the money for his fare, but the chauffeur waved him back with a grin.

“Nuthin’ doin’,” he said. “This ride is on me.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Joe in surprise.

“Jest what I said,” returned the chauffeur. “The fellow that won the championship for the New Yorks can’t pay me any money. It’s enough for me to have Baseball Joe ride in my cab. I can crow over the other fellows that wasn’t so lucky.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Joe, as he took out a bankbill and tried to thrust it on him.

“No use, boss,” the man persisted. “Your money’s counterfeit with me.”

He started his car with a rush and a backward wave of his hand, and Joe, warned by a cheer or two that came from people near by who had recognized him, was forced to retreat into the hotel.

He did not send up a card, as he was a frequent caller and felt sure of his welcome. Besides, he was too impatient for any formalities. He wanted to be in the presence of Mabel, and even the elevator seemed slow, though it shot him with amazing speed to the fifth floor on which the Varley suite was located.

His heart was beating fast as he knocked at the parlor door, and it beat still faster when a familiar voice bade him enter.

He burst in with a rush that suddenly stopped short when he saw that he was not the only visitor. A young man had stepped back quickly from Mabel’s side and it was evident that he had just withdrawn his hand from hers.

For a moment Joe’s blood drummed in his ears and the demon of jealousy took possession of him. He glared at the visitor, who stared back at him with an air of insolence that to Joe at that moment was maddening.

The stranger was dressed in a degree of fashion that bordered on foppishness. He wore more jewelry than was dictated by good taste, even going so far as to carry a tiny wrist watch. His eyes were pale, his chin slightly retreating, and his face showed unmistakable marks of dissipation. His air was arrogant and supercilious as he took Joe slowly in from head to foot.

Mabel rushed forward eagerly as Joe entered.

“Oh, Joe!” she cried. “I’m so glad you’ve come! I never was so glad in all my life.”

Before the joyous warmth of that greeting, Joe’s jealousy receded. He could not question her sincerity. All her soul was in her eyes.

He took her hand tenderly in his and felt that it was trembling. Had she been frightened? He turned her about so that he stood between her and the visitor.

“Tell me,” he commanded in a low voice. “Has this man offended you?”

“Yes, no, yes!” she whispered. “Oh, Joe, please don’t say anything now! Please, for my sake, Joe! It’s all right now. I’ll tell you about it afterward. He’s Reggie’s friend. Don’t make a scene, please, Joe!”

Joe’s muscles stiffened, and had it not been for Mabel’s earnest pleading, he would have thrown the other fellow out of the room. But Mabel’s name must not be mixed up in any brawl, and by a mighty effort he restrained himself.

The visitor during this brief colloquy had been moving about uneasily. He evidently wished himself anywhere else than where he was. Then, as the two turned toward him, he put on a mask of carelessness and drawled lazily:

“Won’t you introduce me to—ah—your friend, Miss Varley?”

Mabel, recalled to her duty as hostess, had no option but to comply.

“This is Mr. Beckworth Fleming, Joe,” she said.