The next--an in-shoot--was hit, but only for a foul, and Joe, whose heart had gone into his throat as he heard the crack of the bat, breathed easier. Then, just to puzzle the batter, after delivering a "moistener"
that fell off and was called a ball, Joe sent in a "teaser"--a slow one--that fooled the player, who flied out to shortstop.
Joe was beginning to feel more confidence in himself.
The others of the Pittston team grinned encouragingly at Joe, and Gregory clasped his arms about the young pitcher as he came in to the bench.
"Can you stick it out?" he asked.
"Sure! Have you any word yet on the 'phone?"
"No. Not yet. I'm expecting Hastings back any minute," naming a substitute player who had not gone into the game, and whom the manager had sent to call up Joe's house. "But are you sure you want to keep on playing?"
"Sure," answered Joe. He had a glimpse of Collin, and fancied that the eager look on the other pitcher's face turned to one of disappointment.
"You're beating me out," said Tooley, the south-paw, with an easy laugh.
"I'm sorry," said Joe, for he knew how it felt to be supplanted.
"Oh, I'm not worrying. My turn will come again. One can't be up to the mark all the while."
Pittston managed to get a run over the plate that inning, and when it came time for Joe to go to the mound again he had better news to cheer him up.
Word had come over the telephone that Mr. Matson, while making some tests at the Harvester Works, had been injured by an explosion of acids. Some had gone into his face, burning him badly.
His life was in no danger, but his eyesight might be much impaired, if not lost altogether. Nothing could be told in this respect for a day or so.
Hastings had been talking to Joe's sister Clara, to whom he explained that Joe would start for home as soon as the game was over. Mrs. Matson was bearing up well under the strain, the message said, and Joe was told not to worry.
"Now I'll be able to do better," said the young pitcher, with a little smile. "Thanks for the good news."
"You're doing all right, boy!" cried Gregory. "I think we're going to win!"
But it was not to be as easy as saying it. The Newkirk men fought hard, and to the last inch. They had an excellent pitcher--a veteran--who was well backed up with a fielding force, and every run the Pittstons got they fully earned.
Joe warmed up to his work, and to the howling delight of the crowd struck out two men in succession, after one had gone out on a pop fly, while there were two on bases. That was a test of nerve, for something might have broken loose at any moment.
But Joe held himself well in hand, and watched his batters. He so varied his delivery that he puzzled them, and working in unison with Nelson very little got past them.
Then came a little spurt on the part of Newkirk, and they "sweetened"
their score until there was a tie. It was in the ninth inning, necessitating another to decide the matter.
"If we can get one run we'll have a chance to win," declared Gregory.
"That is, if you can hold them in the last half of the tenth, Joe."
"I'll do my best!"
"I know you will, my boy!"
For a time it looked as though it could not be done. Two of the Pittston players went down in rapid succession before the magnificent throwing of the Newkirk pitcher. Then he made a fatal mistake. He "fed" a slow ball to John Holme, the big third baseman, who met it squarely with his stick, and when the shouting was over John was safely on the third sack.
"Now bring him home, Joe!" cried the crowd, as the young pitcher stepped to the plate. It was not the easiest thing in the world to stand up there and face a rival pitcher, with the knowledge that your hit might win the game by bringing in the man on third. And especially after the advent of the telegram. But Joe steadied himself, and smiled at his opponent.
He let the first ball go, and a strike was called on him. There was a groan from grandstand and bleachers.
"Take your time, Joe!" called Gregory, soothingly. "Get what you want."
It came. The ball sailed for the plate at the right height, and Joe correctly gaged it. His bat met it squarely, with a resounding "plunk!"
"That's the boy!"
"Oh, what a beaut!"
"Take third on that!"
"Come on home, you ice wagon!"
"Run! Run! Run!"
It was a wildly shrieking mob that leaped to its feet, cheering on Joe and Holme. On and on ran the young pitcher. He had a confused vision of the centre fielder running back to get the ball which had dropped well behind him. Joe also saw Holme racing in from third. He could hear the yells of the crowd and fancied--though of course it could not be so--that he could hear the voice of Mabel calling to him.
On and on ran Joe, and stopped, safe on second, Holme had gone in with the winning run.
But that was all. The next man struck out, and Joe was left on the "half-way station."
"But we're one ahead, and if we can hold the lead we've got 'em!" cried Gregory. "Joe, my boy, it's up to you! Can you hold 'em down?"
He looked earnestly at the young pitcher.
"I--I'll do it!" cried Joe.
CHAPTER XVI
A SLIM CHANCE
There was an almost breathless silence as Joe walked to the mound to begin what he hoped would be the ending of the final inning of the game.
If he could prevent, with the aid of his mates, the Newkirk team from gaining a run, the Pittstons would be at the top of the list. If not----
But Joe did not like to think about that. He was under a great nervous strain, not only because of the news concerning his father, but because of what his failure or success might mean to the club he had the honor to represent.
"I've just got to win!" said Joe to himself.
"Play ball!" called the umpire.
Joe had been holding himself a little in reserve up to now; that is, he had not used the last ounce of ability that he had, for he could see that the game was going to be a hard one, and that a little added "punch" at the last moment might make or break for victory.