The young pitcher had a good delivery of what is known as the "jump"
ball. It is sent in with all the force possible, and fairly jumps as it approaches the plate. It is often used to drive the batsman away from the rubber. It is supposed to go straight for the plate, or the inside corner, and about shoulder high. A long preliminary swing is needed for this ball, and it is pitched with an overhand delivery.
Joe had practiced this until he was a fair master of it, but he realized that it was exhausting. Always after sending in a number of these his arm would be lame, and he was not good for much the next day. But now he thought the time had come to use it, varying it, of course, with other styles of delivery.
"I've got to hold 'em down!" thought Joe.
He realized that the attention of all was on him, and he wished he could catch the eyes of a certain girl he knew sat in the grandstand watching him. Joe also felt that Collin, his rival, was watching him narrowly, and he could imagine the veteran pitcher muttering:
"Why do they send in a young cub like that when so much depends on it?
Why didn't Gregory call me?"
But the manager evidently knew what he was doing.
"Play ball!" called the umpire again, at the conclusion of the sending in of a practice ball or two.
Joe caught his breath sharply.
"It's now or never!" he thought as he grasped the ball in readiness for the jump. "It's going to strain me, but if I go home for a day or so I can rest up."
In went the horsehide sphere with great force. It accomplished just what Joe hoped it would. The batter instinctively stepped back, but there was no need. The ball neatly clipped the corner of the plate, and the umpire called:
"Strike one!"
Instantly there was a howl from the crowd.
"That's the way!"
"Two more, Matson, old man!"
"Make him stand up!"
"Slam it out, Johnson!"
The batter had his friends as well as Joe.
But the battle was not half won yet. There were two men to be taken care of after this one was disposed of, and he still had his chances.
Joe signalled to his catcher that he would slip in a "teaser" now, and the man in the wire mask nodded his understanding. The batter smiled, in anticipation of having a "ball" called on him, but was amazed, not to say angry, when he heard from the umpire the drawling:
"Strike--two!"
Instantly there came a storm of protest, some from the crowd, a half-uttered sneer from the batter himself, but more from his manager and team-mates on the players' bench.
"Forget it!" sharply cried the umpire, supreme master that he was. "I said 'strike,' and a strike it goes. Play ball!"
Joe was delighted. It showed that they were now to have fair treatment from the deciding power, though during the first part of the game the umpire's decisions had not been altogether fair to Pittston.
The crowd was breathlessly eager again, as Joe wound up once more. Then there was a mad yell as the batter hit the next ball.
"Go on! Go on! You----"
"Foul!" yelled the umpire, and there was a groan of disappointment.
Joe was a little nervous, so it is no wonder that he was called for a ball on his next delivery. But following that he sent in as neat an out curve as could be desired. The batter missed it by a foot, and throwing his stick down in disgust walked to the bench.
"Only two more, old man!" called Gregory encouragingly. "Only two more.
We've got their number."
Then came an attempt on the part of the crowd, which naturally was mostly in sympathy with their home team, to get Joe's "goat." He was hooted at and reviled. He was advised to go back to college, and to let a man take his place. Joe only grinned and made no answer. The nervous strain under which he was playing increased. He wanted, no one perhaps but Gregory knew how much, to get away and take a train for home, to be with his suffering father.
But there were two more men to put out. And Joe did it.
That is, he struck out the next man. The third one singled, and when the best batter of the opposing team came up, Joe faced him confidently.
After two balls had been called, and the crowd was at the fever point of expectancy, Joe got a clean strike. It was followed by a foul, and then came a little pop fly that was easily caught by the young pitcher, who hardly had to move from his mound.
"Pittston wins!"
"Pittston is up head!"
"Three cheers for Joe Matson!"
They were given with a will, too, for the crowd loved a plucky player, even if it was on the other side.
But Joe did not stay to hear this. He wanted to catch the first train for home, and hurried into the dressing room. He spoke to Gregory, saying that he was going, and would be back as soon as he could.
"Take your time, old man; take your time," said the manager kindly.
"You did a lot for us to-day, and now I guess we can hold our own until you come back."
There were sympathetic inquiries from Joe's fellow players when they heard what had happened. Joe wanted to say good-bye to Mabel, but did not quite see how he could do it. He could hardly find her in that crowd.
But chance favored him, and as he was entering the hotel to get his grip, he met her.
"Oh, it was splendid!" she cried with girlish enthusiasm, holding out her slim, pretty hand. "It was fine! However did you do it?"
"I guess because I knew you were watching me!" exclaimed Joe with a boldness that he himself wondered at later.
"Oh, that's awfully nice of you to say," she answered, with a blush. "I wish I could believe it!"
"You can!" said Joe, still more boldly.
"But you--you look as though something had happened," she went on, for surely Joe's face told that.
"There has," he said, quietly, and he told of the accident to his father.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, clasping his hand again. "And you pitched after you heard the news! How brave of you! Is there anything we can do--my brother--or I?" she asked anxiously.
"Thank you, no," responded Joe, in a low voice. "I am hoping it will not be serious."