[JOE HAD STARTED AT THE CRACK OF THE BAT AND WAS DOWN TO FIRST LIKE A FLASH.]

Baseball Joe
Champion of the
League

OR

The Record That Was Worth While

By LESTER CHADWICK

Author of

“Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars,” “Baseball Joe,
Captain of the Team,” “The Rival Pitchers,”
“The Eight-Oared Victors,” Etc.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY

BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK

THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES

12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.

BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS
BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE
BASEBALL JOE AT YALE
BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE
BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE
BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS
BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES
BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD
BASEBALL JOE, HOME RUN KING
BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE
BASEBALL JOE, CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM
BASEBALL JOE, CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE

THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES

12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.

THE RIVAL PITCHERS
A QUARTERBACK’S PLUCK
BATTING TO WIN
THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL
THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS

CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York

Copyright, 1925, by
Cupples & Leon Company

Baseball Joe, Champion of the League

Printed in U. S. A.

CONTENTS

BASEBALL JOE
CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE

CHAPTER I
A PROMISING START

“Great Scott, Joe, what are you trying to do?” demanded Jim Barclay, as he threw back the ball he had just caught and wrung the hand that had got the brunt of the impact. “Trying to murder me, or just cripple me for life?”

Joe Matson, “Baseball Joe,” as he was known to idolizing fans all over the country, looked at his comrade with a grin.

“Was it as hot as all that?” he asked.

“Hot!” exclaimed Jim. “I should say it was! It was fairly smoking as it came in. Have a heart. Save those whizzers for the Pirates and the Cubs when the season opens.”

“I’ll ease up a little,” promised Joe. “I didn’t realize that I was putting so much tabasco into the pitching. But the old soup bone feels so good that it’s a big temptation to let it out for all it’s worth.”

“You’re ready for the gong right now,” declared Jim. “You’ve rounded into form sooner than any other member of the team.”

“If I felt any better I’d be afraid of myself,” said Joe, with a smile. “I’m mighty glad of it, for I’ve mapped out a program this year that will keep me hustling to make good on it.”

“Seems to me if you just keep up to the standard of last year, you’ll be all to the merry,” said Jim. “A pitching percentage of over .900 and a batting average that tops the .400 mark. Isn’t it enough to lead the league in both departments? Aren’t you ever going to be satisfied?”

“Not on your life!” replied Joe emphatically. “The minute a man’s satisfied he starts to go back. He may not know it, but he’s sliding all the same. I’ll never be satisfied as long as I am in the game. If I strike out eight men, I’ll be sore because I didn’t make it ten. If I make a base hit, I’ll kick myself because it wasn’t a double, a three-bagger, or a homer.”

“That’s the way I like to hear a man talk,” came in a hearty voice from behind him, and Joe turned to see McRae, the veteran manager of the Giants, who had led his men to more championships than any other in either league. “Put that spirit in your men, Joe, and we’ll just breeze through to another flag this year.”

“Sure as shooting,” chimed in Robson, the fat, rubicund coach and assistant manager, who had come up with McRae and whose closest friend he had been since they had played together on the famous old Orioles. “It’s that spirit or the lack of it that makes or breaks a team.”

“I’ll do my best,” replied Joe, who was not only the star batter and pitcher of the team, but its captain as well. “I’ve got a lot of good material to work with,” he added, as he looked with pride at his men who were batting out flies and grounders and shooting the ball around the bases in practice.

“Yes,” admitted McRae thoughtfully, “it seems to me that we’ve plugged up the weak spots on the team pretty well. We’re stronger at short, for one thing. Young Renton is developing fast and plays with his head as well as his hands. Mechanically, he’s not as good yet as Iredell was, but he can play rings about him when it comes to brain work.”

“He’s a comer, all right,” affirmed Joe confidently.

“Then, too, that exchange we made of Wheeler for Ralston was a good one, I think, even if we did have to throw in a lot of coin in addition,” went on McRae. “That boy can certainly lam the ball, and he has added strength to our outer garden.”

“His coming has given us the strongest outfield in the league, bar none,” replied Joe. “Ralston is a little hard to manage, but he’s there with the goods all right.”

“Jackwell and Bowen ought to be worth more to us than they were last year,” mused McRae.

“They’re championship material,” declared Joe. “They got off on the wrong foot last year. That Texas oil trouble had them buffaloed a good deal of the time. But now that that’s off their mind, they’re going along like a house afire. Jackwell’s a regular Jerry Denny at third, and Bowen is gobbling up everything that comes his way in center. They’re slamming them out with the stick too.”

“Take it by and large,” put in Robbie, as Robson was invariably called, “I don’t remember when the Giants ever had a better balanced team. It’s strong in batting, fielding, base-running and inside stuff. And when it comes to pitching—well, with Joe and Jim here as our first string and Bradley and Merton and Markwith to help them out, to say nothing of the rookies we picked up in the draft, there isn’t a staff in the league that has any license to beat us.”

“It certainly looks good,” assented the cautious McRae. “But don’t bank too much on appearances, Robbie. There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip, and if that’s true anywhere, it’s especially true in baseball. I’ve seen a team that looked unbeatable on paper go to pieces in a week. Suppose, for instance, Joe should get his arm broken—all our hopes would go geflooey.”

“May the saints forbid!” exclaimed Robbie with such fervor that Joe could not repress a grin.

“Oh, I guess the Giants would come through all right,” said Joe. “It isn’t a one-man team.”

“No,” agreed McRae. “But it’s nearer to it than it’s ever been before in my experience. There have been many times in the last few years, my boy, when you’ve carried the team on your back. But now it’s time to pick a couple of teams for this afternoon’s practice. Come here, you fellows!” he shouted, waving his hand to the other members of the team, who quickly left their positions and gathered around him.

“Now, boys,” the manager went on, while they gave him close attention, “I haven’t ridden you very hard since we’ve been down here in this training camp because I’m a believer in slow development. I’ve wanted you to get the kinks out of your muscles and the fat off your waistlines before I put you through the hoops.

“But now you’ve got to the point where I want you to play ball as it ought to be played and as you’ve got to play it when the bell rings. So I’m going to pick out two teams this afternoon and I want each team to play against the other as though it were playing the Pittsburghs or the Chicagos. One team will be made up chiefly of the regulars, and they’ll play in the positions they’re expected to play in this season.

“The other team will be made up largely of the rookies and substitutes. For the sake of a name, we’ll call them the Yannigans. And I want them to play their heads off against the regulars and take some of the conceit out of them. I’ll be watching every move and so will Robbie. Any man that lies down on the job will get the rough side of my tongue, and some of you fellows know how rough that is when I get going.”

There was a general grin among the players, who could corroborate this to their cost, for McRae, though a just man, was a severe one.

“I want to even up things a little so that each side will have a chance,” continued the manager. “So I’m going to have Matson pitch for the Yannigans.”

There was an exclamation of satisfaction from the rookies at this, and the rather supercilious smiles that had come on the faces of the Regulars disappeared and they lost some of their confidence.

“Markwith will do the hurling for the Regulars,” concluded McRae.

He then went on to pick out the men who were to play on the second team and assign them their respective places. A coin was tossed to decide which nine should go to the bat first, and luck pronounced against the Regulars, who for the occasion posed as the visiting team.

Joe drew his recruits aside to have a little talk with them before the game began.

“Now, boys,” he said, “the old-timers think we’re going to be easy meat, and we want to give them a surprise party. I’m looking to every one of you to do your level best. Don’t let them block you off the bag or get your goat by gibing at you or by any other tricks of the game. I’m not going to try much for strike-outs, because I want you to do your share of the work and get the practice you need. But I’ll try to tighten up in the pinches. Now get out to your positions and show these fellows what you’re made of. And remember that McRae is watching you like a hawk. Now’s your chance to make good with him.”

Curry came first to the plate for the Regulars and grinned at his comrade.

“Put over a good one, Joe, and I’ll give this punk team of yours a little exercise,” he said.

“Just for that I’m going to make this first one a strike,” laughed Joe.

He wound up with deliberation and the ball whizzed over the plate like a bullet.

It plunked into the catcher’s mitt as Curry swung at it. A laugh went up from the bench, and Curry looked sheepish.

“The fielders of my punk team didn’t get much exercise that time, did they?” asked Joe tantalizingly.

“I hadn’t got set yet,” grunted Curry, as he took a firm toehold for the next ball.

Thinking that Joe would rely on a change of pace, Curry looked this time for a floater or a curve. But again the ball shot over, splitting the plate for a perfect strike. Again the big left fielder swung and missed.

“Did you see that, John?” asked Robbie, bringing his hand down with a resounding slap on McRae’s knee. “That arm of his isn’t an arm at all. It’s a cannon!”

“It sure is,” agreed McRae. “His speed is blinding. But for the love of Pete, Robbie, remember that knee of mine is flesh and blood and keep that big ham of yours off it.”

“I’m going to let you hit this one, Curry,” Joe promised, “but it won’t do you any good.”

He put one over that forced Curry to hit it into the dust. It came on a bound to Joe, who threw to first in plenty of time for an out.

“’Twas just playing with him he was, like a cat with a mouse,” gloated Robbie, as Curry came back discomfited to the bench. “What that boy can do to a batter is a shame.”

Burkett, the burly first baseman, took a ball and a strike and then knocked a grasser to short. It had all the earmarks of an easy out and ordinarily would have been just that. But as luck would have it, the ball struck a stone and took a sudden bound over the shortstop’s head. It rolled out into center and before it could be retrieved Burkett was roosting on second.

“First blood for the Regulars!” he shouted in glee, as he cavorted about the bag.

Joe caught the ball as it was thrown in and turned round to face the plate. But instead of making a half turn, he swung completely around and shot the ball to second and before the startled Burkett could get back to the bag the baseman had put the ball on him.

“How about that first blood?” asked the grinning Joe as Burkett passed him on his way in. “Dried up pretty quickly, didn’t it?”

“Wriggling snakes!” chortled Robbie, while McRae quickly shifted his knee out of reach, “was that quick work or wasn’t it? I’m asking you, John.”

“Greased lightning,” agreed McRae. “His arm is working some of the time. His head is working all the time.”

Larry Barrett, the jovial second baseman, came next, and, hitting the ball on the under side, sent it up in the air for a towering foul that the catcher nabbed without moving from his tracks.

“You made monkeys of us that time, Joe,” laughed Larry, as he went out to his position, “but the game’s young and we’ll get back at you yet.”

Markwith, the lanky southpaw, was on his mettle too, and he made short work of the rookies who faced him, setting them down in one, two, three order.

The game went on with varying fortunes, both sides playing good ball. All the players were on their toes, the Regulars to avoid the ignominy of being beaten by the youngsters and the Yannigans inspired by the ambition to show their manager the best they had in stock.

The Regulars scored one in the third, but the Yannigans came back at them in the fifth on a triple by Joe with the bases full that scored three runs, though Joe himself was left at third because of Ledwith’s inability to bring him in.

In the seventh a temporary case of rattles among the youngsters let in three runs, putting the Regulars one ahead.

Then Joe, who, in accordance with his plan to give his fielders exercise, had made few attempts for strike-outs, settled down and pitched the brand of ball that had made him famous. In the eighth and ninth he struck out six men in succession, not giving them, as Larry complained, “even a sniff at the ball.”

Still the Regulars were a run ahead, and that run loomed large as the Yannigans came in for their last time at bat.

The first man up struck out, and a groan went up from the bench as the rookies saw their hopes go glimmering. But the next moment a cheer arose as young Thompson laced out a clean single to center. Gloom resumed its sway, however, when Markwith put on steam and struck out Bailey.

It was Joe’s turn next, and he came to the bat with a gleam of determination in his eyes that made Markwith uneasy. He had seen that look too often not to recognize what it meant. He knew the execution the old wagon tongue that Joe swung was capable of. So he promptly decided to play safe and take his chance with the next batter.

He signaled to Mylert and sent up a ball that was six feet off from the plate.

“Be a sport, Markwith,” pleaded Joe.

“Not a chance,” grinned Markwith. “I’d rather be a live coward than a dead hero.”

It was the highest kind of a compliment, but Joe was not looking for compliments just then. The one thing he craved was to get that ball within reach.

Another impossible one came over in the track of the first.

“Playing the baby act!” taunted Joe. “The Regulars afraid of the Yannigans!”

“What are you kicking at?” retorted Markwith, as the ball was returned to him. “You’re going to get a base without working for it, aren’t you? What more do you want? Some fellows are never satisfied.”

Another ball came up that was over Joe’s head and that Mylert had to jump to reach.

“A dead game sport,” jeered Joe. “Say, Markwith, you wouldn’t bet that you’re alive.”

Whether Markwith was nettled by the laugh that rose from the bench or whether he really lost control, no one knew. But the next ball came barely within reach and Joe caught it full on the seam near the end of his bat.

There was a mighty crash, and the ball sailed out between right and center almost on a line but rising slightly as it went. On and on it sped as if with wings. Still on and on! Would it never stop?

Bowen and Ralston had started at the crack of the bat with their backs to the diamond, legging it toward the fence, while the Yannigans had leaped to their feet and were yelling like mad.

On the ball went and on until at last it cleared the fence and disappeared from view.

Joe had rounded first like a deer, but as he noted the course of the ball he slackened speed and just jogged around the bases, following his comrade over the plate with the run that won the game for the Yannigans.

McRae and Robbie were all smiles as Joe dented the rubber.

“That was some wallop,” beamed McRae. “I’ll bet there has never been such another one made on these training grounds.”

“Sure, the ball’s going yet,” exulted Robbie. “It won’t stop till it crosses the state line. Joe, my boy, you’re there with the goods. Keep up that kind of batting and pitching all through the season and we’ll have the flag sewed up.”

There was a lot of good-natured chaffing in the clubhouse, as the players changed into their street clothes. The Regulars were a little chagrined and the Yannigans correspondingly elated, but there was none of the glumness that would have followed a defeat by an outside team. When everything was said and done, it was all in the family. And the game had shown that the Giants as a team were in fine fettle and ready for the opening of the championship season.

The game had been quickly played, and it would be some time before supper would be ready in the hotel where the Giants were putting up during their stay in the little southern town where they were going through their spring training. So, instead of going directly back to their quarters, Joe and Jim took a roundabout way that led through the outskirts of the town.

They had reached a sparsely settled district where the houses were few and far between when an exclamation broke from Joe.

“Look!” he said, grasping his friend’s arm and pointing to a house a little way in front of them. “That house is on fire!”

Jim looked in the direction indicated.

“I don’t see any flames,” he said doubtfully. “Maybe it’s just the reflection of the setting sun on the window panes.”

“It’s fire, I tell you!” cried Joe.

There was a crash of glass and a great volume of smoke and flames burst through a window and roared up the side of the building.

The next instant Joe was running toward the house with the speed of the wind with Jim close on his heels.

CHAPTER II
THE JAWS OF DEATH

The burning house was a frame structure, three stories in height, very old in appearance, and so dry that if the flames got a good hold on it it would evidently burn like tinder.

On their way the ball players had to pass a small store over the door of which Joe saw a pay telephone sign.

“You go in there, Jim, and call up the fire department,” he panted. “Then join me as quickly as you can.”

Jim dashed into the store and Joe kept on, his steps quickened still more, if that were possible, by shrill shrieks that came from the imperiled house.

The thick volume of smoke made it difficult at first to detect the owner of the voice, but as he drew nearer Baseball Joe saw the head and shoulders of an elderly woman hanging out of a window of the third story.

She was evidently frantic with fear and her screams were heart-rending.

As Joe reached the house and looked up he saw that she had climbed to the window sill and was supporting herself by holding on to the jamb.

“Don’t jump!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Stay there till I come. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He looked wildly about him for a ladder. He spied one at a little distance, ran and got it and set it up along the side of the house. But it fell full ten feet short of the window at which the woman was standing.

He left it and ran to the front door. It was locked, but he put his shoulder against it and drove it in.

As the door yielded a terrific blast of smoke came out that fairly knocked Joe off the low porch. He picked himself up and saw at a glance that there was no hope of getting in at that entrance. The interior of the hall was a seething mass of flame in which no human being could live for a minute.

There seemed to be but one chance left, and Joe took it.

“Jim,” he said to his chum, who, having called up the fire department, had just arrived breathless, “stay here and try to keep the woman from jumping until there’s nothing else left to do. Perhaps with the help of these men”—he indicated several who, attracted by the flames, were running toward them—“you can rig up something to catch her in if she should make the leap. But tell her not to jump. Tell her some one’s coming to get her.”

Before Jim could answer Joe started for the back of the house.

The door at the back stood open and dense volumes of smoke were coming from it. But though Joe could hear a fierce crackling, he caught no sight of fire. The flames so far seemed to be confined to the front of the house.

There was a rain barrel half full of water standing near the porch. Joe stripped off his coat, plunged it into the water, and then wound the dripping garment around his neck and face, leaving just room for his eyes to see where he was going.

Then he plunged into the reeking fumes and groped about for a staircase. He was not sure that there was one in the back and he breathed a sigh of relief as his hand touched a banister.

He went up the stairs quickly, guided only by the sense of touch, for his eyes were smarting so from the smoke that they refused their office. Even if they had not done so they would have been of very little use in that dense blackness.

But there was light enough—too much—when he reached the second floor. Here the flames had secured a strong grip. The front rooms were ablaze and red tongues were licking at the stairs that led to the third story.

Joe had hoped that the back staircase would extend to the top of the house. But he found it ended at the second floor. From that landing he had to traverse the hall and make the rest of his journey up through the front of the house.

He drew his wet coat more tightly around his face and made a dash for the stairs. The flames reached out for him. The heat was intolerable. The chances were ten to one that if he ever went up that staircase he would never come down.

But he did not hesitate a second. Up he went, shielding himself as best he could, and found himself on the top floor.

To his right was the room in which the woman was trapped. Luckily she had shut the door after the one terrified glance that had revealed to her the fire below. That shut door had held off the flames temporarily, but now it was beginning to blaze.

Joe burst in. He was just in time, for already the frenzied woman was poising herself for the leap that would have meant maiming or death.

Joe ran to the window and pulled her off the sill.

“Come!” he shouted. “Quick! Here, take this!”

He stripped off the coat and threw it over her head and shoulders.

She was trembling so that she could hardly stand and he had to support her while he adjusted the garment.

“Oh!” she screamed, as he led her toward the door which he had taken the precaution to close after him. “I cannot go down! Everything is afire down there! I will be burned!”

“Not if you do as I tell you,” said Joe hurriedly. “Keep your eyes shut and bury your mouth and nose in this coat. I will hold your arm and we will get down all right.”

He dragged her toward the door and opened it. As he did so the draft from the window drew in a sheet of flame that drove them back.

The woman screamed and sank inert to the floor and Joe knew that she had fainted.

There was not an instant to lose. Joe stooped, lifted her, threw her over his shoulder and staggered out of the door, shutting his eyes for a moment as the flames swirled round him.

He reached the stairs and, holding on to the banisters with one hand while the other held close his unconscious burden, he made his way down, pressing his nose and mouth against the coat so as not to inhale the flames.

As he reached the next to the last step on the stair the charred step gave way beneath him, letting a leg through. By a mighty effort he clutched the banister and drew the leg back and a moment later found himself in the hall of the second story.

His lungs felt as though they were bursting, for he did not dare to draw a full breath. He felt as though he were one blister from head to heel.

But he kept on, summoning all his strength for one supreme effort. His head was reeling from the smoke fumes. If only he were sure of retaining consciousness for one minute longer!

Between him and the top of the back staircase the flames were mounting high. The floor sagged under him as he tottered through the hall. He shut his eyes, dashed through and swung himself around to descend the stairs.

As he did so his foot slipped and he almost dropped his burden. But he recovered himself and staggered on.

Choking, half-fainting, he reached the lower hall. A lightening of the murk showed him the direction of the door. He made one last effort and reached it, reached the blessed sunshine and the outer air and deposited his burden on the porch.

He had won through!

As in a daze he heard the cheers that rang out as he appeared and saw the figures that surrounded him, patted him, supported him, applauded him, beat out the fire that at various places was eating through his clothes, drenching him with water.

What he had done counted for nothing with him, viewed as an exploit. But he was thankful beyond words that he had saved a human life from one of the most terrible of deaths.

And while he is seeking to steady his dizzy head it may be well for the benefit of those who have not read the preceding volumes of this series to tell who Joe Matson was and what had been his adventures up to the time this story opens.

Joe’s birthplace was Riverside, a thriving little town in a middle western state. His parents were estimable people of moderate means and respected by the citizens of the town, with whom Joe became a prime favorite as he grew up. He early became a leader of the boys of his own age in all kinds of sports, but especially in baseball, for which he developed a natural aptitude. His inclination drew him toward the pitcher’s box, and here he showed such skill and speed, combined with coolness and good judgment, that he became a fixture in that position. His reputation quickly spread beyond the confines of his own town, and under his leadership the local team won many victories from nines of the same age throughout the county. What difficulties he encountered in climbing the first rungs of the baseball ladder and the way in which he overcame them are narrated in the first volume of this series, entitled: “Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars; or, The Rivals of Riverside.”

He won new laurels on his school nine, a little later on, despite the obstacles thrown in his way by the bully of the school. The experience he there gained stood him in good stead when, on the completion of his course there, his parents sent him to Yale. Here he maintained an excellent rank in his studies, but found plenty of opportunities to develop his skill and muscle in the pitcher’s box. By a combination of unlooked for circumstances he was called upon to assume the pitcher’s burden in a critical game with Princeton. The Tiger had come down from old Nassau prepared to claw the Bulldog to bits, but Joe’s great work sent him back to his lair with his tail between his legs and another victory was chalked up for Yale.

Such a light as Joe’s could not be hidden under a bushel, especially with keen-eyed scouts ranging over the country in search of talent. One of them had witnessed the Yale-Princeton game, and shortly afterward Joe got an offer from the Pittston team of the Central League. He accepted it, and soon became known as far and away the best twirler in that organization.

Still he was in “the sticks,” and his ambition reached much higher. It was realized sooner than he had expected when the St. Louis team of the National League put in a claim for him at the end of the season and secured him through the draft.

Now he was at last in “fast company,” and the acid test was applied to him when he was called on to hold up his end against the greatest boxmen of the country. But he refused to be daunted by their reputation, and in his duels with the best won oftener than he lost. His team played behind him with confidence, for they knew that he would never quit until the last man was out.

McRae, the manager of the Giants, himself an old-time player of remarkable ability and one of the best judges of men in either league, laid his lines for Joe and at last succeeded in getting him.

Now at last Joe felt that he had the chance of his life time. He was on the pitching staff of the most renowned team in baseball, and it behooved him to make good. And this he did to such purpose that he soon became the mainstay of the team.

In baseball parlance, Joe “had everything,” curves, drops, hops, slants and speed. But it was not only his arm of steel and his eye of a hawk that made him a wizard in the box. Those were physical assets, indispensable to be sure, but valuable only as a foundation. What made him the greatest pitcher of the national game was the brain that dominated his nerves and muscles. As McRae had said, he played with his head all the time. He studied the characteristics of every man who faced him, learned his weaknesses and his strong points, what he could hit and what could fool him; and what he learned he never forgot. He was unequaled in outguessing the batter. Many a game that with any other pitcher would have been absolutely lost he had put in the winning column by his quick thinking, which led him to some unexpected move that had never been seen before on the diamond.

Nor was the prowess that had several times led the Giants to the championship of the National League and to victory in the World Series confined wholly to the pitching mound. Joe had developed into the leading batsman of his circuit. When he hit the ball, it traveled. His timing was perfect, and when with all the strength of his mighty shoulders he “leaned” against the ball, it was usually ticketed as a homer. Soon it became a habit with the crowds to pack the baseball parks in the various cities of the league not only to witness his wonderful pitching but to see Baseball Joe “knock another homer.”

Joe Matson had won prizes in other fields than baseball. He had saved a charming girl, Mabel Varley, from serious accident in a runaway, and the acquaintance so romantically begun had ripened into a deeper feeling that led them to the altar. Their married life was ideal.

Joe’s pretty sister, Clara, had been introduced by him to Jim Barclay, a Princeton man, who was also a pitcher on the Giant team and second only to Joe himself in skill. The young folks had fallen in love and had been married at the end of the season just preceding the opening of this story.

How Joe had been made captain of the Giants when they were in a slump, how he brought them out of it and led them to victory, how he thwarted the attempts of enemies to overcome him, are told in the preceding volume entitled: “Baseball Joe, Captain of the Team; or, Bitter Struggles on the Diamond.”

And now to return to Joe as he sought to control his reeling brain after his escape with the woman from the burning house.

“Are you badly hurt, old man?” asked Jim, in a voice husky with emotion.

“I guess not,” gasped Joe. “I feel pretty well done up and I’m blistered in various places, but nothing of any account. I’ll be all right as soon as I can get my breath back. How’s the woman getting on?”

“They’re attending to her now,” replied Jim, pointing to a doctor and a woman who were ministering to her on the grass a little distance away. “The fright has probably hurt her worse than anything else. You had that coat of yours wound so tightly over her head and shoulders that she couldn’t have got burned much.”

At this moment the doctor rose and came over to Joe and Jim. His professional air gave way to one of surprise as he looked at the stalwart young hero of the occasion.

“Baseball Joe!” he exclaimed.

“You seem to know me,” remarked Joe, with a smile.

“Who doesn’t?” replied the doctor. “Many’s the time I’ve seen you pitch when I was at my studies in New York. So it was your million dollar arm that carried this woman downstairs!”

“I’m afraid you rate the arm too highly,” replied Joe, grinning.

“Not a bit of it,” returned the doctor, a young man named Templeton. “It’s earned more than that for the Giants. And now, in addition to saving many a game, it’s saved a life. It’s a magnificent thing you’ve done, Mr. Matson. I only hope you haven’t been seriously injured in doing it. Suppose you let me look you over?”

Joe submitted, and a hasty examination seemed to prove that his burns were superficial, though the doctor looked long and somewhat gravely at his pitching arm.

“Scorched!” he muttered to himself.

“Nothing serious there, is there, doctor?” asked Joe. “I need that arm in my business, you know.”

He tried to speak lightly, but his heart sank as he realized what a terrible calamity it would be to him if that mighty pitching arm were put out of commission.

“I don’t think so,” replied the doctor, but not with the conviction in his voice that Joe would have liked to hear. “But you’ll have to let up on your practice for a time and take the best of care of it. I’ll give it a temporary dressing now and drop around later at your hotel, if you say so, to go over it more carefully.”

He bandaged the arm with deftness and skill.

“You’d better get right back to your hotel now,” he recommended. “You’ll feel the reaction from the strain pretty soon, and you’ll need to rest for a day or two. There are a number of cars around, and the owner of any one of them will be proud to give you a lift. I’d take you in mine, but I’ve got to take the woman over to the hospital.”

“Who is she anyway?” asked Joe. “Do you know her?”

“Slightly,” replied Doctor Templeton. “Her name is Bultoza. A foreigner of some kind, though she speaks fairly good English. She and her husband have lived here for some time. He’s a queer kind of chap, but he’s gone to New York, I believe, where she intended to join him. That old house has been condemned and was going to be torn down that another one might be built on its site, and the other families that were living there have moved away. That’s the reason she happened to be the only occupant. Well, the fire has done the work now, and there won’t be much left of the old house to be pulled down.”

At this moment a woman detached herself from the group gathered about Mrs. Bultoza and came over to Joe.

“She wants to see you and thank you for saving her life,” the messenger said.

Joe would have liked to escape this, for he was as modest as he was brave.

“Better go,” urged the doctor as Joe hesitated. “It will relieve her mind and help in her recovery from the shock.”

Thus adjured, Joe, with Jim and the doctor, went over to the group, which parted to let them through.

Mrs. Bultoza, her face and hands bandaged, was propped against a tree. She had a swarthy complexion that betrayed her foreign origin. Joe saw that she was no longer young.

Her eyes, which were kindly and intelligent, brightened as she looked at Joe and then filled with tears.

“How can I thank you?” she cried brokenly, as she stretched out her hands to him. “You are so brave! So brave! You saved my life. And you did not know me! But you went through the fire for a woman you did not know. Oh, I shall pray God every day to bless you, you brave young man!”

“That’s all right,” said Joe, greatly embarrassed, but touched by her fervent gratitude. “I’m glad I happened to be near by. And I hope you will soon be all right again.”

She reiterated her thanks, and it was with some difficulty that Joe at last was able to get away.

He and Jim accepted an offer of one of the many cars that were eagerly put at their service and were whirled away to their hotel.

“I must look like something that the cat dragged in,” remarked Joe, as he gazed ruefully at his discolored and bedraggled clothing.

“Like a tramp,” admitted Jim, with a grin. “But heroes aren’t supposed to be dolled up like an Adonis.”

“Let’s try to slip in through the back door of the hotel and get up to our rooms without being seen,” suggested Joe.

“All right,” agreed Jim. “Though I’m afraid there isn’t much chance,” he added. “The car will have to pass the front in trying to get around to the side, and a bunch of the boys are sure to be hanging around the veranda.”

“I only hope that I can keep this thing from Mabel,” said Joe, as his thoughts recurred to his young wife. “She’d worry her heart out for fear that I was hurt worse than I’d admit.”

“You can’t keep it from her, old boy,” declared Jim. “That’s one of the penalties of fame. You’re as much in the public eye as the President of the United States. The local paper here will tell all about it in screaming headlines. And do you suppose the newspaper correspondents here with the crowd are going to pass up a nice juicy item like that? Not on your life. To-morrow morning the sporting page of every newspaper in the country will have a big story of how Baseball Joe, the idol of the fans, the mainstay of the Giants, the most famous pitcher the game ever knew, climbed the stairs of a burning house and brought an old woman on his shoulder through the flames. Swell chance you’ll have to keep it from Mabel! And, after all, why should you want to? She’ll be worried of course, but she’ll be as proud as Punch. Though, heaven knows, she doesn’t need to be any prouder of you than she is.”

“I suppose it will be impossible to keep the thing from her,” conceded Joe, “and I guess the best thing I can do is to send her a night letter telling her positively that I’m all right. But there’s another thing,” he added, with a shade of anxiety. “How do I know that I am all right? The doc didn’t seem to be any too sure about my pitching arm. If that arm gets out of kilter, I’m done for.”

“And so are the Giants,” said Jim soberly. “It would kill their pennant chances right at the start. You don’t realize, Joe, with that confounded modesty of yours, just what you mean to the team. Their greatest pitcher, their heaviest hitter, and the cleverest captain that ever wore baseball shoes. But there,” he added, with a forced assumption of lightness, “we’re not going to admit even the possibility of anything being the matter with your arm. It’s probably only a superficial burn that hasn’t affected any of the muscles, and in a few days you’ll be shooting them over again as fast as ever. We’ll have Dougherty give the arm the once over as soon as you get to your room. Here we are at the hotel now.”

As they had conjectured, a number of the Giants were lounging on the porch waiting for the supper gong.

Joe and Jim pressed back as far as they could into the tonneau in the hope of avoiding recognition, but not far enough to escape the eagle eye of McRae.

“Hello!” he shouted in surprise, as the auto did not stop in front of the hotel but made for the entrance that led to the back. “Where are you fellows going?”

Joe threw up his hands, literally as well as figuratively.

“It’s all off!” he exclaimed, as he requested the driver to stop.

He and Jim jumped out and a shout went up from their teammates as they noted Joe’s appearance.

McRae rushed toward him in consternation.

“What’s the matter, Joe?” he shouted. “Are you hurt? Don’t tell me that you’re hurt!”

CHAPTER III
CONSTERNATION

McRae’s exclamation of alarm was echoed promptly in various forms by Robbie and the members of the Giant team, who came crowding around Joe and Jim.

“No, I’m not hurt, Mac,” replied Joe reassuringly, “though I don’t wonder you think so, from the way I look. That is, I’m not hurt seriously. A bit of a burn and blister here and there, that’s all. Wait till you see the supper I pack away and you’ll know I’m all right.”

“But what has happened, anyway?” asked McRae.

“Oh, I got a bit too near to a burning house down there a way and got singed,” returned Joe.

“Listen to him!” exclaimed Jim. “Here’s the straight of it. Joe went up through a house that was burning like tinder, got an old woman who was trapped in one of the rooms, threw her over his shoulder and made his way down with her through the flames and smoke. Outside of that he didn’t do anything!”

“Just like the old rascal!” exclaimed Robbie, with a glint of admiration in his eyes. “Always Johnny on the spot when there’s anything to be done.”

“But you couldn’t do all that without getting hurt,” declared McRae. “You’re not trying to cover up anything from me, are you, Joe?”

“Not at all, Mac,” returned Joe. “My lungs feel all right, so I know I didn’t inhale any of the flame. And I kept my eyes shut at the worst places. The only hurts I’ve got are a few superficial burns here and there that don’t amount to anything. I’ll be right as a trivet in a day or two.”

“But your arm, your pitching arm?” persisted McRae. “Was that burned at all?”

“Scorched a bit,” replied Joe. “But a doctor down there dressed it. He’s coming around to take another look at it later on.”

“We won’t wait for him,” declared McRae. “Dougherty,” he said, addressing the trainer of the club, who had joined the group, “come right up with Joe to his room and look at that arm. I’d rather have your judgment of it than that of any doctor round here.”

Joe and Jim, together with McRae, Robbie and Dougherty, repaired at once to Joe’s room where the latter was at once subjected to the most careful examination.

“Absolutely all right except the arm,” pronounced Dougherty at last.

“Except the arm!” McRae fairly shouted. “Why, man, that’s everything!”

“I don’t mean that there’s anything serious with that either,” explained the trainer. “I only mean that I’m sure the other burns don’t amount to anything, while I’m not so sure about the arm. It depends on how deep the burn went. Probably it didn’t go deep enough to affect or twist any of the muscles. But we’ll have to wait a little while until the inflammation subsides before we can be absolutely certain.”

He made Joe flex the muscles, which the latter did with so little appearance of pain or flinching that McRae was partially reassured. Then the doctor, who had come in, dressed the arm with exceeding care and went away and the anxious party adjourned to the dining room.

But the clean sweep that the hardy athletes commonly made at the table was not in evidence that night. Their usual appetites were lacking. The mere possibility that anything could have happened to their kingpin twirler to mar his effectiveness was felt by each as a personal calamity.

They all felt that Joe was the keystone of the Giant arch. If that keystone gave way, the whole structure threatened to fall.

McRae and Robbie scarcely ate anything and soon left the table to seek a secluded corner of the porch where they could brood undisturbed over their troubles.

“Just when everything was going as smooth as oil this thing had to happen,” growled the manager, as he viciously bit off the end of his cigar. “What was it I told you just this afternoon? That if Joe should break his arm all our hopes would go geflooey. The greatest pitching arm that baseball ever knew!”

“There, there, John,” soothed Robbie. “Don’t be so quick in borrowing trouble. Joe hasn’t broken his arm, and by the same token he probably hasn’t hurt it at all, at all. Just keep your shirt on and be patient for a day or two. It’ll all come out in the wash.”

“I hope so,” said McRae. “But if Joe doesn’t come through all right it’s all up with the Giants for this season as far as the championship is concerned. I was counting on him to turn in thirty victories this year, and that, with what the other pitchers could do, would practically cinch the pennant.”

“To say nothing of the other games he’d win with his bat on the days he wasn’t pitching,” added Robbie. “He’s as much of a wonder with the stick as he is in the pitcher’s box.”

“Oh, why couldn’t it have been his left arm that was hurt, if it had to be either!” groaned McRae.

“Be thankful, John, that ’tis no worse,” adjured Robbie. “Suppose he’d never come out of that house alive. And from what Jim said, it was just a matter of touch and go. I tell you, John, that boy is a regular fellow to risk his life for an old woman he’d never seen before.”

“Of course he is,” agreed McRae. “And of course I wouldn’t have wanted him to do anything else than he did. All the same, I wish that house hadn’t taken a mind to burn.”

While this colloquy was taking place on the veranda, another was going on in Joe’s room, where he and Jim had gone directly from the table in compliance with Dougherty’s command that Joe should go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep.

On the way Joe had stopped at the clerk’s desk and sent a long night letter to Mabel and another to his mother, reassuring them against any lurid accounts that they might see of the affair in the next day’s papers.

“Pretty well all in, old boy,” remarked Jim solicitously, as Joe dropped into a chair after reaching the room occupied by him and his chum.

“I am, for a fact,” admitted Joe. “The reaction, I suppose. Tired physically and worried a little mentally.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jim in quick alarm. “You don’t really think that you’ve seriously injured your arm, do you?”

“I try not to,” returned Joe, with a forced smile. “But naturally I can’t help feeling anxious about it. That arm brings me in my livelihood. I suppose I feel somewhat as a violinist might who had hurt his fingers and didn’t know whether they were going to be permanently crippled or not.”

“But you worked your arm without any apparent pain when Dougherty asked you to!” exclaimed Jim.

“‘Apparent’ is right,” rejoined Joe. “But I don’t mind admitting to you, old boy, on the dead quiet, that it hurt me like the mischief all the same. But good old Mac was so worried that I didn’t have the heart to add to his burdens. So I just grit my teeth and stalled through.”

“Of course, though, that may not have meant anything,” said Jim comfortingly, though his own heart had sunk down into his boots with apprehension. “The arm was naturally inflamed from the burn and any motion would have hurt it. But that doesn’t say that it won’t be all right as soon as the inflammation subsides.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself,” said Joe. “All the same there’s a great big if behind it, and I can’t help thinking what it may mean if the worst comes to the worst.”

“There isn’t going to be any worst,” declared Jim stoutly. “In a couple of days this will be only like a bad dream and we’ll be laughing over the worry we’ve had for nothing.”

“Here’s hoping that you’re a true prophet,” said Joe. “Well, I’m not going to grizzle over it anyway. It isn’t for myself I care so much. It’s what it will mean to Mabel! To mother, too, and to Clara and to dad. They’d take it to heart more than I would myself. And then—there’s the Giants!”

“It would be a terrible blow to the chances of the team,” Jim admitted. “It would mean more to them than the loss of any other three men. Why, you could take the Yannigans, just as you did this afternoon, and with you pitching and batting you could lead them to the pennant.”

“I’m afraid it’s just your friendship that’s talking now,” deprecated Joe. “But honest, Jim, the old team is more to me than anything on earth except my family. My heart is bound up in its success. They’ve done an awful lot for me. They’ve given me my chance, they’ve backed me up, they’ve helped me make whatever reputation I have. And to think of failing them now—well, I don’t dare think of it.”

“I know just how you feel about it,” replied Jim sympathetically. “All the same, don’t forget that if you owe a lot to the Giants, they owe still more to you. There have been years when they wouldn’t have been anywhere at all in the race if it hadn’t been for you.

“And don’t forget, Joe,” his friend went on earnestly, “that even if your right arm did go back on you, that wouldn’t put you out of baseball. What’s the matter with that left arm of yours? In a little while you could develop that so that you would become as great as a southpaw as you are as a right-hander.”

“I suppose I might do something with it,” said Joe, brightening a little. “By Jove, I hadn’t thought of that!”

“And even leaving that out of the question,” pursued Jim, “there’s that old noddle of yours, full of baseball brains and able to out-think any other on the diamond. Why, there’s any number of clubs in the league that would fight each other to a frazzle to get you as manager at any salary you might want to ask. It would be a matter of writing your own contract.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose I should starve,” said Joe, with a whimsical smile. “But it would be a mighty wrench to get out of the active part of the game. The roar of the crowds, the thrill of striking out a batter with the bases full, the crash of the bat when you knock out a homer! Gee, it’s the breath of life!”

“Well, you’re going to draw in a good many of those breaths yet,” declared Jim, with decision. “Now, let’s cut out all the gloom stuff and you get to bed with the belief that everything’s going to be for the best in the best of all possible worlds. McRae would have a fit if he knew I’d kept you up talking.”

Just then there came a knock at the door.

“Who on earth can that be?” asked Jim, a little impatiently.

“A bellboy perhaps,” surmised Joe. “Better let him in and see what he wants. Come in,” he called.

The door opened, and in the doorway stood framed a resplendent vision, a young man dressed from head to foot in the very height of fashion.

CHAPTER IV
REGGIE TURNS UP

“Reggie!” came from Joe and Jim in chorus as they made a rush for the visitor.

The newcomer smiled affably as Joe and Jim grasped his hands, slapped him on the back and drew him boisterously into the room, where they plumped him into a chair.

“My word!” he ejaculated, in an accent that he tried to make as English as possible. “Might almost suppose you fellahs were glad to see me, eh what?”

“You’re as welcome as the flowers in spring, Reggie, old boy,” declared Joe. “What good wind blew you down this way?”

“Guv’nor had a bit of business that needed attendin’ to in New Orleans,” explained Reggie. “Lot o’ tiresome blighters I had to see, dontcha know, an’ when I got through I felt no end ragged an’ thought I’d freshen up by takin’ a run down here an’ see what my bally brother-in-law an’ the Giants were doin’.”

He carefully crossed his legs so as to interfere as little as possible with the knife-edged creases in his trousers, settled back in his chair and beamed on them.

Reggie Varley was Mabel’s brother and consequently Joe’s brother-in-law. Their first meeting had not been propitious, but when Joe learned that Reggie was Mabel’s brother, he was so deeply in love with that young lady that he was ready to pardon and forget the shortcomings of any of her relations. So he tolerated Reggie at first for Mabel’s sake and later on was surprised to find that he had developed a real liking for Reggie on his own account.

For when he once got below the surface he found that Reggie was a genuinely good fellow, despite his little foibles and affectations. His chief defect, and after all not a very serious one, was his love of clothes. He was always dressed, as he was now, in the very extreme of fashion, fawn-colored gloves, creamy spats, cut-in coat and costly tie, the whole finished off with a cane and a monocle. He was inordinately fond of anything English, and cultivated an accent that he thought would pass current in London and stamp him as one to the manner born.

But beneath these superficial oddities, that often provoked a smile from Joe and Jim, he was kindly, genial, honorable and clear-headed in business affairs. He was devotedly attached to his sister and his brother-in-law. Then, too, he was an ardent baseball fan, and that in Joe’s eyes was sufficient to cover his trifling shortcomings. He and Joe got on famously together, and Reggie’s pride and delight in Joe’s prowess on the diamond were only second to those of Mabel herself.

But now a look of apprehension came into Reggie’s eyes as he noticed Joe’s bandaged arm.

“What’s the matter with the old wing?” he asked. “Nothing serious, I hope, eh, what?”

“I hope not,” replied Joe, and then in response to Reggie’s eager questioning told him the story of the afternoon.