"A mighty husky infant," laughed Hughson. "At least that's what the Bostons think. It was a hard game for them to lose, just when they thought they had it tucked away in their bat bag."

"I feel rather sorry for Albaugh," said Joe. "He pitched a peach of a game and deserved to win."

"He sure did," conceded Hughson. "And nine times out of ten that kind of pitching would have won. But to-day he had the hard luck to be pitted against a better man. They got only one clean hit off of you. The other was a scratch. A little more and you'd have pitched a no-hit game. And that's going some for the first game of the season, I'll tell the world.

"Another thing that tickled me," he went on, "was to see him pass you to first rather than give you a chance to hit the ball. That's a compliment to all the boxmen of the country. As a rule we're easy meat. The other pitchers are glad to see us come up to the plate. It has got to be a proverb that pitchers can't hit. But you gave the lie to that proverb to-day. Those two hits of yours were ticketed for the fence. And that steal home was the classiest thing I've seen for a blue moon. That's the kind of thinking that wins ball games. Do the thing the other fellow doesn't expect you to do."

"It was a case of touch and go," replied Joe. "I knew that I had touched the plate before Menken put the ball on me, but I wasn't sure the umpire would see it the same way. But he did, and that's all that matters. By the way, Hughson, how is that arm of yours coming along?"

"Not as well as I should like," responded Hughson, while a touch of gloom came into his face. "There are days when it feels all right, and other days when I can't lift it without pain. I've been down to see Reese again about it, and he can't see anything radically wrong with it. Says I'll have to be patient and give it time. But it's mighty hard to have to sit on the bench when I'm fairly aching to get in the box again."

"I know just how you must feel," returned Joe sympathetically. "The boys are all rooting for you to get back into harness again. It doesn't seem the same old team with you out of the running."

"I'll be back with bells on before long," answered Hughson with a smile, as he moved on to have a chat with Robbie.

"Isn't he a prince?" Joe remarked admiringly to Jim, as they watched the back of the tall figure.

"He sure is an honor to the game," returned Jim. "Here's hoping that he'll soon be on deck again."

The next day the New York papers were full of the story of the game. There was a general feeling of jubilation over the auspicious start by the Giants, a feeling that was the more pronounced, because of the feeling that had previously prevailed that Hughson's continued disability would be a serious handicap to the chances of again winning the pennant.

One great subject dwelt upon in all the accounts was the marvelous pitching that Joe had shown. The sporting reporters "spread themselves" on the way he had held the Bostons in the hollow of his hand. To allow only two hits in the opening game, and one of them a scratch, was a feat that they dwelt upon at length.

But scarcely less space was devoted to his batting. Although it was recalled that in the previous year he had had a creditable average at the bat, considering that he was a pitcher, his power as a twirler had kept his other qualities in the shade. Comment was made on the perfect way he had timed the ball and of the fact that his homer had gone nearly to the end of the grounds almost on a straight line, a fact that attested the tremendous power behind the hit. One of the papers headed its article: "Is There to Be a New Batting King?" and went on to say among other things:

"It is an extraordinary thing to pitch a two-hit game at the beginning of the season. But it is still more extraordinary that, despite the strain on the muscles and nerves of the pitcher who achieves that distinction, he should also have a perfect batting average for the day. That is what occurred yesterday. In four times at the bat he was passed twice and the other times poled out a triple and a home run. And this was done against heady and effective pitching, for Albaugh has seldom showed better form than in yesterday's game.

"One might have thought that with this record Matson would have called it a day and let it go at that. But he was still not satisfied. In the ninth, with two men out and two strikes called on Mylert, he put the game on ice by stealing home from third-as unexpected and dazzling a play as we shall probably be fortunate enough to see this year. It was the climax of a wonderful game.

"McRae never made a shrewder deal than when he secured this phenomenal pitcher from St. Louis. We said this last year, when Matson's great pitching disposed of Chicago's chances for the pennant. We said it again when in the World Series he bore the heft of the pitcher's burden and made his team champions of the world. But a true thing will bear repeating twice or even thrice, and so we say it now with added emphasis."

All of the comment was in the same laudatory strain, although in reference to his batting, one paper cautioned its readers that not too much importance was to be attached to that. It was probably one of Matson's good days, and one swallow did not make a summer. But whether he kept up his remarkable batting or not, the New York public would ask nothing more of him than to keep up his magnificent work in the box.

Joe would not have been human if he had not enjoyed the praise that was showered upon him in the columns that he and Jim read with interest the next morning. It was pleasant to know that his work was appreciated. But he was far too sensible to be unduly elated or to get a "swelled head" in consequence. He knew how quickly a popular idol could be dethroned, and he did not want the public to set up an ideal that he could not live up to.

It was for that reason that he read with especial approval the article that warned against expecting him to be a batting phenomenon because of his performance of yesterday.

"That fellow's got it right," he remarked to Jim, as he pointed to the paragraph in question. "I just had luck yesterday in straightening out Albaugh's slants. Another time and I might be as helpless as a baby."

"Luck, nothing!" replied Jim, who had no patience with Joe's depreciation of himself. "There was nothing fluky about those hits. You timed them perfectly and soaked the ball right on the nose. And look at the way you've been lining them out in training this spring. Wake up, man. You're not only the king of pitchers, but you've got it in you to become the king of sluggers."

"Oh, quit your kidding," protested Joe.

"I'm not kidding," Jim affirmed earnestly. "It's the solemn truth. You'll win many a game this year not only by your pitching but by your batting too. Just put a pin in that."

At this moment a bellboy tapped at the door, and being told to come in, handed Joe two telegrams. He tore them open in haste. The first was from Reggie and read:

"Keep it up, old top. Simply ripping, don't you know."

Joe laughed and passed it on to Jim.

"Sounds just like the old boy, doesn't it?" he commented.

The second one was from Mabel:

"So proud of you, Joe. Not surprised though. Best love. Am writing."

Jim did not see this one, but it went promptly into that one of Joe's pockets that was nearest his heart, the same one that carried the little glove of Mabel's that had been his inspiration in all his victorious baseball campaigns.

After a hearty breakfast, the chums went out for a stroll. Neither was slated to pitch for that day, and they had no immediate weight of responsibility on their minds. Markwith, the left-handed twirler of the Giants, would do the box work that day unless McRae altered his plans.

"Hope Red puts it over the Braves to-day the way you did yesterday," remarked Jim, as they sauntered along.

"I hope so," echoed Joe. "The old boy seems to be in good shape, and they've usually had trouble in hitting him. They'll be out for blood though, and if they put in Belden against him it ought to be a pretty battle. Markwith beat him the last time he was pitted against him, but only by a hair."

It was a glorious spring morning, and as they had plenty of time they prolonged their walk far up on the west side of the city. As they were approaching a corner, they saw a rather shabbily dressed man slouching toward them.

Jim gave him a casual glance, and then clutched Joe by the arm.

"Look who's coming, Joe!" he exclaimed. "It's Bugs Hartley!"

* * *

Chapter 8 A BASEBALL IDOL

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