Baseball Joe on the Giants

"Now then, Joe, send it over!"

"Show us what you can do!"

"Make the ball hum!"

"Split the ozone!"

These and a host of similar cries greeted Joe Matson as he carelessly caught the ball tossed to him by one of his friends and walked over to a corner of the gymnasium that was marked off as a pitcher's box.

"All right, fellows," he answered, laughingly. "Anything to oblige my friends."

"And that means all of us, Joe," cried one of the boys heartily.

"You bet it does!" chorused the others, with a fervor that spoke volumes for the popularity of the young pitcher.

It was a cold day in late winter and a large number of the village youth had gathered at the Riverside gymnasium. Riverside was Joe's home town where his people had lived for years, and where he always spent the months between the ending of one baseball season and the beginning of the next.

Joe wound up, while the spectators stretched out in a long line and waited with interest for the first ball.

"Not too hot at the start, Joe," cautioned Tom Davis, his old-time chum, who stood ready at the receiving end. "Remember I'm out of practice just now and I don't want you to lift me off my feet."

"All right, old scout," returned Joe. "I'm not any too anxious myself to pitch my arm out at the start. I'll just float up a few teasers to begin with."

He let the ball go without any conscious effort, and it sailed lazily across the sixty feet that represented the distance between himself and Tom, who stood directly behind the plate that had been improvised for the occasion. It was a drop that broke just before it reached the plate and shot downward into Tom's extended glove.

"That was a pretty one," said Tom. "Now give us an upshoot."

Joe complied, and then in response to requests from the crowd gave them specimens of his "knuckle" ball, his in-and-out curves, his "fadeaway," and in fact everything he had in stock.

Then with a twinkle in his eyes, seeing that Tom by this time was pretty well warmed up, he cut loose a fast one that traveled so swiftly that the eye could scarcely follow it. It landed in Tom's glove with a report like the crack of a whip, and a roar of laughter went up from the crowd as Tom danced around rubbing his hands.

"Wow!" he yelled. "That one had whiskers on it for fair. Have a heart, Joe. I'm too young to die."

"Don't worry about dying, Tom," piped up Dick Little. "Only the good die young, and that makes you safe for a while."

"Is that the kind you feed to old Wagner when he comes up to the plate and shakes his hat at you?" asked Ben Atkins.

"It doesn't matter much what you serve to that tough old bird," answered Joe grimly. "He lams them all if they come within reach."

"How fast do you suppose that last ball of yours was traveling anyway, Joe?" asked Ed Wilson.

"Oh, I don't know exactly," answered Joe carelessly. "Something over a hundred feet a second."

A buzz of astonishment went up from the throng and they crowded closer around Joe.

"A hundred feet a second!" ejaculated Sam Berry, who was connected with the railroad. "Why a railroad train traveling at the rate of a mile a minute only covers eighty-eight feet a second. Do you mean to say that that ball was traveling faster than a mile a minute train?"

"According to that, Joe could throw a ball after the Empire State Express when it was running at that speed and hit the rear platform," was the incredulous comment of Ben Atkins. "I knew that ball was going mighty fast but I didn't think it was as swift as that."

"It's a pity that there isn't some certain way of finding out," commented Tom.

"It has been found out," said Joe calmly.

"Is that so?"

"How was it done?"

"Why," replied Joe, in answer to the volley of questions fired at him, "it wasn't a hard thing at all. You know the big arms factories have a contrivance that tells them just how fast a bullet goes after it leaves the gun. They have two hoops set in a line say two hundred feet apart. These hoops are covered with a mesh of fine wires that are connected by electricity with a signal room. The bullet as it goes through the first hoop cuts a wire which registers the exact fraction of a second at which it is hit. The bullet strikes another wire as it goes through the second hoop and this also registers. Then all they have to do is to subtract the first time from the second and they have the exact time it has taken for the bullet to go that two hundred feet."

"Seems simple enough when you come to think of it," remarked Tom.

"Then," went on Joe, "it struck somebody that it would be perfectly easy to rig up a couple of hoops sixty feet apart and let a pitcher hurl a straight ball through both and then measure the different times at which it struck the two hoops. They did it down at some Connecticut plant and got two of the swiftest pitchers in the big leagues to try out their speed. One of them put it through at the rate of one hundred and twelve feet a second and the other at the rate of one hundred and twenty-two feet a second. That's why I said that that last ball of mine was going at over a hundred feet a second."

"Guess you knew what you were talking about, old boy," said Tom, as he walked back to take his place again at the receiving end. "But after this, cut down the speed to eighty or thereabouts. That'll be rich enough for my blood at present."

"All right," grinned Joe. "We'll cut out the fast straight ones and work out a few of the curves."

"Just what do you mean by curves?" asked a rather gruff voice.

Joe turned and recognized Professor Enoch Crabbe of the Riverside Academy, who had been strolling by, and having caught a glimpse of the unusual number present through the open door, had concluded to add himself to the spectators. He was a man generally respected in the town, but very positive and set in his views and not at all diffident about expressing them.

"Good afternoon, Professor," said Joe. "I didn't quite understand what you meant by your question. I was just going to curve the ball--"

"That's just it," interrupted the professor with a superior smile. "You thought you were going to curve the direction of the ball, but you were going to do nothing of the kind. It can't be done."

"But Professor," expostulated Joe, a little bewildered, "the proof of the pudding is in the eating. I've done it a thousand times."

"I don't question your good faith at all, Mr. Matson," said the professor, still with that smug air of certainty. "You undoubtedly think you curved the ball. I positively know that you didn't."

"Well," retorted Joe, who was getting a little nettled, "they say that seeing is believing. Just watch this ball."

He gripped it firmly and sent in a wide outcurve. The ball went straight as a die for perhaps forty feet and then turned swiftly outward so that Tom had to jump to get his hands on it.

"Now," said Joe triumphantly, "if that wasn't a curve, what was it?"

"An optical delusion," replied the professor blandly.

"If a batter had been at the plate, he'd have broken his back reaching out after it," Joe came back at him. "He wouldn't have thought it was an optical delusion."

"My dear sir," said the professor smoothly, "the first law of motion is that a body set in motion tends to move in a straight line. Neither you nor anybody else can change that law. You might as well tell me that you can shoot a gun around a corner as that you can throw a ball around a corner."

"I can throw it around the corner," maintained Joe stoutly. "Not at right angles, of course, but I can make the ball go into the side street."

The theorist smiled in a way that was exceedingly irritating. But Joe, by a great effort, mastered his annoyance.

"We won't quarrel over it, Professor," he remarked good-naturedly. "All I can say is that I must be getting my salary under false pretences, because the men who pay it to me do so under the impression that I can curve the ball. I've always had that impression myself, and so have the batters who have faced me. Rather odd, don't you think, that so many people should be so misled?"

"Not at all," replied the professor pompously. "Truth is usually on the side of the minority."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Joe thoughtfully. "I know a moving picture operator, who's an old friend of mine and who'd be glad, if I asked him, to do me a favor. I'll get him to come down some day and take a picture of the ball in motion. Then we'll study out the film and I think I can prove to you that the ball does curve on its way from the pitcher to the catcher."

"How do you think you could prove anything from that?" asked Professor Crabbe cautiously, as though he were looking for a trap. "They can work all sorts of tricks with moving pictures, you know."

"I know they can," admitted Joe. "But this would be 'honest Injun.' You'd have my word of honor and the operator's, too, that there'd be no monkeying with the pictures."

"Well," said Crabbe, "admitting that the pictures were honestly taken, how could they show whether the ball curved or not?"

"I'm not sure myself exactly," answered Joe, "but it seems to me that if the ball moved in a straight line all the way, it would look the same at any point. But if it curved, it would be farther away from the camera than when it was going straight and there'd be a different focus. The ball would look flatter, more oval shaped--"

Just then came a wild diversion.

Into the gymnasium crowd burst a shock-headed boy, his eyes blazing with excitement, his breath coming in gasps. All looked at him in astonishment and alarm.

"A crazy man," stammered the boy. "He's stolen the Bilkins baby and run off with it!"

* * *

There was a general gasp of horror mixed with unbelief.

"What do you mean?" demanded Sam Berry.

"Where did you get that yarn?" asked Ed Wilson.

"It's true," declared the boy. "The whole town's hunting for him. He ran into Mrs. Bilkins' house and snatched the baby from the cradle. The man was bareheaded and didn't have any coat. Mrs. Bilkins ran after him, screaming, but she couldn't catch him and--"

But the rest of the lad's story fell on deaf ears. Joe and Tom and the others had already slipped into their coats, and now they poured pell-mell out of the door, each of them eager to be first on the scene and rescue the kidnapped baby before the madman could do it harm.

They all knew and liked Bilkins, who was a bright young fellow employed in the Harvester works. Three years before he had married and brought his bride to a pretty little cottage at the southern edge of the town. Their one baby was now nearly a year old and of course the young parents were wrapt up in him.

Joe and his sister Clara had often spent a pleasant evening at the Bilkins home, and the heart of the young pitcher was hot within him as he raced in that direction, while his sympathy gave wings to his feet.

A light snow had fallen and this would have been of some assistance in tracing the marauder, but so many people had by this time joined in the hunt that many trails led in as many different directions.

Joe and Tom were circling wildly around, like hounds trying to pick up a lost scent, when a little fellow ran up to them.

"I saw him!" he cried, "a big, tall man carrying a baby! He was going down to the lumber yard."

Like a flash Joe turned and headed the crowd that rushed in the direction pointed out.

And while he is thus racing along, it may be well, for the benefit of those who are not yet acquainted with this clever young pitcher, to mention the previous books of this series in which "Baseball Joe," as he was affectionately known, has taken a leading part.

The beginning of his career on the diamond is told in the first volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars; Or, The Rivals of Riverside." Here Joe had his first real experience in the box. He had to fight hard to make good, but he did it, and soon became widely known in that section as one of the best of the amateur pitchers. There were many things that sought to hinder him, but he worked like a Trojan and brought his team to the front.

In "Baseball Joe on the School Nine," we find Joe in that same gritty way of his "making" the school team. There were rivalries here of a different kind than he had met before, and the bully of the school succeeded for a time in making things very unpleasant. But Joe had the "class" as a ball player that was bound to make itself felt, and in a great crisis he rose to the emergency and at the last moment brought victory from defeat.

From Excelsior Hall, Joe went to Yale, and his career in the great university is told in the third volume of the series called "Baseball Joe at Yale; Or, Pitching for the College Championship."

Traditions are very strong at Yale and one of them that is seldom broken is that no Freshman shall play on a 'Varsity Team. No matter how good he is, he has to win his spurs first on his class team before he can aspire to the ranks of the 'Varsity. Joe had to undergo his apprenticeship, and a hard one it was. But his light could not be kept under a bushel, and by sheer force of merit he finally captured the attention of the leaders in athletics. A combination of circumstances put it up to him to pitch for Yale against Princeton in the deciding game of the season at the Polo Grounds, and although the test was a severe one the "Yale bulldog" scored a glorious victory over the "Princeton tiger."

But, despite the successes he had won, Joe was not altogether happy at Yale. His good mother wanted him to study to be a minister, but, while Joe appreciated what a noble calling it was, he did not feel himself cut out for a preacher. Though bright enough in his studies, he was not a natural scholar. Outdoor life had strong attractions for him, and his love for baseball combined with his natural abilities in that direction made him feel strongly inclined to take up professional baseball as his regular vocation.

His mother was grieved and almost shocked by this decision of his. She had longed to see her boy in the pulpit, and she had the mistaken feeling, shared by many good women, that there was something that was almost disreputable in being a professional ball player. But Joe was so earnest in his conviction that it was better to be a good ball player than a poor professional man, whether doctor, lawyer or minister, that his mother was reluctantly won over to his view.

Joe's chance was not long in coming. That last great game he pitched for Yale had been seen by Jimmie Mack, manager of the Pittston team of the Central League. He scented an acquisition for his nine and made Joe an offer that was too good to reject. His struggles and triumphs in that league are told in the fourth volume of the series called "Baseball Joe in the Central League; Or, Making Good as a Professional Pitcher."

But Joe's ambition kept pace with his progress. He was not satisfied to be merely a "minor leaguer." He dreamed of "making" one of the "Big Leagues"-National or American, it did not matter which-but he knew how hard it was for a minor to break in. His delight can be imagined then when he learned that he had been drafted into the St. Louis club of the National League. His stirring adventures in this new field are narrated in the fifth volume of the series entitled: "Baseball Joe in the Big League; Or, A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles." Hard struggles indeed they had proved to be, but the same determination that had won for him so far carried him triumphantly through these also, and he had had the satisfaction of helping his team finish in the first division. From a "second string" pitcher he now stood among the first, and his name had become well known all over the country.

He had been very tired when he came back to the old home town to spend the winter, and the rest had never seemed more grateful to him. But now he was expecting very soon the call of his team to go with them to a southern training camp, to prepare for the coming season, and for some time past he had been faithfully training in the Riverside gymnasium, where we found him when this story opened.

He was a fast and seasoned runner-any one in a big league has to be, or he would not last long-but it seemed to him he had never run as fast and hard as now when he was rushing toward the lumber yard. He knew that what was to be done had to be done quickly. And he shuddered, as he thought of the helpless baby in the grasp of a lunatic.

He had soon outdistanced his companions. Now he was getting close to the lumber yard. It was in an isolated section of the town, down near the railroad tracks which ran alongside of it. Here there were but few footmarks, and Joe could easily make out the long prints of a man's feet pointing straight for the yard.

Another minute and Joe had entered the yard. He wound his way in and out among the piles of lumber, hoping at every turn to catch sight of the madman.

Suddenly he heard a shout that came from somewhere above him. He looked up and saw a sight that seemed to turn his blood cold.

There, on an enormous pile of lumber that towered thirty feet into the air, stood a man holding a baby in his arms. He had caught sight of Joe and hailed him as though he wanted to have a talk with him. But just then a torrent of men, young and old, who had followed Joe, poured into the yard, and a yell went up as they saw the tall figure outlined against the sky.

In that wild yell the madman scented danger. He lifted his helpless burden high above his head.

"Keep back!" he shouted. "If you don't I'll throw the baby on the railroad tracks!"

* * *

There was a cry of horror from the crowd. To be hurled to the tracks from that height meant instant death for the little one.

Several of the men had started to climb the lumber pile, but when they heard the madman's threat they stopped instantly. The man above saw that his words had taken effect and he laughed shrilly. But he still held the baby high in the air.

For a moment there was a hush of fear and indecision. Then Joe took command of the situation. His baseball experience had taught him to think quickly and act instantly.

"That's all right," he sang out to the crazy man. "You can keep the baby if you want to. We just want to have a quiet little talk with you."

The madman hesitated, looked about a little uncertainly, then slowly lowered the infant and held it cradled in his arms.

"That's right," approved Joe heartily. "You and I are the only sensible people here. These lunatics down here were making such a noise that I couldn't make you hear me. Now we can talk."

"Ha, ha!" cried the lunatic, delighted at the compliment. "You hit it right that time. The whole world is mad except for you and me. And I'm not so sure of you, either," he modified, with a gravity that would have been comical under any other circumstances.

While he was speaking, Joe was giving quick directions in a low voice to the men nearest him.

"Get the fellows to spread out on all sides of the lumber pile," he said to Ed Wilson. "You, Tom," he went on to Tom Davis, "go quietly out on the tracks. Then if he does throw the baby down, we'll at least have a chance to catch it or break its fall."

The others slipped away like shadows and Joe once more sought to engross the madman's attention.

"Oh, but you must be sure of me," he expostulated in answer to what the lunatic had said. "Just watch the signs I give you, and if you can do the same that will prove that we both belong to the same lodge."

The disordered wits of the man above saw something interesting in this, and he nodded gravely.

Joe stretched out his left hand and made a number of mysterious passes in the air, at the same time closing and unclosing his fingers.

Then he stopped and the man extended his left arm and went through the same motions as nearly as he could.

"Good!" cried Joe, and the madman capered about in childish pleasure at the commendation.

"Now, do this," commanded Joe, and he went through a similar lot of mummery with the right hand.

The crazy man imitated him, but to do it he had to change the baby from his right arm to the left, and this gave Joe an inspiration.

"Now, here's the hardest thing," said Joe, as he lifted both arms at once and made them revolve. "If you can do this, I'll know for sure that you're all right."

The stranger started to lift both arms to imitate Joe's revolutions, but found himself encumbered by the baby. He looked at Joe in a sheepish way, as though for advice.

"Of course you'll have to lay the baby down," said Joe, carelessly. "You can't make the right motions unless you do."

The lunatic looked at him with a sudden glint of suspicion in his eyes, but Joe was so apparently indifferent that he slowly laid the baby down.

Joe's heart was beating high now with excitement as the critical moment approached that would test the success of the plan that had suddenly darted into his brain.

A number of the village boys had been building a snow fort and having a mock battle in the lumber yard that afternoon. The snow was very wet and the snowballs that had been formed from it had almost the consistency of stone. A number of these "soakers" were still lying about and Joe saw his chance.

"Sam," he murmured in a low voice to Sam Berry. "Make me three or four hard snowballs about as big as a baseball. Don't ask me why but make them hard and quick."

Sam asked no questions but worked frantically, and soon stood alongside Joe with his hands behind his back.

"All ready, Joe," he whispered. "Just reach out when the time comes and I'll put one in your hand."

The time had nearly come. Joe's man?uvering had brought it about that the baby was out of the madman's hands. The last step remained to be taken.

"That's fine," roared Joe, as the stranger, after making both hands revolve in the air, was about to pick up the baby. "Now, there's just this one thing more and if you can do that, it will prove that you and I are brother members of the same lodge."

Joe placed both hands on top of his head and began to revolve his body slowly so as to present his back to the man above. In this position he remained for about fifteen seconds.

"Can you do that?" he asked solemnly.

"Of course I can," responded the other eagerly. "Just watch."

He slowly revolved until he stood with his back toward Joe.

Now was the latter's opportunity.

"Quick!" he muttered to Sam Berry.

Sam put in his hand a ball of snow that was almost as solid as a stone. Joe's fingers tightened about it and his muscles grew taut.

Many a time before had he felt that queer thrill go through his arm and shoulder as he stood before some batsman in a critical period of the game and tried to strike him out. But this time much more than a game was at stake. A human life depended upon the sureness of his aim.

He took careful aim at the back of the madman's head and sent the icy snowball whizzing as though from a catapult.

HE SENT THE ICY SNOWBALL WHIZZING AS THOUGH FROM A CATAPULT.

Straight as an arrow it found its mark. It struck the stranger just at the base of the skull and he went down like a bullock smitten by an axe.

A wild cheer rose from the crowd as they saw the man fall. The next minute Joe had swarmed up the lumber pile with the agility of a monkey and clasped the baby in his arms.

He was rapidly followed by others, who secured the stranger. Ropes were called for, and he was bound before he could recover consciousness. A doctor who was in the crowd examined him and found that he was suffering from shock but that his skull had not been fractured and there would be no serious results from the blow.

In the meantime, Joe was surrounded by a delirious throng that clapped him on the back, tried to grasp his hand, and in general deported itself as though it had just escaped from an asylum.

"What's the matter with Matson?" shouted one enthusiast.

"He's all right!" yelled the crowd.

"Who's all right?"

"Joe Matson!" came back the shout in undiminished volume.

"Oh, cut it out, fellows," growled Joe good-naturedly, feeling himself getting pink to the tips of his ears. "The first thing to do is to get this baby home to its mother."

The baby seemed to think this was good sense, and urged the good work along by howling so lustily, that Joe quickened his steps in his eagerness to be rid of his burden. It was all very well to rescue babies, but he felt awkward and helpless when it came to handling them and he looked forward to the Bilkins home as a harbor of refuge.

Fortunately, in snatching the baby out of the cradle, the madman had gathered up the bedclothes with it, so that the infant had not suffered from cold. Its lungs anyway were in good condition, as Joe was willing to testify, and it did not seem to have suffered in any way from its involuntary flight through the town.

It was not long before Joe reached the panic-stricken home where neighbors were ministering to the frantic mother and assuring her with a brave show of confidence that her baby would soon be restored. She gave a scream of delight when Joe appeared with the little pink, fluffy bundle in his arms, and in a moment she had snatched it from him and was smothering it with kisses.

This was Joe's chance and he was trying to make a "quick sneak," as he phrased it in his own mind, but Bilkins himself and the crowd of neighbors would stand for nothing of the kind, and again he had to submit to being made a hero of, much against his will.

"It was nothing at all," he protested, blushing like a school girl at the praises showered upon him. "Any other fellow could have done the same."

"But you notice that none of the other fellows did do it," said Bilkins. "It was not only the sure and swift aim that did it, but the clever work before that that enabled you to get the baby out of the man's arms and get the man himself with his back toward you so that he could not see the ball coming and dodge. It was splendid, brainy work, Joe, and I'll never forget it."

It was a long time before the excitement quieted down and Joe at last was at liberty to wend his way home. The dusk was falling now and the air was biting cold, but he was in such a glow of body and spirit that he took no note of outside conditions.

A great emergency had suddenly confronted him and he had played the man.

* * *