And so the game went on until the eighth inning, which put West Point one run ahead. There was excitement on the part of the army and its supporters, for in the last half of it Yale had been unable to score, and it looked as if she might lose.

"We've got to get 'em!" declared Captain Hatfield grimly, as he and his men took the field for the beginning of the ninth. "Don't let one get past you, Joe, and then we'll bat out two runs."

The young pitcher nodded, but he did not smile. He was a little in doubt of himself, for there was a strange numb feeling in his right arm, and he knew that the muscles were weakening. He had worked himself to the limit, not only in this game, but the one with Harvard, and now he began to pay the penalty.

Once or twice as he wound up to deliver he felt a sharp twinge that alarmed him. He had not asked to have one of the professional rubbers with the team ma.s.sage him, for fear the rumor would get out that Yale's pitcher was weakening. So he bore it as best he could. But his arm was sore.

Joe had struck out one man, and then he was found for a two-bagger. This man was a notorious base stealer and managed to get to third, while the player following him, who was the heaviest hitter on the team, had been pa.s.sed by Joe on a signal from the captain, who did not want to take chances.

"He's afraid!" came the taunt, and Joe was beginning to get nervous, especially as his pain increased.

With two on bases, and only one out, Joe saw come to the bat a man who was an expert bunter. He could lay the ball almost anywhere he wanted to, and our hero realized that he was in for a bad few minutes. It would not do to walk another. He must get this man.

What he had feared came to pa.s.s. The player bunted and the ball came lazily rolling toward the pitcher. Joe and Kendall started for it, and then Joe yelled:

"I'll get it--go back!"

He felt himself slipping on a pebble, but recovered with a wrench that strained his sore arm. With an effort he managed to get the ball. He knew that if he threw it from the unnatural and disadvantageous position he had a.s.sumed in recovering it, he would make his sore arm worse. But there was no help for it.

The man on third had started for home. Joe, with a mighty effort, threw to Kendall, who caught it and tagged his quarry.

"Out!" called the umpire. One run was saved.

Then, like a flash the catcher threw to third, for the man who had been on first, having reached second, rather imprudently tried for another bag. He was tagged there by as neat a double play as could be desired, and the West Pointers had finished, with but the one run to their advantage.

"We need one to tie and two to win," exclaimed Shorty to Joe, as he tossed his big mitt into the air. "Why," he added, "what's the matter with your arm?" for he saw it hanging down limp.

"A strain," replied Joe shortly. "I'm all right."

"You are not! McLeary must look at you. We'll play somebody else this inning. You go get rubbed." And Joe was glad enough to do so.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE ACCUSATION

Yale won from West Point. It was almost a foregone conclusion after that sensational inning when Joe went down and out with his sprained arm, after saving the game. His mates rallied to the support of, not only himself, but the whole team, and, the cadets, having been held runless, the wearers of the blue made a determined stand.

Weston was called on to go in and replace Joe, and the former 'varsity pitcher, in spite of his feeling against our hero, had that in him which made him do his best in spite of the odds against him.

Weston was half hoping that the game would be a tie, which would give him a chance to go on the mound and show what he could do at pitching against a formidable opponent of Yale. But it was not to be, though he brought in one of the winning runs for the New Haven bulldog.

The crowd went wild when they saw what a game fight the visitors were putting up, and even the supporters of the army lads hailed them with delight as they pounded the cadet pitcher, for everyone likes to see a good play, no matter if it is made by the other side.

"Oh, wow! A pretty hit!" yelled the throng as Weston sent a two-bagger well out in the field. His face flushed with pleasure, as he speeded around, and, probably, had he been taken in hand then, subsequent events might not have happened, for his unreasonable hatred against Joe might have been dissipated. But no one did, and the result was that Weston felt he had been wrongly treated, and he resolved to get even.

"Well played, boys, well played!" exclaimed the captain of the cadets, as he came up to shake hands with Hatfield. "You did us up good and proper. We can't buck such a pitcher as you have. What happened to him!"

"Sprained arm," explained Spike, who stood near.

"Too bad! Tell him to take care of it," rejoined the cadet. "Such twirlers as he is are few and far between. Well, you beat us, but that's no reason why you can do it again. We'll have your scalps next year.

Now, boys, altogether! Show 'em how West Pointers can yell."

The cheer for the Yale team broke out in a gladsome yell, tinged with regret, perhaps, for West Point had been sure of winning, especially toward the end, but there was no ill-feeling showing in the cries that echoed over the field.

In turn the New Haven bulldog barked his admiration of the gallant opponents, and then came a special cheer for Joe Matson, whose plucky play had made it possible for Yale to win.

Joe, in the dressing room, heard his name, and flushed with delight.

Trainer McLeary was rubbing his sore arm.

"Hurt much?" the man asked, as he ma.s.saged the strained muscles.

"Some," admitted Joe, trying not to wince as the pain shot along his arm. "How are we making out?"

"We win," declared McLeary, as a scout brought him word. "And you did it."

"Not by pitching," a.s.serted Joe.

"No, perhaps not. But every game isn't won by pitching. There are lots of other plays besides that. Now you've got to take care of this arm."

"Is it bad?"

"Bad enough so you can't use it right away. You've got to have a rest.

You've torn one of the small ligaments slightly, and it will have to heal. No baseball for you for a week."

"No!" cried Joe aghast.

"No, sir! Not if you want to play the rest of the season," replied the trainer.

Now Joe did want to finish out the season, whether he came back to Yale or not, for there were big games yet in prospect, particularly that with Princeton, and, if it was necessary to play a third one, it would take place on the big New York Polo Grounds.

"And, oh! if I could only pitch before that crowd!" thought Joe, in a moment of antic.i.p.ated delight.

"There, I guess you'll do, if you keep it well wrapped up, stay out of draughts and don't use it," said the trainer finally, as he bound up Joe's twirling wing. "No practice, even, for a week, and then very light."

Joe half groaned, and made a wry face, but there was no help for it, he realized that. He was surrounded by his mates, as the game ended, and many were the congratulations, mingled with commiserations, as they greeted him.

Weston even condescended to say:

"Hope you won't be knocked out long, old man."

"Thanks," replied Joe dryly. "It'll be a week anyhow."

"A week!" exclaimed Weston, and he could not keep the delight from showing on his face. Then he hurried off to see one of the coaches. Joe had little doubt what it meant. Weston was going to try for his old place again while Joe was unable to pitch.

"Well," remarked De Vere, as his crony came out of the dressing rooms, whither he had gone. "I should think you could drop your other game, now that's he out of it."