Mr. and Mrs. Matson had counted on having their son with them throughout the fall and winter, but they had been accustomed for so long to merge their own happiness in that of their children that they kept up bright faces while they said good-bye, although Mrs. Matson's smile was tremulous. A day and night of traveling and the ball players reached Chicago, where, at the Blackstone, they found McRae awaiting them--the same old McRae, aggressive, pugnacious, masterful, and yet with a glint of worry in his eyes that had not been there at the close of the World's Series. Robbie was there too, rotund and rubicund, but not just the Robbie who had danced the tango with McRae before the clubhouse on the occasion of the great victory. But if worry and anxiety had set their mark upon the manager and trainer of the Giants, it had not affected the players, who were lounging about the corridor of the hotel. A bunch of them, including Burkett and Denton and good old Larry, gave the newcomers a tumultuous welcome. "Cheer, cheer, the gang's all here!" cried Larry. McRae clasped Joe's hand in a grip that almost made him wince. "So the new league hasn't got you yet, Joe?" he cried. "No," laughed Joe, returning his clasp; "and it never will!" CHAPTER VIII THE RIVAL TEAMS Robbie, who had come up just in time to hear Joe's last words, gave him a resounding thump on the back. "That's the way to talk, Joe, old boy!" he cried. "I've been telling Mac all along that no matter who else weakens he could bet his last dollar on you." "Not that I needed any bracing up," declared McRae. "I know a man when I see one, and I count on you to the limit. I didn't send that telegram because I had any doubt, but I knew that they'd make a break for you first of all and I didn't want you to be taken by surprise. By the way, have any of them turned up yet?" "A chap named Westland came to see me the very day I got your telegram," replied Joe. "And he came well heeled, too," put in Jim. "Money was fairly dripping from him. He just ached to give it away. It was only up to Joe to become a bloated plutocrat on the spot." "Offered good money, did he?" asked McRae, with quickened interest. "Twenty thousand dollars right off the bat," replied Jim. "Fifteen thousand dollars a year for a three-year contract. And as if that weren't enough, he offered to put the money in the bank in advance and let Joe draw against it as he went along." McRae and Robbie exchanged glances. Here was proof that the new league meant business right from the start. It was a competitor to be dreaded and it was up to them to get their fighting clothes on at once. "That's a whale of an offer," ejaculated Robbie. "They've thrown their hat into the ring," remarked McRae. "From now on it's a fight for blood." "There's no need of asking what Joe said to that," said Robbie.