Just then McRae, who had been having an exchange of repartee with Evans, the manager of the Chicago team, who had chaffed him unmercifully about the playing of the Giants, came back to the dugout. He glanced in surprise at the two players. “What are you fellows doing here?” he asked sharply, glowering at them. “Didn’t you hear the bell ring for practice? Why aren’t you in your places on the field?” “I’m sick, Mr. McRae,” replied Jackwell. “I wish you’d put somebody else in my place. I ain’t in condition to play to-day.” “I’m in the same fix,” put in Bowen. “I feel like thirty cents.” “That’s what the whole team’s worth,” growled McRae. “And even at that price the fellow that bought them would get stung. What do you mean, sick? Are you sick or just lazy, soldiering on the job? You seemed husky enough this morning.” “It--it may have been something we ate at noon,” suggested Jackwell, rather lamely. “A touch of ptomaine poisoning, or something like that.” “Of course, I’ll play if you tell me to,” put in Bowen. “But I don’t feel up to my work.” McRae stood for a moment in exasperated study of the two. For some reason their excuses did not ring true. Yet their pale faces and evidently unstrung condition seemed to bear out their words. “Guess there is a jinx after this team all right,” he growled. “You fellows go over to the club doctor and let him find out what’s the matter with you. I’ll put other men in your places for the present.” They hurriedly availed themselves of the permission, and McRae, after a consultation with Robbie, put Renton in Jackwell’s place and sent McGuire out in center to hold down Bowen’s position. Again the bell rang, and the Cubs took their final practice. That they were in fine condition for the fray was evident from the way they shot the ball across the diamond. Dazzling plays and almost impossible catches brought round after round of applause from the spectators. It was plain that the whole team was in fine fettle, and that the Giants had their work cut out for them if they were to win. The Giants, as the visiting team, were first at bat. Axander, the star twirler of the Cubs, picked up the ball and went into the box with a jaunty air that bespoke plenty of confidence. “Play ball!” cried the umpire. Axander dug his toes into the box and wound up for the first pitch. And while the crowd watched breathlessly to see the ball leave his hand, it may be well for the benefit of those who have not read the preceding volumes of this series to tell who Baseball Joe was and trace his career up to the time this story opens.