Baseball Joe in the World Series; or, Pitching for the Championship

she quoted, flashing a sunny smile at Joe that made him feel more cheerful at once.

“It was too bad,” comforted Mrs. Matson. “But, anyway, Joe, it wasn’t your fault,” she added, beaming fondly on her son.

“Call it misfortune then, Momsey,” Joe smiled back at her. “But it surely was that. We lost the game, we lost it on our own grounds, we were whitewashed, and worst of all Hughson is out for the rest of the Series.”

“That’s enough for one day,” acquiesced Jim.

“Stop your grouching, you fellows,” admonished Reggie. “You’ll have plenty of chances to even things up.”

“Oh, we’ll fight all the harder,” agreed Joe. “There isn’t a streak of yellow in the whole Giant team. The boys will fight like wildcats and never give up until the last man is out in the deciding game. We’re looking for revenge to-morrow.”

“And maybe revenge won’t be sweet!” chimed in Jim.

“Who is going to pitch for your side to-morrow?” asked Mr. Matson.

“McRae gave me a tip that I was to go in,” Joe answered.

“Then we might as well count the game as good as won,” declared Mabel.

“That certainly sounds good,” laughed Joe. “But suppose I should be batted out of the box? I wouldn’t dare show my diminished head among you folks then.”

“We’re not worrying a bit about that,” put in Clara, looking proudly at her idolized brother.

But the question was not to be settled on the morrow, for when the day dawned in Boston the rain was falling steadily, and the weather predictions were that the rain would continue for the greater part of the day.

For once, at least, the much maligned weather prophet was right, for at noon the rain had not abated, and, much to the disgust of the expectant public, the game was declared off.

By the rules that had been made to cover such an event, the teams were to stay in Boston until the first fair day should permit the game to be played.

The different members of Joe’s party were rather widely scattered, when the sun finally peeped out in the course of the afternoon. Reggie had taken his sister out to a country club where he had a number of acquaintances. Mrs. Matson and Clara were doing some shopping in the Boston stores and Mr. Matson had gone out for a stroll.

Joe and Jim had been downtown with the rest of the team having a heart-to-heart talk with McRae and Robson about the strategy to be adopted in the forthcoming games.

By four o’clock the sun was shining gloriously and the roads were beginning to dry out. Just the day, Joe thought, to hire a runabout just big enough for two and take Mabel out for a spin.

He conjectured that by the time he got the car and reached the hotel Mabel would have returned from her trip with Reggie and be ready for him.

“Come along, Jim, and help me to pick out the car,” he said.

They went to a neighboring garage and selected one which both agreed was a good one.

“Jump in, Jim,” said Joe, “and I’ll give you a ride as far as the hotel.”

They were bowling rapidly along, when an automobile passed them, moving at a rate of speed that was almost reckless. Joe saw that a man and a woman were the only occupants.

He glanced carelessly at the man and was startled when he saw that it was Beckworth Fleming.

But he was still more startled when his eyes passed to the face of Fleming’s companion.

It was Mabel!

Jim, too, was staring as though he could not believe his eyes.

For a moment Joe saw red and his blood boiled with rage. He stopped the car and looked back.

Then his rage turned to alarm, for Mabel was looking back and waving to him frantically, while her companion seemed to be trying to draw her back.

She was in peril!

Instantly, Joe turned his car and tore away in pursuit.

CHAPTER XVI
A CAD’S PUNISHMENT

The hotel at which Mabel had been stopping with the rest of the party was in a quiet residential section not far from the suburbs, and Joe had almost reached it at the time of the encounter. There was little traffic here to interfere with the chase, and in a few minutes pursuer and pursued had cleared the outskirts and were in the open country.

Joe caught a glimpse of Fleming looking back and saw that the latter knew he was being followed, a knowledge which was followed by a sudden quickening in the pace of Fleming’s car.

It was, evidently, a powerful machine, and despite Joe’s utmost efforts the gap between the two cars kept constantly widening.

Joe had had a good deal of experience in handling automobiles during his big league career, and was a cool and skilful driver. But the utmost exertion of his skill could avail little when he had an inferior car pitted against one which greatly exceeded it in horse power.

His heart was in his mouth as he saw how recklessly Fleming was speeding. His car seemed to be on two wheels only as he took the curves in the road.

How Mabel came to be in that car was a question that could wait for an answer till later. The only thing that mattered now was that she was there with a man she dreaded and despised, and her frenzied waving told Joe that she was in mortal fear and looked for him to help her.

Jim sat perfectly still without saying a word. Nothing must distract Joe for a second from that car and the view of the road ahead. He knew what nerves of steel were back of the sinewy hand that clutched the wheel. He had grasped the meaning of the chase, and he shared with his friend the determination that the cad in the car ahead should pay dearly for this escapade.

Suddenly Joe gave an exultant cry.

As they turned a curve, he saw that a railroad crossing lay ahead and that the gates were down, while a long freight train was lumbering leisurely by.

Fleming could not get past till the gates were raised, and by that time Joe would be upon him.

There was no cross road between him and the track into which Fleming’s car could escape. His enemy was trapped.

“You’ve got him, Joe!” exclaimed Jim, with a thrill of exultation in his voice.

“Yes,” Joe gritted between his teeth. “I’ve got him.”

And his tone would not have reassured Beckworth Fleming.

Fleming’s car had halted and Fleming himself had jumped out and run wildly to the gate, looking up the track to see if the train was nearly by. He saw at a glance that it would not have passed before Joe would be upon him.

From the other side of the car, Mabel had leaped as soon as it had stopped. She came running back up the road, and Joe, who had stopped, rushed forward and took her in his arms. She was sobbing with fright and excitement, and Joe held her close as he tried to soothe her.

Fleming saw that the game was up and promptly darted off into the wood at the side of the road.

“After him, Jim!” cried Joe. “Don’t let him get away!”

Jim darted after the fugitive. Fleming put on all possible speed, but he was no match for the seasoned athlete, and a moment later Jim’s muscular hand had him by the collar.

“Let me go,” snarled the wretch, struggling desperately.

“Come along,” growled Jim, dragging him to the spot in the road where Joe was comforting Mabel, who was gradually getting back some of her self-control.

The tender look in Joe’s eyes was replaced by one of a different character as he looked at the flushed, dissipated face of the man who stood before him, still held by Jim.

“Now, Mr. Beckworth Fleming, I have an account to settle with you.”

Fleming shrank back as far as Jim’s grip would let him before the steely look in Joe’s eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Joe, contemptuously. “I’m not going to thrash you in the presence of a lady.”

Relief came into Fleming’s face.

“It was only a lark,” he began, but Joe cut him short.

“I don’t care for any explanations,” he said. “I want you to go down on your knees in the road and beg Miss Varley’s pardon.”

Fleming looked around for some means of escape but found none. His furtive glance at Mabel fell before the scorn in her eyes.

“I apologize,” he jerked out sullenly.

“Down on your knees, I said,” remarked Joe with dangerous calmness.

Fleming hesitated before this last humiliation, but Jim’s knuckles in his neck decided him.

“I beg your pardon,” he muttered, getting down on his knees and scrambling again to his feet as hastily as possible.

“And now, Jim,” Joe continued, “if you’ll just take Mabel up the road a little way around that curve, I’ll finish this little account with Mr. Fleming.”

Fear sprang into Fleming’s eyes.

“You said you wouldn’t,” he began.

“I said I wouldn’t thrash you in the presence of a lady, and I’m going to keep my word,” said Joe, imperturbably. “Please, Jim.”

He relinquished Mabel to his friend, and Jim assumed the responsibility with a cheerful grin.

“Don’t hurt him, Joe,” Mabel urged, hesitatingly.

“I won’t kill him, Mabel,” Joe answered. “I only want to impress a few things on his memory so firmly that he’ll never forget them.”

Jim gently urged Mabel out of sight beyond a curve two hundred feet away.

When they had vanished, Joe turned to Fleming.

“Take off your coat,” he ordered curtly.

“What are you going to do?” asked Fleming, fearfully. “I warn you that if you hit me——”

“Take off your coat,” repeated Joe, setting him the example.

As Fleming still hesitated, Joe reached over and slapped his face lightly.

“You seem to need a stimulant to get you going,” he taunted.

Even a rat will fight when cornered, and Fleming, with an exclamation of rage, threw off his coat and rushed furiously at Joe.

The latter met him with an uppercut that shook him from head to foot. Then he sailed into Fleming and gave him a most thorough thrashing. Nor did he let up until Fleming with a highly decorated face lay helpless in the road, sobbing with shame and rage and whining for mercy.

“I guess that’s enough for the present,” said Joe, who had not a mark on him, as he resumed his coat. “You’d better get into that car of yours and drive home before your eyes are entirely closed. And remember that this isn’t a circumstance to what you’ll get if you ever dare to speak to Miss Varley again.”

He turned his back upon the discomfited cad, and, jumping into the runabout, drove around the curve where he rejoined Mabel and Jim.

“Did you impress those things on his memory?” asked Jim with a grin.

“I don’t think he’ll forget them in a hurry,” Joe laughed, though rather grimly. “And this time, luckily, there was no policeman handy.”

CHAPTER XVII
PLANNING FOR REVENGE

“I hope you didn’t injure him too much, Joe,” said Mabel, snuggling close to him in the crowded little runabout.

“Do I look like a murderer?” chaffed Joe.

“But really, Joe, what did you do to him?” asked Mabel.

“Less than the rascal deserved,” Joe answered. “He got a good thrashing; and it was surely coming to him. I don’t think he’ll ever trouble you again.”

“I was so relieved when I caught sight of you in this car,” sighed Mabel.

“How did it happen that you were riding with him?” asked Joe, as he threw on a little extra speed.

“He was out at the Country Club when Reggie and I reached there,” Mabel replied. “I hadn’t told Reggie how he had acted the last time he called at the Marlborough, because I didn’t want to make trouble, and I thought after the way I cut him then he’d never bother me again. But he was dining at the Country Club with a party of friends that we both knew, and I couldn’t make a scene without being conspicuous. I avoided him, however, as much as I could.

“You know, of course, Reggie’s car is in New York and we were using a hired machine. When we were getting ready to come away, I had just stepped into the car when Reggie was called to the telephone. This man, Fleming, was standing by, and before I knew it he jumped in, took the wheel, and started the auto going.

“I ordered him to stop, but he only kept going faster. He had been drinking, and he was loud and boisterous. I begged and threatened, but he only laughed and went on at a greater speed. Said he was going to get even with me for the cut I had given him the other night, and was going to take me on a long ride whether I wanted to go or not.

“I never was so frightened in all my life. I told him that my friends and my brother would punish him for what he was doing, but he only laughed and said they would have to catch him first. I hoped a policeman would stop us, for he was going at a furious rate. Then I thought of jumping, though I knew I would probably be killed if I did. I screamed, but we were going at such a rate and making so much noise that no one heard me. Then I caught sight of you, and when I looked back and waved and saw that you were coming after us, I knew that everything would be all right. Oh, Joe, it seems as though you are always on hand when I need you most.”

Her nerves had been so badly shaken that she was on the verge of tears again, and she fumbled for her absurdly little handkerchief in the cuff of her sleeve.

Joe’s heart thrilled, and if Jim had not been there and he could have taken his hands from the wheel, he would have comforted her again as he had on the road.

“I’d have followed you to the end of the world,” he said rather huskily.

“How lucky it was that that freight train just happened to be passing at the time,” chuckled Jim. “Can’t you imagine how desperate Fleming must have been when he saw the way barred?”

“It was a friend in need for us, all right,” grinned Joe. “Fleming wasn’t quite tipsy enough to try to butt the train off the tracks.”

“He ought to sue the railroad for damages,” Jim suggested.

“He might get them, too,” laughed Joe. “If a jury saw his face as it is just now, they’d know that he’d been in a mix-up of some kind.”

They found Reggie in a state of great bewilderment and agitation at the hotel. They had told him at the club that Fleming had driven off with Mabel, and though he had not known of the latter’s offensive behavior toward his sister previously, he knew that Fleming had been drinking that afternoon and was in no condition to handle a car.

He was enormously relieved, therefore, when he saw Mabel return safely, though he wondered to see her escorted by Joe and Jim.

They told him all the circumstances and he was furious. He was for starting out at once to hunt up Fleming, but Joe dissuaded him.

“He’s had a good trimming already,” Joe assured him. “We don’t want anything that may bring notoriety to Mabel’s name. I don’t imagine we’ll ever be bothered by him again.”

In the meantime, Fleming, left battered and disheveled on the country road, was wild with pain and rage. His heart was a tumult of seething emotions. He had undergone that afternoon more humiliation than comes to most men in a lifetime. He had been thwarted in his impudent venture. He had been taken by the collar and shaken as a rat by a terrier. He had had to get down on his knees in the dirt of the road and humbly apologize. And then he had been bruised and beaten until he had begged for mercy.

He ground his teeth in unavailing fury. He had been accustomed all his life to have his way. Money had made his path easy. He was not used to the sensation of being the “under dog.”

He took out his handkerchief and wiped the blood and dust from his face, brushed and adjusted his disarranged clothing as well as he could, then climbed into the car and by a roundabout route made his way back to town.

His first visit was to a Turkish bath where he attempted to have some of the soreness rubbed from his battered frame. Then he visited one of the facial artists who make a specialty of painting black eyes into some semblance of flesh color.

In this way he managed to efface the worst traces of the afternoon’s encounter, though his face still remained somewhat swelled and puffy. Then he set out to make a night of it and drown his troubles in the way with which he was the most familiar.

He was seated at a table in a crowded café patronized chiefly by gamblers, when he was accosted by a friend whose dissipated face showed that he was of the same type as Fleming.

“Hello, old man,” said the former. “Drinking here all by your lonesome?”

“How are you, Bixby,” responded Fleming. “Sit down here and have something with me.”

His friend did so and Fleming motioned to the waiter and ordered a couple of drinks.

“Why, what’s the matter with your face, Fleming?” asked Bixby, as he looked at his friend curiously. “Been in a scrap?”

“Nothing like that,” lied Fleming in a surly tone. “Ran a car into a ditch and had an upset.”

“Doesn’t improve your beauty any,” laughed his friend lightly. “Still, you can’t kick if you’ve come out of a smash with nothing worse than that. What are you doing here in Boston, anyway? Come over to see the game?”

Fleming growled a moody assent.

“They say Matson is going to pitch to-morrow,” Bixby continued.

Fleming greeted the mention of the name with a lurid outburst that left no doubt as to his feelings.

His friend looked at him with surprise.

“You seem to be horribly sore,” he ventured. “I thought that like most New Yorkers you’d be rooting for him to win.”

“I hope they knock him out of the box,” Fleming hissed, with the venom of a snake.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE PLOT

“There are lots of people in Boston hoping the same thing,” replied Bixby. “But I think they’re due to be disappointed. It isn’t often they send that boy back to the shower.”

“He can be beaten like any one else,” snarled Fleming, his gorge rising as he heard Joe praised.

“Sure,” conceded Bixby. “The best of them have an off day at times. But they say he’s in splendid shape just now. That arm of his is certainly a dandy.”

Fleming could have told him better than any one else just how good that stalwart arm was. Not four hours had passed since he had tested its strength. And he knew that it was good for something besides baseball.

But not for the world would he have had that beating come to light. It would make him the laughing stock of the clubs. He was sure that Joe himself would not tell of it nor would Reggie, because of their desire to prevent Mabel’s name being dragged into the affair. So that his secret was safe, unless he himself should reveal it while he was in his cups.

“He’s a false alarm,” he growled. “Lots of these fellows start out as though they were going to set the league afire, but after a year or two you find them back again in the minors. They go up like a rocket and come down like the stick.”

“Well, if he’s a false alarm, he’s deceived a good many people,” answered Bixby with a diminished respect for his friend’s judgment. “All the dope is that he’s going to be another Hughson.”

They drained their glasses and ordered more liquor. While they were waiting for it to come, Bixby glanced around the café. His eye rested on a table in the further corner of the room where three men were sitting.

“Do you see that big fellow over there with the other two?” he asked Fleming.

“I see him,” replied Fleming, shortly.

“Well, that’s Big Connelly the notorious Chicago sporting man,” returned Bixby.

“Well, what if it is?” said Fleming, indifferently.

“Oh, nothing special, except that he seems to feel a good deal the same way about Matson that you do. I was sitting near him just before I came over here to join you and he was grouching to beat the band.”

“Is that so!” ejaculated Fleming with a quickening of interest. “What does he seem to have against him?”

“Oh, that’s more than I know,” was the reply. “But he seems to have a bitter grudge from the way he talks.”

“Do you know Connelly personally?” demanded Fleming.

“In a way I do,” replied Bixby. “I met him at a prize fight once in Chicago and was introduced to him. I don’t know whether he’d remember me or not. But why do you ask?”

“I’d like to meet him if you don’t mind,” answered Fleming.

Bixby was somewhat surprised but did not object, and the two wended their way among the tables till they came to the one in question.

“How are you, Mr. Connelly?” said Bixby. “I don’t know whether you recall me, but I met you at that Welsh-Leonard bout in Chicago last year. Bixby is my name.”

It was Connelly’s business to recollect faces, or to pretend to even if he did not.

“Sure, I remember you,” he replied with the real or assumed heartiness of his class. “Glad to see you again, Mr. Bixby.”

“This is my friend, Mr. Fleming,” introduced Bixby.

Connelly’s shrewd eyes appraised Fleming as one of the “idle rich,” the plucking of whom had often feathered his nest, and his greeting was cordial.

“Won’t you sit down and have something with us?” he inquired, introducing the two men who were with him and making room at the table.

“We’d be glad to if we’re not intruding,” replied Bixby.

“Not at all,” said Connelly, and to seal the acquaintance he ordered a bottle of champagne.

It was not long before they were talking freely, and it goes without saying that in the one engrossing thought that prevailed everywhere they fell to discussing the World Series.

Connelly—“Big” Connelly, to give him the name by which he was usually referred to—was, as his name implied, a ponderous man with a hard, smooth-shaven face and cold, calculating eyes. He was a hardened “sport” and a shrewd politician, with strings out everywhere in the underworld that he could pull when he felt so inclined. He was wholly unscrupulous and stopped at nothing to achieve his ends.

“I hear you’re expecting Boston to win the Series, Mr. Connelly,” remarked Bixby.

“I’ve picked ’em to win,” agreed Connelly, “and I think they would to a dead certainty if it weren’t for one thing, or perhaps I ought to say one man.”

“And that one man is Matson, I suppose?” put in Fleming.

“Exactly,” frowned Connelly. “With him out of the way it would be a walk-over for the Sox.”

“You’d go into mourning if he broke a leg or anything like that,” grinned Bixby.

“No such luck,” grunted Connelly. “Nothing ever happens to that bird. He must carry a horseshoe around with him. I came all the way from Chicago to see Brennan’s team win, only to see Matson smear a defeat on them. But it isn’t that I’m sore about especially.”

“Some little personal feeling, eh?” ventured Fleming, tentatively.

“He turned me down on a little deal once,” Connelly spat out viciously, “and I’ve vowed to get even with him some time.”

He refrained from explaining that the “deal” referred to had been a crooked bit of work that he had dared to suggest to Joe at the time the latter was with St. Louis and the club was struggling to get to the head of the second division. Not only had Joe rejected the proposition hard and instantly, but Connelly had only saved his face from disfigurement by beating a hasty and undignified retreat. From that moment he had cherished a bitter grudge against the man who had humiliated him, and this was intensified at the present by the young pitcher’s popularity.

“Yes, sir-ee,” he grunted vindictively, “I’d give ten thousand dollars to have Matson put on the shelf.”

“You could have him put out of the way for a good deal less than that,” suggested one of his companions, an evil-faced man named Moriarity. “There are fellows in New York or Boston who would do it for a thousand.”

“Nix on that stuff,” growled Connelly. “You could get away with a good many things, but you couldn’t get away with that. You might as well try to do away with the President. Any one who puts the extinguisher on Matson would go to the electric chair sure, and nothing could save him. Even if he got off, the public would tear him to pieces. Forget it.”

Moriarity was squelched and shrank back before the big man’s disapproval.

“Just the same,” ruminated Connelly, “I wish I could think of something that didn’t have any come-back.”

A thought suddenly came into Fleming’s mind, but he hesitated to express it in the presence of Bixby, who was an ardent partisan of the New Yorks. He sat toying with his glass and turning the idea over in his mind.

It was a relief to him when Bixby rose a few minutes later and left them on the ground of an engagement. Fleming hitched his chair a little closer to Connelly’s.

“I’ve just thought of something that may help you out a little, Mr. Connelly,” he began.

Connelly looked at him in curiosity.

“Let’s hear it,” he said eagerly.

CHAPTER XIX
WEAVING THE WEB

The four at the table put their heads together, and Fleming lowered his voice so that he might not be overheard by those in the adjacent chairs.

“Of course, I don’t know whether we can make the thing work,” commenced Fleming a little diffidently, “but it won’t do any harm to figure it out and see what there is in it.”

“Sure thing,” said Connelly, encouragingly.

“As you say, it won’t do to injure Matson physically,” Fleming went on. “Though nothing would suit me better,” he added with sudden savageness, as the stinging recollection of that afternoon’s events came back to him.

“I see that he isn’t exactly popular with you,” grinned Connelly. He reflected that this man might be a valuable aid to him, if he nourished a personal grudge.

But it was not in Fleming’s mind to betray himself, and he pulled up short.

“As I was saying,” he continued, without replying to Connelly’s suggestion, “the public wouldn’t stand for a minute for any rough work with Matson. But we can injure him in other ways.”

“Just how?” asked Connelly.

“Well,” asked Fleming in turn, “what do you think is the most important thing in the world to him just now?”

“The World Series,” replied Connelly, promptly.

“Exactly,” assented Fleming. “It means more to him just now than anything else on earth. It means money and reputation and a big future if he wins. Now if we could knock him out of winning, we could hit him in his pride, his prestige and his pocketbook all at the same time, and hit him hard.”

“No doubt of that,” admitted Connelly, “but I don’t see just yet what you’re driving at.”

“What I’m driving at is this,” explained Fleming. “We’ve got, in some way, to keep Matson from playing. You know as well as I do that he is the mainstay of the Giant team. That’s especially the case since Hughson was hurt. Matson’s the only reliable pitcher they have left. Markwith is as wild as a hawk and may go up in the air at any time. Barclay has the stuff, but he’s green and inexperienced.

“The Red Sox now have won two games to the Giants’ one. The New Yorks must take three more to win the Series. They’re counting on Matson to pull out two of them at least, perhaps all three. I tell you he’s the king pin in the Giant machine just now, and without him the whole team would go to pieces.”

“I see your point all right,” said Connelly, “but with the rough stuff barred I don’t exactly see how we are going to keep Matson from playing.” He pondered the problem for a moment with knitted brows. Then suddenly an idea came to him, and he brought his fist down on the table with a resounding thump. “Great Scott!” he cried. “I believe I’ve got the very thing!”

“Let’s have it,” demanded Fleming, eagerly.

“There’s a pal of mine in this burg,” explained Connelly, “that’s having all sorts of trouble with a nephew of his that’s going to the dogs as fast as he can. The boy has put over one or two phony checks already that my friend has had to settle for to keep the kid out of jail.

“My pal has the idea that if the boy could be shipped out of the country for a long voyage it would get him away from the gang he’s running with and might put him in the way of keeping straight. He was talking to me about it only yesterday and I promised to help him carry it through.

“You see, I happen to know an old sea captain who’s loading up now at a Boston wharf for a trip to South America. He’s a tough old nut, and he’ll do almost anything for me, especially if a little money is slipped to him to sweeten the job. I was going to propose to him to have this kid I’m telling you about bundled on board and carried away with him. But that matter can wait. Now suppose we’re able to get Matson on board in place of the other fellow.”

“Great!” cried Fleming excitedly.

“It’s too hot and crowded in here,” declared Connelly, rising. “Let’s get out somewhere and fix up the details.”

He dismissed his henchmen, and he and Fleming strolled down the street till they came to the Common. They chose a seat in a remote part, and began to figure out how they could carry their plan to success.

“It’s too bad that it’s too late to put the thing through to-night,” regretted Connelly. “I’d like to put him on the blink for to-morrow’s game.”

“We can’t do that of course,” replied Fleming. “But even if he wins to-morrow’s game, that will only even up the Series. There’ll have to be at least two more games played and maybe three. We’ll get him then.”

“I’ll go down and see the captain the first thing in the morning,” said Connelly. “I’m sure he’ll fall in with it all right. Then the only thing that remains to be done is to get Matson within his reach without rousing suspicion.”

“But that’s a mighty big thing,” returned Fleming doubtfully.

“What time does their train for New York leave to-morrow night?” asked Connelly.

“Somewhere between eleven and twelve, I believe,” answered Fleming.

“That’ll give us all the time we want,” declared Connelly confidently. “Now listen to me.”

“Not quite so loud,” admonished Fleming, looking around him nervously.

The conspirators lowered their voices and talked earnestly. It was nearly midnight when they parted.

The next morning dawned brightly and there was every promise of a glorious day.

“How are you feeling, Joe?” asked Jim, as the chums were getting ready to go down to breakfast.

“Fine and dandy and full of pitching,” replied Joe blithely.

“That sounds good,” rejoiced Jim. “Didn’t sprain your arm on Fleming yesterday?” he inquired with a grin.

“Not so that you could notice it,” laughed Joe. “In fact it was just the exercise I needed. It made up for having no other practice, kept me from going stale, as it were.”

“It took real friendship to stay around that curve when I was fairly aching to see you do that fellow up,” declared Jim.

“I’ll do as much for you some time,” Joe consoled him.

They had barely finished their meal when word was brought to Joe that there was somebody waiting in the lobby to see him.

He went out promptly and was surprised and pleased to find Mr. Anderson, the old G. A. R. man who had been knocked down by the automobile on the Long Island road.

They shook hands heartily.

“I’m mighty glad to see you!” exclaimed Joe. “I didn’t expect you’d be able to get back to Boston so soon. Those Islip doctors must have been right on the job.”

“They fixed me up fine,” agreed Louis Anderson. “Everybody’s been mighty good and kind to me since I was hurt. You especially, Mr. Matson. I want to thank you for the money you left for me with the doctors, and which they handed to me when I was coming away.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Joe, “and half of that was from Mr. Barclay, the young man who was with me. Here he comes now,” he added, as Jim sauntered out of the dining room and joined them.

He greeted the old man heartily, who thanked him also for his kindness. Jim waved it away as a trifle.

“Found out anything yet as to who those fellows were that ran you down?” he inquired.

“Not a thing,” said the old man sadly. “I only wish I could. I’d make them pay for what they did to me.”

“And we’d be witnesses for you,” declared Joe warmly. “It was one of the most brutal things I ever saw.”

“They ought to be made to pay up handsomely,” added Jim, “and they’d be mighty lucky to get off with that.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t much chance of ever finding them,” the old man said. “But it wasn’t that I came to see you especially about this morning, Mr. Matson. I heard something last night that I think you ought to know.”

“Is that so?” asked Joe pleasantly. “What is it?”

“I was on the Common last night,” Anderson replied. “It was so close and hot that I couldn’t sleep, and I thought it might do me good to get the air. I sat down at the foot of a big tree and I guess I must have gone to sleep. I was waked up by hearing voices and found that two men were sitting on a bench the other side of the tree.

“I didn’t pay much attention till I heard one of them mention your name. Even then I thought they were talking about baseball. But then I heard one of them say mean things about you. I perked up then and I heard enough to know that they were planning to harm you in some way.”

Both ball players were listening now with the utmost attention.

“Did you hear them call each other by name?” asked Joe.

“One of them spoke to the other as Mr. Fleming——”

“Fleming!” interrupted Jim, as he shot a quick glance at Joe.

CHAPTER XX
A STIRRING BATTLE

“Fleming’s got busy in a hurry!” exclaimed Joe. “But just what was it they were planning to do?”

“That’s just the trouble,” answered Anderson. “I don’t rightly know just what mischief they were cooking up. They kept their voices pretty low most of the time, and then, too, my hearing isn’t any too good, especially since I had that accident. Once I heard one of them say: ‘It’ll put him on the toboggan all right.’

“I didn’t dare to stir for fear they’d see me, or I’d have tried to edge around the tree so as to get closer to them. But from the number of times they spoke your name and the ugly way they did it, I was sure they had it in for you.

“I stayed there until they went away and the last thing one of them said was: ‘I’ll set the thing going the first thing in the morning.’ And the other one said: ‘It can’t start too quick for me.’”

“Did you see what kind of looking men they were?” asked Joe.

“I peeked out at them as they were leaving, but all I could see was that one of them was a big, heavy man and the other was slimmer and seemed to have something the matter with his face. It was puffed up as though he had the toothache.”

“Fleming, sure enough!” ejaculated Jim, grimly.

“I guess I know how he got that toothache,” Joe remarked grimly.

“Why, is he any one you know?” inquired Anderson.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” replied Joe. “There aren’t likely to be two men named Fleming who want to do me up.”

“Do be careful now, Mr. Matson,” the old man urged. “I can’t bear to think of anything happening to you after all that you have done for me.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” answered Joe. “And I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Anderson, for the trouble you’ve taken to come and tell me about this.”

“It’s little enough,” answered Anderson. “I only wish I could do more. But I know you must be pretty busy just now, with the big game coming on, so I’ll just jog along. Hope you have luck to-day, Mr. Matson.”

He said good-bye and went away. After he had gone the two friends looked at each other very long and thoughtfully.

“What do you make of it, Joe?” asked Jim at length.

“Why, I hardly know,” replied Baseball Joe, slowly. “I wish the old man had been able to get something a little more definite. The only thing that seems clear is that that snake is trying to make trouble for me. But, pshaw! ‘Threatened men live long,’ you know, and I’m not going to worry about it.”

But Jim was not inclined to dismiss the matter so lightly.

“Do you think they might try anything like the drugged coffee game?” he inquired. “Hartley got away with that once on you, and it might be done again.”

“Not likely,” answered Joe. “But what’s the use of worrying? I’m going to put it right out of my mind for the present. I’ve got to pitch this afternoon and I’m not going to think of anything else.”

True to his nefarious promise, Connelly, at just about the same time that morning, was having a private conversation with the captain of a tramp ship that was lying at a wharf far down on the Boston harbor front.

The tramp was a battered, rusty-looking old hooker that seemed to be about as tough and disreputable looking as the skipper, who was shouting orders to his crew when Connelly came on board.

There was a mutual recognition.

“How are you, Mr. Connelly?” the captain said, as he came forward to greet the newcomer. “And what is it that’s bringing you so far from Chicago?”

“How are you, Captain Hennessy?” returned Connelly, cordially grasping the gnarled hand that was extended to him. “I happened to be in town on business and I heard you were loading up here. How’s the carrying trade just now?”

“None too good,” replied the skipper. “What with freights ’way down and the competition of the big liners, it’s all we can do to make a living these days. But come down to the cabin and wet your whistle. Talking’s dry business.”

Connelly needed no urging, and they were soon seated at a table in the cramped cabin, with a bottle and glasses between them.

They talked of indifferent matters for a time, and then Connelly broached the object of his visit.

“Where are you going this trip?” he asked.

“Down the South American coast as far as Rio Janeiro,” was the answer. “Porto Rico will be my first stop.”

“And when do you expect to start?”

“I may finish up loading to-day if I have luck,” replied the skipper. “If so, I’ll get my clearance papers and slip out early to-morrow morning.”

“I suppose you’ve done a bit of shanghaiing in your day, eh, Hennessy?” remarked Connelly, jocularly.

“Many’s the time, especially in the old sailing days,” grinned Hennessy, a light of evil reminiscence in his little eyes. “But there’s little call for it nowadays.”

“I was just wondering,” went on Connelly, “if you’d do me a favor and take a fellow along with you on this trip that doesn’t want to go.”

“It might be managed,” returned the skipper a little doubtfully.

“There’d be a nice little slice of money in it for you,” Connelly explained. “You see it’s a young fellow that’s got in with a wild gang ashore, and his folks think a sea voyage wouldn’t do him any harm.”

Hennessy’s hesitation vanished at the mention of money and his eyes had an avaricious gleam.

“Sure I’ll do it!” he exclaimed. And then, with voices slightly lowered, the pair perfected their scheme.

A little later Connelly left the ship and walked rapidly away with a triumphant glint in his vulture-like eyes.

He found his confederate waiting for him in the same café where they had met the night before. Fleming jumped up from the table at which he had been sitting and came rapidly forward to meet him.

“Well?” he said eagerly.

“It’s all right,” responded Connelly. “It didn’t take much urging to turn the trick. I told you he’d be only too glad to oblige me.”

He went over the events of the morning rapidly, and Fleming exulted.

“So far, so good,” he gloated.

“But the hardest part is yet to come,” Connelly reminded him. “We’ve got the stage set for the play, and the next thing is to have the chief actor on hand when the curtain rings up.” And then the two talked the matter over in detail.

The enthusiasm at Braves Field that afternoon was at fever heat. The Boston rooters turned out in the biggest crowd of the Series so far. The last game their favorites had won filled them with confidence, and they were out to cheer their pets on to another victory.

Even the knowledge that Matson was to pitch for the Giants, which had been featured in the morning papers, was not sufficient to daunt them. They felt that luck was with the Red Sox, as had already been shown in the accident to Hughson and the rain that had snatched the second game from the New Yorks. And that luck, they felt sure, would persist. The wish may have been father to the thought, but there was no doubt as to the optimism that existed in the home town of the Red Sox.

The Giants faced the test with quiet confidence. The odd game was against them, but they looked forward serenely to evening up the score that afternoon with Baseball Joe in the box.

McRae had a little talk with his team in the clubhouse before they went out for practice.

“Go right in, boys, and eat them up,” he exhorted them. “Those fellows never saw the day they could beat you if you were doing your best.

“They’ll probably put in Roth against you. He’s a good southpaw, but southpaws are just your meat. Look out for that ‘bean’ ball of his. He’s sure to use it in trying to drive you away from the plate. But don’t let it rattle you for a minute. Be quick to dodge, though, for I don’t want to have any of you hurt at this stage of the Series.

“And don’t let Matson do it all. He can’t carry the whole team on his shoulders. No matter how well he pitches, he can’t win unless you bat in some runs. Hand him a few right from the start.

“Little old New York is rooting for you to win, boys. Don’t fall down on the job. You’ll own the city if you come back with a row of Boston scalps at your belt. And I know you can do it if you try. Go in and wallop the life out of ’em.”

There was a cheer which told McRae that his words had gotten “under the skin,” and the Giants dashed briskly out on the field.

CHAPTER XXI
EVENING UP THE SCORE

When the gong rang, the Giants started out as though they were going to sew up the game then and there.

Burkett set the ball rolling with a wicked drive through the box that got past Roth before he could gauge it. Larry followed suit with a smoking hit to left. A prettily placed sacrifice bunt by Denton advanced both men a base. Roth struck out Willis on three pitched balls, but Becker came to the rescue with a line drive over second that scored Burkett easily, though Larry was put out as he made a great slide for the rubber.

The net result was only one run, but the most encouraging feature of the inning was the exhibition of free hitting.

“Three clean hits in one time at bat is going some,” Robson exulted.

“The boys seem to have their batting clothes on for fair,” responded McRae, vastly pleased.

“I doubt if that bird will come again for more,” judged “Robbie.” “They’ll probably take him out and put Fraser in.”

Joe was in fine fettle, and he showed his appreciation of the lead his mates had given him by retiring the Red Sox without a man seeing first base.

Contrary to Robson’s prediction, the Boston manager elected still to pin his faith to Roth, who tightened up after his bad start and for the next three innings held the Giants scoreless.

He was helped in this by the superb support given him. Both the outfield and infield were on their toes all the time, and drives that ordinarily would have gone for hits were turned into outs in dazzling fashion.

One magnificent catch by Thompson, the Red Sox catcher, was the feature of the fourth inning. Iredell, who was at bat, sent up a sky-piercing foul. Thompson, Hobbs and Roth started for it.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” yelled Thompson.

The others stopped and Thompson kept on.

The ball swerved toward the Boston dugout, where the substitutes and extra pitchers of the team were sitting.

A shout of warning went up, but Thompson did not falter. With his eye on the ball and his hands outstretched, he plunged ahead.

He grabbed the ball in a terrific forward lunge and went head over heels into the dugout, where his comrades caught him and saved him from injury. But he still clutched the ball as he was put on his feet, and a tempest of applause went up in which even the Giants and their partisans could not help joining.

“Suffering cats!” exclaimed McRae. “That was a miracle catch.”

“Never saw a better one in all my years on the ball field,” Robson conceded generously.

Thompson was forced to remove his cap again and again before the crowds would stop their cheering, and the play put still greater stiffness into the Boston’s defence.

But they needed something more than a stone wall defence. They had a lead of one run to overcome, and at the rate Joe was mowing them down, this seemed a tremendous obstacle.

Joe had never felt in better form. He had superb control and had not yet issued a pass. His mastery of the ball seemed almost uncanny. It seemed to understand him and obeyed his slightest wish.

His speed was dazzling, and the ball zipped over the plate as though propelled by a gun.

“Why don’t you line it out?” growled the Boston manager, as one of his players came back discomfited to the bench.

“How can I hit ’em if I can’t see ’em,” the player grunted in excuse.

But Joe did not rely wholly upon speed. Every once in a while he mixed in a slow one that looked as big as a balloon as it sailed lazily toward the plate. But when the batter almost broke his back in reaching for it, the ball would drop suddenly beneath the bat and go plunk into the catcher’s mitt.

“If I only dared to pitch that boy in all the remaining games of the Series!” thought McRae to himself. “He’s just making monkeys of those fellows.”

For six full innings the score remained unchanged.

Then the storm broke, and a perfect deluge of hits rained from the Giants’ bats.

Becker began it by whaling out a terrific drive to center that netted three bases. Iredell followed with a one cushion jolt between second and short that scored Becker. Joe pumped one to center that was good for a base; and on the futile throw made to third to catch Iredell, Joe by fast running got as far as second. Mylert went out on an infield fly, but the burly Burkett clouted a screaming triple to right, scoring both of his mates while he rested, grinning, at third.

Pandemonium broke loose among the Giant rooters. Roth, at a signal from his manager, drew off his glove, and Landers took his place.

But the Giants were on a batting spree and would not be denied. Larry and Denton cracked out singles. Willis went out on a long fly to right, but Curry pounded out a two-bagger that cleared the bases. A moment later he was caught stealing third and the inning ended.

It had netted the Giants six runs, and they were now in the lead by seven to nothing.

“Talk about a Waterloo!” shouted Jim, as he fairly hugged Joe in his delight.

“What do you think they’re doing around the bulletin boards in New York just now?” Joe laughed happily.

He was about to pull on his glove to go into the box when McRae stopped him.

“I guess you’ve done enough for to-day, Joe,” he said. “I want to save that arm of yours all I can, and with the lead we’ve got now the game seems to be cinched. I’m going to put Markwith in for the rest of it.”

Markwith had few superiors when it came to working for a few innings. His arm was fresh, and his terrific speed carried him through, although he was scored on once in the ninth.

The Giants, “just for luck,” added two more runs in the remaining innings, and when they gathered up their bats at the end of the game the score was nine to one in the Giants’ favor.

“This is the end of a perfect day,” chanted Jim as the hilarious team hurried from the field.

“Not quite perfect,” objected Larry with a grin.

“Why, what more do you want, you old glutton?” put in Willis.

“I’d like to have made it a goose egg for the Sox,” responded Larry.

“Some folks never know when they have enough,” remarked Joe. “I’m not kicking a single bit. That was mighty sweet hitting the boys did to-day,” he added.

“And mighty sweet pitching, too,” returned Larry. “Don’t forget that.”

The train did not leave until 11:30 P. M.; so that they had ample time for leisurely preparation. Joe and Jim dined with their party, who were quite as joyous over the result of the game as themselves. After dinner the young men took a quiet little stroll with Mabel and Clara and returned about nine.

The girls had left them to make ready for their trip, when Joe was summoned to the telephone.

“Hello, Joe,” came over the wire. “This is McRae talking.”

“Why, hello, Mac,” Joe answered. “I didn’t recognize your voice at first.”

“The connection isn’t very good, I guess,” was the answer. “But listen, Joe. I want you to do me a favor.”

“Sure thing,” replied Joe promptly. “What is it?”

CHAPTER XXII
A HOLE IN THE WEB

“It’s like this,” came the response. “I’m making a call on an old yachting friend of mine whom I always drop in to see when I’m in Boston. He’s a thirty-third degree fan, but he’s laid up with rheumatism and can’t get to the games. I’ve been bragging to him what a pitcher you are, and he wants to meet you. Would you mind running down just for a few minutes? It won’t take you long.”

“Of course I will,” answered Joe. “Where are you and just how can I get to you?”

“His yacht is lying off Spring Street wharf. He’ll have a motor boat there to meet you and bring you over. A taxi will bring you to the wharf in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be there,” said Joe.

“That’s bully. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Joe hung up the receiver and looked around for Jim to leave a message with him explaining his short absence. But Barclay was not in sight at the moment, and Joe hastily put on his hat, dashed out, hailed a taxicab, and a moment later was being whizzed uptown.

Not more than ten minutes had passed before the cab drew up at the end of the pier, which at that time was almost deserted.

“Here you are, sir,” announced the driver.

Joe stepped out and paid him.

A large motor boat lay at the pier. As Joe looked around, a man stepped forward.

“This Mr. Matson, sir?” he questioned respectfully.

“Yes,” answered Joe.

“Mr. McRae told us to wait for you here, sir. The yacht’s lying a little way out. Will you step on board, sir?”

Joe stepped into the boat, the moorings were cast off, and to the “chug chug” of the engine the boat darted out on the dark waters of the bay.

Joe took his seat on a padded cushion at the stern, noticing as he did so that there were several husky figures sprawling up near the bow.

The cool night air was very grateful after the heat of the day, and Joe took off his straw hat, so as to get the full benefit of the breeze.

Several minutes passed, and Joe began to wonder that they had not reached the yacht where McRae was waiting for him.

“How far out did you say the yacht was?” he asked casually of the man who was steering.

The man grunted, but made no intelligible reply.

“I asked you how far out the yacht was,” Joe repeated, a vague uneasiness beginning to take possession of him.

At this, a huge figure detached itself from the group forward and came toward him. It was Hennessy, a sour and evil smile upon his weather-beaten face.

“I never heard the old hooker called a yacht before,” he grinned, “but if you must know, it’s quite a tidy way down the bay before we come to it.”

“Why, Mr. McRae said it was lying just off the wharf!” exclaimed Joe.

“Perhaps Mr. McRae says more than his prayers,” was Hennessy’s surly reply.

The words, with all they implied, struck Joe with the force of a blow. Like a flash, the warning of Louis Anderson that morning came to his mind.

“Look here!” he cried, starting to his feet. “What does this mean? What game are you up to?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, my bucko,” answered Hennessy. “In the meantime you’d better take my tip and keep a civil tongue in your head. My temper’s rather short, as those who have sailed with me can tell you.”

“Don’t threaten me!” warned Joe, all his fighting blood coming to the surface.

At his menacing attitude, the men in front rose to their feet and moved forward. There were three of them, which made the combined force five in number, counting Hennessy and the man at the wheel.

Joe cast a swift glance around. There were no boats near at hand which could be reached by a shout. Nor did he have a ghost of a chance against the husky figures standing about him. For the moment the advantage was with the enemy.

An agony of self-reproach overwhelmed him. Why had he so lightly taken it for granted that it was McRae at the telephone? Why had he let the warning of Anderson slip from his mind?

He had fallen into a trap! Where were they taking him? What was their object? He thought of Mabel and his family. Into what dread and consternation they would be plunged by his disappearance! And his comrades on the team! What would they think of him?

Hennessy had been watching him keenly.

“Easy does it,” he remarked. “If you want a rough house you can have it, but take a fool’s advice and don’t go to starting it. We’re too many for you.”

There was sound sense in the advice, unpalatable as it was, and Joe recognized it. He must temporize. He wanted to dash his fist into the ugly face before him, and he promised himself that luxury later on. But just now he must depend on that nimble wit of his that had so often helped him to outguess an opponent.

He sank back in his seat with an affected resignation that was calculated to put his enemy off guard. It did so in the present case, as Hennessy chose to consider the action as a surrender.

“Now you’re acting sensible,” he grunted. “There ain’t no use butting your head against a stone wall.”

“Where are you taking me?” asked Joe in a lifeless tone.

“I don’t know as there’s any harm in telling you, now that we’ve got so far,” Hennessy answered. “I’m taking you on board my ship, the Walrus.”

“What for?”

“Just to give you a little sea air,” grinned Hennessy. “Your folks thought it would do you good to take a short v’yage down the coast.”

“Down the coast?”

“South American coast,” replied the captain shortly. “You’re on your way to Rio Janeiro.”

Rio Janeiro! Joe’s heart thumped violently.

“You say my folks are in on this,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Just what do you mean by that?”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about that gang you’re running with and those phony checks, and the like of that,” answered Hennessy.

“Phony checks?” gasped Joe.

“Don’t be playing innocent,” growled Hennessy roughly. “You know well enough what I mean.”

“But you’ve got the wrong man,” persisted Joe. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never ran with a gang or handled bad checks. You’ve picked me up, thinking I was somebody else. I’m a baseball player, a member of the New York Giants.”

“They told me you’d probably say something like that,” retorted Hennessy placidly. “But you can’t pull any wool over my eyes. I’m too old a hand for that.”

The man was obdurate, and Joe ceased his useless efforts to convince him. But he knew now that his case was desperate, and he summoned all his coolness to cope with the situation. One project after another raced through his brain, to be dismissed as useless.

While they had been talking, the motor boat had made rapid progress. But now a heavy haze was settling over the water and the engine slowed down a little.

“Look out, you swab!” shouted Hennessy angrily to the steersman as the end of a pier loomed up before them. “Do you want to smash the boat?”

The man veered off. But in that instant Joe had acted.

His fist shot out, knocking Hennessy off his seat. Like lightning, Joe jumped on the rail and leaped for the pier, six feet distant.