Baldwin stared at the slender youth
"You Jim Lawrence's nephew?" he half screamed. "You his boy? Well, by ——, I'll break you. I'll fix you—I'll"——
He pitched forward as if in a fit, and McCarthy, after ringing for assistance, waited until the house physician had revived the big man, then hurried back to his hotel, puzzled and excited and vaguely alarmed over the developments of the evening.
Swanson was not yet in the room.
CHAPTER XIII
McCarthy Balks the Plotters
It was past two o'clock when McCarthy was awakened from his troubled sleep by the entrance of Swanson.
"Hello, Silent," said McCarthy sleepily. "What time is it?"
"Past two," said the shortstop, for once seeming unwilling to talk. "Better get to sleep—you'll be in again to-day."
"Where have you been?" asked McCarthy, wide awake in an instant and interested.
"Trailing," replied Swanson. "I've found out a few things. Meanwhile I had a talk with Clancy. You little squarehead, why didn't you tell him I was with you? Do you want to get yourself in bad by some fool notion of protecting me? I couldn't tell him what we were doing—but I told him you were with me, that you weren't drinking, and that you weren't with Edwards."
"What have you been doing all night?" asked McCarthy, restored to happiness by the tidings.
"Finding out things. I trailed Williams downtown right after the game. He had dinner with Edwards in a private room. I couldn't find out what happened, but Williams came out looking as if he had been jerked through a knot hole. Then Edwards met that fat party that had you in his room."
"Is he in it, too?" asked McCarthy.
"Yes—who and what is he?"
"His name is Baldwin. He's a big politician and broker here in the East and I knew him out West, where he owns a ranch."
"What did he want with you?"
"He wanted me to quit the team and run back home. I told him where he got off. The idea of asking me to quit the boys now, when they may need me!"
"I can imagine what you said," laughed Swanson. "Did you kick him on the shins and try to make him fight?"
"I wanted to," replied McCarthy savagely. "I can't see where he gets into this affair at all. There's something queer all round."
"Listen, Kohinoor," said Swanson. "Someone wants to beat the Bears out of this pennant, and whoever it is is turning every trick possible to beat us. I suspect they've got to Williams and that he is trying to throw games, and I've been working all night trying to get the goods on him. We can't run to Clancy with a yarn like that unless we're ready to prove it. Now go to sleep and get ready to win to-morrow's game—to-day's, rather."
McCarthy lay staring, sleepless, into the darkness, his brain whirling as he strove to penetrate the maze of intrigue and plotting of which he seemed the center. Half an hour passed, then, as he turned in bed, a sleepy voice from the next bed asked:
"Asleep, Kohinoor?"
"No."
"Then quit worrying. I had a talk with Betty Tabor to-night, and you needn't worry. She don't believe all she hears."
"What did she say, Silent?" asked McCarthy, sitting up in bed suddenly.
"Aw, go to sleep," responded Swanson, as he rolled over, chuckling at the manner in which McCarthy had betrayed his interest.
It was nearly noon when Swanson and McCarthy descended to the hotel lobby in better frames of mind.
Manager Clancy, serious and worried, was talking with a gray-haired man and a younger man. McCarthy observed them and grew uncomfortable under their close scrutiny as the three turned toward him and focussed their eyes upon him. He felt relieved when the smaller man shook his head positively and was not surprised a moment later when Clancy came forward toward him and said frankly:
"Forget it, Kohinoor. Case of mistaken identity." He grasped McCarthy's hand and gave it a crunching grip as he added: "When you get ready to tell me what you know I want to hear it."
The manager did not attempt any further apology, but McCarthy felt as if a load had been lifted from his mind.
"I can't make any charges until I have proof," he replied steadily. "If ever I can back up what I suspect, I'll tell you—first."
"Swanson explained partly," said the manager. "I understand. Get in there to-day and hustle."
It was the final game of the trip and the Bears, with confidence renewed, went into it determined to rush the attack and win quickly. When the batting practice started McCarthy was surprised to find Lefty Williams pitching to batters. He faced Williams and hit the first ball hard and straight over second base. Williams was lobbing the ball easily, as if warming up. Twice Clancy called to him to quit pitching to batters, and he shouted back that his shoulder felt a little stiff and he wanted to limber it up easily. McCarthy stepped to the plate again. Up to that time Williams had not pitched a fast ball, but he wound up quickly and flashed a fast-breaking ball straight at McCarthy's head. The third baseman dropped flat and the ball, just grazing the top of his head, carried away his cap. He knew Williams had tried to hit him. He remembered his part in the deeper game he and Swanson were playing, and he decided not to reveal the fact that he was aware of Williams's intent. He leaped back into batters' position and yelled:
"Keep that bean ball for the game. You'll need it."
He saw that Williams was white and shaken, and the next ball came floating over the plate without speed. McCarthy swung at it, without attempting to hit it. Another slow one floated over the plate and again McCarthy made a burlesque swing, missing the ball a foot. Williams flushed scarlet and stepping quickly back into position he drove a straight fast ball at the batter. McCarthy was on his guard. Drawing back slightly he allowed the ball to touch his shirt, and when Williams, angrier than ever, hurled another fast one at him he stepped back and drove it to left field for a clean hit.
As he hit the ball he heard Clancy call angrily to Williams to come off the slab, and the pitcher, white with anger at the contempt the recruit had shown for his pitching, sullenly obeyed.
"That fellow tried three times to bean you," said Swanson in low tones as they walked to their positions after retiring runless in the first inning.
"I know it," said McCarthy. "I coaxed him along. I think we can make him pitch to-day by telling him that we don't think he can."
The plan was adopted. For two innings the shortstop and third baseman harassed the pitcher.
Under the running fire of taunts, criticisms and sarcasm Williams pitched harder and harder, furious at his teammates, and venting his anger upon opposing batsmen.
"Say, you guys," remarked Kennedy on the bench after the fourth inning. "Have some pity on me. You've got Adonis so mad he's smashing my mitt with his speed. Better ease off on him or you'll have him in the air."
The Bears had accumulated two runs and seemed winning easily in the fifth, when, before a runner was out, McCarthy, cutting across in front of Swanson to scoop an easy-bounding ball, played it too carelessly, fumbled and allowed the first batter to reach first base. The error was common enough, but allowing the first batter to reach a base on an easy chance was serious at that stage of the game. Williams turned upon McCarthy and gave him a violent rebuke. McCarthy was not in a position to respond. He saw that, in spite of his angry words, Williams seemed pleased by the error. An instant later a drive whizzed past him and then another screamed by him en route to left field. A run was across the plate, runners on first and third and no one out.
"Trying to toss off this one?" demanded Swanson angrily. "You big stiff, pitch ball."
The next batter sacrificed, and again Williams broke the ball low and inside the plate to a right-handed hitter. The ball came like a shot at McCarthy, who dived at it. It rolled away toward Swanson, who recovered just in time to throw out the runner at first, but another run had counted and the score was tied. Another hit screeched past McCarthy, another run counted and the Travelers were one run ahead before the attack could be stopped.
The Travelers held their advantage to the eighth, when, rallying desperately, the Bears drove home two runs by sheer force of hitting and the ninth found them hanging to a one-run lead. They failed to increase their advantage in the first half of the inning and took the field determined to hold their lead. McCarthy was puzzled. He thought Clancy knew what was happening on the field and had expected each inning that the manager would rebuke Williams when they returned to the bench. Instead Clancy had remained strangely silent.
Tuttle, the first batter for the Travelers in the ninth inning, hit a fierce bounder down the third-base line. McCarthy, knowing Tuttle to be a right field hitter, was swung a little wide from the base. He threw himself out toward the line, his hands extended to the full limit, and the ball stuck in one outstretched hand. Scrambling to his feet he threw hard and fast to first, retiring the speedy runner by a step. The next batter hit fiercely between third and short and Swanson, by a great play, retrieved the ball back on the edge of the grass, but could not throw the runner out. The next batter, a right-hander, hit a vicious single past McCarthy and there were runners on second and first.
McCarthy felt the next drive would be toward him. He believed Williams was striving to lose the game, and that he was pitching so as to compel the batters to hit in the direction of third base so that the baseman and not he would be held responsible for the defeat. He gritted his teeth and crouched, waiting, as Watson, the heaviest-hitting right-handed batter in the league, faced Williams. Crouching, he saw Kennedy signal for a fast ball high and outside the plate, and then saw a straight easy ball sail toward the batter, low and inside. Watson swung. McCarthy saw a flash of light and threw up his hands just in time to keep the ball from hitting him. The ball broke through his hands and rolled a few feet away. His hands were numb to the wrists from the terrific shock. He stood still one trice. Then he saw the runners were stopped, bewildered. They had lost sight of the ball, so rapidly had it traveled and had stopped, thinking he had caught it. He leaped after the ball, framing the play as he touched the spinning sphere. He could have run back to third base and forced out one, but instead, as his numbed fingers gripped the sphere, he saw the possibility of a double play and threw fast and straight to Swanson, on second base, forcing out the runner coming from first. Swanson, catching the idea of the play in an instant, hurled the ball back to McCarthy, who grabbed it and touched out the runner coming from second, completing a double play that brought the crowd to its feet in applause and saved the game.
McCarthy heard the cheers, but he was cold with suppressed anger as he walked to where Williams was standing, and said:
"Williams, you're a d——d crook."
CHAPTER XIV
"Technicalities" on the Job
The Bears were going home holding grimly to their claim upon first place in the league race. With but seven games remaining to be played all were against clubs already beaten, and five of the seven were against clubs considerably weaker in every department. Two games were to be played off the home grounds.
The statisticians were busy calculating that the Bears had a decided advantage in the race, yet they were not happy in the homecoming. The ride home was only a few hours long, and they had caught the train immediately after the sensational finish of the final game with the Travelers in order to reach home and get settled by midnight.
Swanson and McCarthy sat together as the train pulled out, talking in low tones.
"I think Clancy is onto him," said Swanson. "Just sit tight. It isn't our move yet. The Boss acted queerly on the bench to-day and has been watching Williams all the time, while pretending not to. I'm going to mingle and see if any of the other fellows are wise to him."
Hardly had Swanson left the seat than McCarthy was surprised by "Technicalities" Feehan, who sat down in the seat vacated by the shortstop.
Feehan was one of the odd characters developed by the national game, a reporter who had traveled with the Bear teams for so many years the players regarded him as a sort of venerable pest who hadn't seen a ball player since Williamson's day, and never such a catcher as Mike Kelly, a first baseman like Comisky or a fielder like Tip O'Neil. He sometimes was called "Four Eyes," from the fact that he wore large, steel-rimmed glasses of great thickness, and his other name was "Technicalities."
He was not at all interested in baseball, excepting as a business. His chief interest was in the Children's Crusades, and he had spent eight years of his spare time in libraries all over America digging out data for his history of those remarkable pilgrimages which he had written and rewritten half a dozen times. Not being a baseball fan he was eminently fair and unprejudiced, and the players thought more of the quiet, studious fellow than they did of the excitable and the partisan reporters who joined their sports and their woes.
"Mr. McCarthy," he said seriously, "did you observe anything strange in to-day's game?"
"Several strange things," assented McCarthy. "Among them that error I made early in the game."
"I mean things of an unusual nature," persisted Technicalities. "I was struck by an odd phenomenon and thought perhaps you noticed it. I find it more perplexing as I study my score books."
"What was it?" inquired McCarthy, cautious not to betray any interest.
"Did you, for instance, observe anything strange about the hits in your direction?"
"I noticed that those that didn't have cayenne pepper on them were white hot and came like greased lightning," laughed McCarthy. "I expected to find my right leg playing left field any minute."
"I was speaking numerically, although, of course, the speed of the hits enters into the phenomenon."
"They did seem to be coming my way rapidly," agreed the third baseman.
"In to-day's game I find," continued the statistician, "that there were eighteen batted balls hit in the direction of third base. You had five assists and one error and caught two line drives. I do not include foul balls, of which six line drives went near third base. Of these eighteen batted balls, fourteen were hit by right-handed batters and four by left-handers. The fourteen right-handed batters hit balls pitched inside the plate, the four left-handers hit balls outside the plate, that is, outside to them, so that practically every ball batted toward you was pitched to the inside of the plate, that is, the catcher's left. I have checked these statistics and find them correct."
"Well, what of it?" asked McCarthy.
"In the preceding games—in which you played third and in which Williams has pitched—I find that an average of twelve and a fraction batted balls per game have been hit toward third base, exclusive of fouls. In the games in which you have played and in which Williams has not pitched the average is six and a trifling fraction. You have averaged seven and one-fourth chances per game—legitimate chances—with Williams pitching, and a trifle under three chances per game when he was not pitching. Does it not seem remarkable?"
"Perhaps so," assented McCarthy. "I never studied such statistics."
"The phenomenon is the more remarkable," added the strange little man, "because the average chances per game of the third basemen of five leagues, two majors and three Class AA for the last five years has been 2 and 877-998. It is impossible to construe the figures to mean but one of two things."
"What are they?" asked McCarthy, curiously interested.
"Either it is mere coincidence or Williams is deliberately trying to lose this pennant and to make you shoulder the blame."
"That's a pretty stiff charge," remarked McCarthy, amazed at the deductions of the reporter, which fitted so well the suspicion, gradually becoming a certainty to his mind.
"Either he is pitching purposely to make the opposing batters hit balls at you," insisted Feehan, "or it just happened—and things do not just happen in baseball with that regularity."
"Possibly he is wild and can't get the ball over the plate."
"On the contrary," persisted Feehan, "he has perfect control. If he did not possess control he could not pitch so many balls to the same place."
"I'm immensely grateful," said McCarthy, touched by the kindness of the odd reporter. "It's good of you and I shan't forget it."
"I deserve no thanks," insisted Feehan. "It's merely in the line of square dealing and justice—and, speaking of justice, McCarthy, did you ever take interest in the Children's Crusades? Let me show you some of the data I dug up recently"——
He delved into his little bag, which was his constant companion, and, drawing forth a mass of scattered, disordered notes, he went into raptures of enthusiasm while describing to the player some new features of the disappearance of the French children and of the sojourn of hundreds of them as slaves in African harems.
A great throng of admirers was waiting in the station to welcome the Bears back from their successful trip. Swanson and McCarthy finally escaped from the crowd, and, jumping into a taxicab, were whirled to the hotel, where Swanson had secured rooms for both.
The hour was growing late, but after they had deposited their baggage in their rooms, Swanson proposed a walk and a late supper. It was McCarthy's first visit to the city which he represented upon the ball field and its magnificence and greatness made him forget the worries and troubles of which he seemed the center. He even forgot to detail to his chum his strange interview with the reporter until they were seated in a quiet nook of one of the great restaurants. Then, in response to some jesting allusion to the Children's Crusades by Swanson, he told the big shortstop of the array of statistics Feehan had presented.
"He's a square little guy," said Swanson. "And he's got more brains in that funny-looking little head of his than this whole bunch has. He dopes things out pretty nearly right, and when he is convinced that he is right he goes the limit. Between us there is a certain left-handed pitcher who is in hot water right now and don't know it. Speaking of the devil," he added quickly, "there's his wings flapping, and look who he is with—across the far corner there, at the little table."
McCarthy's eyes followed the route indicated and suddenly he lost interest in his food. At a small table were Williams, Secretary Tabor—and Betty Tabor.
McCarthy was silent and moody during the walk back to the hotel and seemed to have lost interest in the great glaring city, which was just commencing to dim its illumination for the night. They were in bed with the lights out when Swanson said:
"Cut out the worrying, kid. I wouldn't have a girl no one else wanted. Besides, either her father has been told by Clancy to watch that crook or else Betty Tabor is stringing him along to learn something. She despises Williams, and she wouldn't laugh at him or eat with him unless she had a purpose in it."
McCarthy could have blessed him for the words, but he assumed a dignity he did not feel and said:
"I don't see why I should be especially interested."
"Cut out the con stuff, Bo," laughed Swanson, relapsing into his old careless baseball phraseology. "You dope around like a chicken with the pip and look at her like a seasick guy seeing the Statue of Liberty and then think no one is onto you."
Reply seemed inadvisable, so McCarthy grunted and rolled over. There was a silence and then Swanson added:
"And say, Bo, this Williams is in trouble. There's me and you on his track. Clancy is wise and watching him. Old Technicalities has him doped crooked in the figures, and now Betty Tabor is smiling at him to get the facts—he hasn't a chance. It's darn hard to fix a baseball game."
CHAPTER XV
Baldwin Baits a Trap
"Willie says that one petticoat will ruin the best ball club that ever lived, but lands knows that if some of us women don't get busy right away there's one ball club that's goin' to be ruined without any rustlin' skirts to be blamed."
Mrs. William Clancy, her ample form loosely enveloped in a huge, flowered kimono, dropped her fancy work into her lap and fanned herself with a folded newspaper.
"Why, Mother Clancy," ejaculated Betty Tabor, sitting on a stool by the window of the Clancy apartment, "one would think to hear you talk that we had lost the pennant already."
"Now, there's Willie," continued Mrs. Clancy, ignoring the protest, "goin' round with a grouch on all the time like he could bite nails in two. There's that nice McCarthy boy frettin' his heart out because you haven't treated him nicely, and Swanson worryin' about something. And there's Williams sneakin' round like he'd been caught robbin' a hen roost."
"Mother Clancy," protested the girl, reddening, "you have no right to say I haven't been treating Mr. McCarthy well. A girl cannot throw herself at a man—especially an engaged man."
"How do you know he's engaged?" demanded Mrs. Clancy. "Lands sakes, I haven't heard him announcing his engagement, and he looks at you across the dining room as sad as a calf chewing a dish rag."
"I overheard—I saw the girl," admitted Betty Tabor, blushing as she bowed her pretty head over her work. "She was telling him she wouldn't marry him if he continued to play ball—besides, Mr. Williams met her uncle, and he said they were engaged."
"Is she pretty?" demanded Mrs. Clancy.
"Beautiful," admitted Miss Tabor. "She's tall and fair and graceful, and she had on such a wonderful gown all trimmed"——
"It looks to me," interrupted Mrs. Clancy, cutting off the description of the dressmaking details heartlessly, "as if someone was just jealous."
"Why, Mother Clancy," said the girl, shocked and red, "you must think me perfectly frightful to believe I'd act that way."
"Oh, girls your age are all fools," said Mrs. Clancy complacently. "I reckon I was myself at your age. Why, if Willie even spoke to another girl I'd go out and hunt up two beaux just to show him I didn't care. You went out with Williams when we came in last night, didn't you?"
"Yes; he asked papa and me to late supper," the girl admitted. "But it really wasn't what you think. I wanted to find out something from him—something that's been worrying me."
"Did you find out?" asked the older woman skeptically.
"I don't know, Mother Clancy." The girl's face grew troubled. "I'm worried. I know Mr. Williams hasn't any money. Papa says he is so reckless he always is in debt, and lately, whenever he talks to me, he talks about the big sums he's going to have. I asked papa what it was, and he only grunted."
"He'd better pitch a lot better than he has been if he's counting on any of that world's series money," remarked Mrs. Clancy savagely. "McCarthy saved yesterday's game twice."
"You think Mr. Williams didn't want to win the game?" The girl's voice was tense with anxiety.
"I hate to say it—but it looked that way."
"Oh, Mother Clancy, I haven't dared to say a word to anyone about it," said the girl hesitatingly, "but I've been afraid for days. He said something to me that almost frightened me. He hinted that Mr. McCarthy was losing games on purpose. I didn't believe it—and somehow I got the idea Mr. Williams was betting on the Panthers."
"Now, you just keep your mouth shut about this," replied Mrs. Clancy, pressing her lips together determinedly. "I've had that same idea, and I think that's what's worryin' Willie. You just lead that fellow on to talk and I'll put a bug in Willie's ear. Only," she added, "Willie is likely to snap my head off for buttin' into his business. He's got to know, though."
Clancy came into the apartment soon afterward and Betty Tabor, making a hasty excuse, gathered up her fancy work.
"It's going to rain," remarked Clancy resignedly. "I think the game will be called off. If the game's off, I've got tickets to a theatre, and you and mother and I can go. Which one of the boys shall I ask to go with us?"
"If you don't mind," replied Betty Tabor steadily, "ask Mr. Williams."
The rain came down steadily and before one o'clock the contest was called off. The postponement was believed to lessen slightly the chances of the Bears to win the pennant, and they lounged dismally around the hotel, watching the bulletin board record the fact that the Panthers were winning easily, giving them the lead in the race by a small fraction in percentage.
Manager Clancy, his wife and Betty Tabor, with Williams rode away in a taxicab to the theatre. McCarthy declined Swanson's proposal to play billiards, and, going to their rooms, he commenced to read. Presently five of the players trooped in, led by Swanson, to play poker, and, shoving McCarthy's bed aside, ignoring his protests, they dragged out chairs and tables and started the game. Scarcely had they started when the telephone bell rang and Swanson answered:
"No, he's not up here," he said. "No. Who wants him? All right, put them on. Hello! Who is this? Oh, all right. No, Williams isn't here. Yes, I'm sure. He went out with the manager an hour ago—to a theatre, I think. All right. I'll tell him."
"Fellows," he said, as he hung up the receiver, "some friends want Williams to meet them as soon as he can. He'll know where. Fellow says it's important."
He glanced meaningly at McCarthy, who nodded to show that he understood, and as he sat down he remarked:
"Kohinoor, I guess it's up to us to go to a show or something to-night."
"All right," replied McCarthy, striving vainly to continue his reading, while puzzling over the fresh development.
At that same instant there was an acrimonious conversation in progress in the room from which the telephone summons for Williams had just come. Easy Ed Edwards hung up after his brief talk with the player at the other end of the line, an ugly gleam in his cold eyes.
"He isn't there," he reported to Barney Baldwin, who was sitting by the table, jangling the ice in a high-ball glass. "Either he's trying to cross us or he's playing wise and keeping his stand-in with the manager."
"Sure he isn't trying to cross us?" asked Baldwin. "He won yesterday's game instead of losing as he agreed to do."
"He tried hard enough to lose it," sneered the gambler. "He tossed up the ball and those dubs couldn't beat him. I tell you you've got to handle that red-headed kid at third base as you promised you would. He saved that game twice. We've got to get rid of him."
"He's stubborn," snarled Baldwin. "I tried to get him to quit the team and go back home. He's as bull-headed as his uncle, and that's the limit."
"You know who he is?" queried the gambler in surprise. "Why don't you tell the newspaper boys and show him up. That would finish him. He's under cover with his identity, and if we can prove he hasn't any right to play with the Bears they'll have to throw out the games he's won."
"That's just the trouble," replied Baldwin bitterly. "He's straight as a string. He never played ball except at college. We can't tell who he is because that would prove he's all right and make him stronger than ever."
"Who is he?" inquired the gambler.
"He's the nephew of old Jim Lawrence, of Oregon, one of the richest men out there. Lawrence is his guardian. They had some sort of a run-in and the boy left."
"How do you know these things?" demanded the gambler.
"The boy and my niece were sweethearts at home. I coaxed her to tell me when I discovered she knew him. They were engaged once, I understand, but it was broken off."
"Then," said Edwards determinedly, "get your niece on the job. If anyone can handle that fellow a woman can."
"Oh, I say," protested Baldwin, with a show of indignation, "I can't ask her to get into anything like this."
"She probably was willing enough to get into it until she thought the boy didn't have any money," replied Edwards coldly. "I don't want the girl to do anything wrong. Just get her to make up with this McCarthy, or whatever his name is, and get him away from this ball team for a week. Baldwin, this is getting to be a serious matter with me, and with you, too, if you want to hold your political power."
"All right, all right," said Baldwin hastily. "Maybe I can persuade the girl to help us out. I'll try."
"You'd better succeed—if you want to send your man to the Senate," said Edwards threateningly.
"I'll go right away," assented the politician.
Baldwin arose leisurely, went down to his limousine that was waiting and ordered the man to drive home, although it was his custom to remain downtown until late. At home he sent at once for his niece, and, after a brief talk, during which he was careful to hint that McCarthy had made overtures toward reconciliation with his uncle, the girl went to the telephone.
McCarthy, summoned to the telephone, talked for a few moments and, as the poker game broke up, he called Swanson aside and said:
"You'll have to go alone to-night. I've got to make a call."
"Who is she?" asked Swanson insinuatingly.
"Barney Baldwin's niece—and at his house."
"Run on, Kohinoor," said the big shortstop. "I'll take Kennedy with me and if I'm not mistaken you'll find out more than I will."
CHAPTER XVI
McCarthy Makes a Call
It was a little past seven o'clock, when McCarthy, arrayed in what Swanson referred to as his "joy rags," which had been rescued from impound in an express office after his first renewal of prosperity, came out of the hotel. He was undecided, wavering as to whether or not it was wise for him to keep the appointment to call on Helen Baldwin.
They had met during his college career, and, after a courtship that was a whirlwind of impetuosity on his side, she had agreed to marry him. He recalled now, with rather bitter recollections of his own blindness, her seemingly careless curiosity regarding the extent of the Lawrence wealth and his own expectations. He had told her how, when his father had died, Jim Lawrence had taken him to rear as his own child and heir.
The boy had grown older and broadened with his short experience in the world outside the protecting circle that had been round him in preparatory school and in college, and he determined to write that night to his guardian the letter he had so long delayed and to apologize and admit that he had been headstrong and foolish.
During the long ride uptown to the city residence of the Baldwins he had time to think clearly. He knew that Barney Baldwin was wealthy, but he was unprepared for the magnificence of the garish house, set down amid wide lawns in the most exclusive part of the River Drive section.
Helen Baldwin entered the room in a few moments, and McCarthy gazed at her in admiring surprise.
She came forward with both hands outstretched, smiling, a strangely transformed girl from the cold, half-scornful one with whom he had parted only a short time before.
"I wanted to see you so much, Larry," she said. "I have been so blue and depressed since I—since we—since we last met. Why didn't you call?"
"I only reached the city last night," he replied as he took a seat beside her on a divan. "And—well, Helen, I hardly thought you would wish to see me."
"You foolish boy," she chided. "Don't you know yet that you must never take a girl at her word? Of course, I was annoyed to find you playing baseball with a professional team, but I didn't mean we never were to meet again."
"I thought your ultimatum settled all that," he answered, ill at ease. "It was rather a shock to find that you cared more for what I was than for what I am."
"You know, Larry, that you placed me in a painful position. It isn't as if I were a rich girl, able to share with the man I love. My father and mother are not rich, and Uncle Barney has supplied me with everything. He has spoiled me—and I would make a wretched wife for a poor man."
"I would not have proposed marriage," said McCarthy quietly, "unless I had thought I would be able to provide for you as well as your uncle could. When circumstances were changed I could not ask you to sacrifice yourself unless you were willing—unless you cared enough for me to adapt yourself to the circumstances."
"But, Larry, aren't you going to quit all this foolishness and go back? Haven't you been reconciled with Mr. Lawrence?" she asked in surprise.
"I expect to go back after the season is over and tell him how sorry I am that I caused him trouble."
"Please go, Larry. You'll go to please me, won't you?" she said appealingly.
"I cannot see why it would please you to have me quit now, when I'm most needed," he replied stiffly. "Surely you cannot know what you are asking."
"It is such a little thing I ask," she pouted, "I'm sure you would if you loved me."
The girl's eyes were filling. She had found him easy to handle by that appeal only a few short months before, but now, as he saw her, he was seized with a desire to laugh, as he realized that she was acting. The words of Swanson: "You'll find out more than we will," flashed into his mind, and he determined to meet acting with acting.
"Perhaps, Helen," he said softly, "if you could explain just why you want me to quit playing I could see my way to do it."
"That is being a sensible boy," she said, bathing her eyes with a bit of lace. "I don't like to see you making an exhibition of yourself before a crowd—for money." She shrugged her beautiful shoulders disdainfully.
"Is that all?" he asked quietly.
"All? Isn't it enough? And then there's Mr. Lawrence. I know he is worrying about you."
"Any other reasons?" he inquired.
"Then there's Uncle Barney"——
"What has Barney Baldwin to do with it?" His voice was sharp, and the girl hesitated under his steady scrutiny.
"You mustn't speak that way of my uncle," she said reprovingly. "I'm sure he's only interested in you because of me. He says it is imperative that you do not play any more with the Bears."
"Then Barney Baldwin ordered you to telephone for me to come here?" he asked harshly.
"He merely wanted me to persuade you to quit that ridiculous game and go back to Mr. Lawrence right away. He was only trying to save you."
For an instant he sat staring at the girl steadily. Then he said slowly:
"What a fool I've been."
"Oh, Larry, Larry!" she exclaimed, frightened by his manner. "What's the matter—is anything wrong?"
"Nothing wrong," he said, laughing mirthlessly. "Nothing wrong. You may tell your uncle, with my compliments, that I will continue to play with the Bears to the end of the season, and that, in spite of him and his dirty work we will win that pennant."
He arose and passed into the hall without a backward glance, ignoring the sobs of the girl, who buried her face in her handkerchief and wept gracefully, telling him between sobs that he was cruel. He took his hat from the servant and strode rapidly down the steps, his mind a turmoil of emotions.
How far did the plot to beat the Bears out of the pennant extend? How many were in it? Gradually he commenced to draw connected thoughts from the chaos of his brain. He realized that he was the storm center of a plot and that he was dealing with dangerous enemies.
The girl he had left so abruptly continued her stifled, stagey sobs until she heard the front door close. Then she sat up quickly, glanced at her features in a wall mirror, brushed back a lock of ruffled hair and rubbed her eyes lightly with her kerchief.
"How he has changed," she said to herself. "He is getting masterful, and three months ago one pout was enough. I could almost love him—even without old Jim Lawrence's money.
"At any rate," she said, looking at the handsome solitaire on her finger, "I can keep the ring. He never mentioned it. I must go tell Uncle Barney."
She ran lightly up the stairs to the den where Baldwin, smoking impatiently, was waiting for her.
"Well?" he inquired. "Did you land him?"
"Don't speak so vulgarly, Uncle Barney," the girl replied. "No, I did not. He has grown stubborn. He told me to tell you he intended to keep on playing to the end of the season, and that they would win—I've forgotten what he said they would win. Does it make much difference, just these few more games?"
"Does it make any difference?" he stormed. "Any difference—why, you fool, my whole political future may be ruined by that red-headed idiot. Get out of here. I'm going to telephone."
The girl, weeping in earnest now, hurried from the room as Barney Baldwin seized the telephone. A moment later he was saying:
"Hello, Ed. She fell down. He's stubborn and says he'll keep on playing. You'd better see your man and break that story in the newspaper. What? They got him? Where? Well, then, they've got the wrong man. McCarthy left my house not five minutes ago."
CHAPTER XVII.
The Fight in the Café
Swanson left the hotel intending to pursue his volunteer detective work only a few moments after McCarthy started uptown to respond to the invitation of Miss Baldwin. He had remained lounging around the lobby talking with Kennedy, the big catcher, until he saw Williams leave the hotel by a side entrance and enter a street car. Then he signaled Kennedy and they strolled out together and caught the next car.
"It's Williams we're going to trail," was the only hint Swanson would give at the start.
"Williams?" snorted Kennedy. "You told me there was a chance for a scrap. That guy won't fight."
"Maybe those he's going to see will," replied Swanson encouragingly.
Swanson did not know then that, only a short time before he made his arrangement with Kennedy, Williams had pleaded over the telephone to Edwards that he was afraid to meet him that evening, as requested, because he thought Clancy might discover the fact and that Clancy was already suspicious. Williams pretended alarm and convinced Edwards that there was danger of someone following the pitcher, and on his way to keep the appointment to meet the athlete he had drawn into the toils of the conspiracy, he stopped at his gambling room and ordered Jack, a big ex-prizefighter, to follow him to the meeting place and to keep watch during the conference.
It was growing dark when Edwards strolled slowly across town toward the rendezvous. Williams's fear of being upbraided when he met the gambler on that evening was unfounded. The gambler was convinced that the pitcher had made every effort to lose the game and that he had been balked only by luck and the fielding of McCarthy. He wanted to learn from Williams whether or not there was any other player on the team who could be bribed into assisting in the plot.
Swanson and Kennedy trailing cautiously saw Williams jump off the car and walk along the sidewalk, and, after riding past him, they descended and walked along the opposite side of the street, keeping close in the shadows of the tall buildings. A block further downtown they saw Williams stop, look around suspiciously as if to see whether or not anyone was following him, then turn up the side street and enter a café. Swanson quickly led the way. They passed the saloon on the opposite side of the street, and after walking half a block they retraced their steps and stopped in a doorway opposite the entrance.
"Let's wait here and see who goes in," suggested Swanson.
"Whom do you expect him to meet?" inquired Kennedy.
"Edwards," vouchsafed Swanson grudgingly. "He has been meeting that crook for ten days now, and I want to find out what they're up to."
"Why didn't you tell me before?" demanded Kennedy. "I'd kick his head off"——
"We hadn't the goods on him," explained Swanson. "That's what I want you for. If we can prove he's up to some crooked work"——
The big Swede menacingly folded his ponderous paw into a fist and flexed his biceps.
"Do you think he's trying to throw games? He's been pitching funny ball lately," asked Kennedy. "I've had to fight him in every game to get him to pitch fast."
"What I think and what I can prove are different things," growled the shortstop. "I've got my suspicions. Now we're after proof. Come on. If he was to meet anyone there the one he was to meet is in ahead of him."
The players walked to the corner, crossed the street and went into the saloon without an effort at concealment. The place appeared empty, save for a bartender who was washing glasses behind the bar, and a heavy, coarse-featured man lounging near the end of the bar with a half-consumed high ball before him.
"Gimme a beer," ordered Swanson, throwing a coin onto the bar; "what you have, Ben?"
"Make it two," replied Kennedy.
There was no sign of Williams, and only a narrow doorway, leading somewhere toward the rear, gave a clue as to his probable egress from the barroom.
The bartender, having rung up the amount of the sale on the cash register, exchanged a few words in a low tone with the man at the end. Then he strolled back and stood near where Swanson and Kennedy were wasting time over their drinks.
"We were expecting to meet a friend here to-night," remarked Swanson, deciding to take a new tack with the bartender. "Rather tall, slender young fellow. Has anyone been in?"
"Young fellow came in a while ago something like that," replied the bartender. "Seemed to be expecting someone, but turned around and went out. Maybe that was him."
They knew he was lying, and Swanson, without changing expression, said:
"Must have thought he was in the wrong place, or too early. Maybe he'll come back. We'll stick around awhile."
Had they known what was transpiring in the private room just beyond the doorway their interest would have been greater. The big man who had stood at the end of the bar had gone at the first opportunity and was reporting to Easy Ed Edwards, who grew venomous with hate, while Williams sat shaking with fright.
"I knew they'd get on. If they report to Clancy I'm done for," he said.
"Shut up," ordered the gambler angrily. "They haven't seen you and they don't know I'm here. Who are they, Jack?"
"I don't know dem," said the ex-fighter. "Dey's a big, husky lookin' guy, a Dutchman, I guess, wid a blue suit"——
"It's Swanson," said Williams. "He's been looking at me as if he knew something for two or three days. He has followed me here."
"De oder one is a smaller, wiry sort o' guy. Got on a light suit"——
"It must be McCarthy," whined Williams. "He's always with Swanson. They're looking for me. I wish I had kept out of this."
"Listen," ordered Edwards coldly. "This fellow McCarthy is the one we want. If we can get him out of the way it'll be easy and I can get even with that big, fat lobster, Baldwin, for trying to double cross me. Jack, you go out there and get in a mix-up with them and take a poke at the little fellow that'll keep him from playing ball for a week. Is the bartender a friend of yours?"
"One of me best pals," replied the ex-fighter. "Leaf it to me. I'll land de punch dat'll fix dat fresh, young guy."
The fighter strolled back to the barroom and resumed his stand at the end of the bar, eyeing the two ball players. As he tapped the bar the bartender walked to him.
"I'm goin' to start somethin'," said Jack in a low tone. "Ed wants me to punch de head offen dat youngest one."
"That big guy looks hard to handle," commented the bartender. "Make it quick. I don't like no rough house here. The license ain't any too safe now."
"I'm going back to see what's there," whispered Kennedy to Swanson. "You stick here. I'll bluff it through."
He walked toward the door leading back from the bar and started to pass through it.
"Here, young feller," said the bartender, "where you goin'?"
"Washroom," replied Kennedy, keeping on through the door.
"Naw you don't. Come back outen there," ordered the fighter angrily.
"Who appointed you boss?" asked Kennedy belligerently.
"Well, I'm boss anywhere I goes," declared the big fellow. "Youse stay outen there. D'ye hear?"
He grabbed the ball player by the arm—and at that instant Kennedy swung. His fist caught the bruiser squarely on the mouth and he reeled back, then, with a bellow of rage, he sprang at Kennedy.
With a roar of anger Swanson hurled himself into the fray. Kennedy's fist had caught the ex-fighter and cut his cheek open and blood spurted upon both as they fought, the frail partition swaying under their weight. Swanson leaped with his arm drawn for a knock-out blow, just as Jack's right caught Kennedy upon the jaw and dropped him to the floor helpless. The blow the Swede had aimed at the fighter hit him upon the shoulder and slid over his head, and Jack, whirling, faced his new adversary. Swanson sprang to close quarters with the giant and his fist thudded home. Jack, groggy and already half spent from his exertions, clinched and hung on. The Swede, now a man gone mad with the lust of battle, shook him off, hurled the giant backward against the partition, and, crouching, he prepared to swing his right, waiting for the opening to the jaw, while Jack, groggy and half dazed, covered his head with his arms and swayed. The blow never landed. Suddenly it seemed to Swanson as if the worlds were crashing around his head. Bright stars danced before his eyes, his knees gave way beneath him, and with a foolish laugh he sank to the floor and rolled, helpless, beside his fallen comrade. His last recollection was of hearing a telephone bell jangling somewhere.
The ringing of the telephone bell that Swanson heard as he lapsed into unconsciousness was the call of Barney Baldwin for Ed Edwards. The gambler, who, with his frightened companion, had heard the sounds of the terrific struggle in the barroom sink into silence, spoke rapidly for an instant, then, as Baldwin said: "They've got the wrong man," he hung up the receiver with an oath and leaped toward the doorway. He emerged upon a tableau showing his slugger, half dazed and hanging to the partition for support, two figures inert upon the floor and the bartender coolly walking back toward the bar, carrying a heavy bung-starter in his hand, that explained the sudden ending of the fight.