CHAPTER XVIII
Two Missing Men
The disappearance of Silent Swanson and Ben Kennedy brought consternation to the ranks of the Bears, consternation that increased as the hour for starting the first game of the series against the Jackrabbits drew near. McCarthy, returning to the rooms after his surprising interview with Helen Baldwin, was determined to tell his chum all that had taken place and to explain as well as was possible the position in which he found himself. He planned to urge Swanson to go with him to Clancy, and for that reason he postponed taking the manager into his confidence.
He hastened downstairs to breakfast, half expecting to find his chum waiting for him in the dining room with an account of the night's events. He finished breakfast in a troubled state of mind, and, after wandering around the lobby for nearly an hour in the vain hope that Swanson would appear, he encountered Noisy Norton, who appeared disturbed and distressed.
"Say," said Norton, "seen Kennedy?"
"No—seen Swanson?"
"They went out together," said Norton, with an unusual burst of conversation.
"Didn't Kennedy come home either?" asked McCarthy in fresh alarm.
"No."
They sat silent for some time, then Noisy said:
"Something wrong."
"What'll we do?" asked McCarthy anxiously.
"Tell Clancy," said Norton, with an effort.
They ascended the elevator together and rapped at Clancy's door.
"Mr. Clancy," said McCarthy, when the manager had bade them enter, "I ought to have come to you before. Swanson and Kennedy are missing. They didn't come in last night—and we're worried."
"Where were they?" demanded the manager quickly.
"I was going with Swanson on an errand last night," said McCarthy. "We were working on that matter that caused trouble the other day. Then I had a telephone call and went to see a—a friend of mine. Swanson said he'd take Kennedy with him. They left the hotel together, Norton tells me, and they haven't come home."
"Either of them drinking?" asked Clancy sharply.
"Beer—sometimes—not often," said Norton.
"Swanson hasn't been drinking at all," declared McCarthy. "Neither of them would go off on a tear at this stage of the game."
"You're right, Kohinoor," said Clancy worriedly. "It's something else. They'll show up, all right. Thank you for telling me, boys, and don't say anything about it."
In spite of their silence, however, the rumor that the star catcher and the shortstop were missing spread through the team. By noon the players were openly discussing the whereabouts of the two players. Clancy showed his anxiety.
"Can't you tell me where they were going, Kohinoor?" he asked. "I don't want to press you to reveal anything you don't want to, but I'm afraid those boys are in trouble."
"I haven't any idea where they were going," replied McCarthy. "I know that they were watching a certain fellow, and that a gambler named Edwards was mixed up in it."
"You've told me plenty," said the manager in low tones. "I have suspected it all along. I'm afraid they're run afoul of Edwards and that he has managed to get them into trouble."
"If he has he has his nerve," said McCarthy. "Look over there. He just came in with a party of friends. I know the big man."
"Who is he?" inquired the manager, watching the party just entering one of the field boxes.
"That's Barney Baldwin, the political boss," explained McCarthy.
"Is he in this thing, too?" inquired Clancy, starting with surprise.
"Yes, at least I think so. You see, I know his niece. It was at his house I went to call last night. I discovered that he ordered his niece to call me and had her try to persuade me to quit the team right away."
"Look here, Kohinoor," said the manager, drawing him aside so the other players could not hear, "I'm sorry you didn't tell me this before. It looks worse and worse all the time. He wanted you to quit—and now two of my men disappear. You'll have to play short to-day, and we'll send Pardridge to third. Get in there and hustle."
Smith, the big spitball pitcher of the Bears, who had been held in reserve, was chosen to pitch, and for three innings the teams fought for the opening without a real chance to score. The cunning of Clancy was shown in his choice of the big pitcher, whose speed and spitball kept the Jackrabbit batters hitting toward right field or sending slow, easy bounders down toward the pitcher. He had chosen Smith in order to protect the weakened third base side of the infield, and his plan worked well until the fourth inning, when Egbert, one of the speediest of the Jackrabbit sprinters, hit a spitball on top and sent a slow, weak roller toward third base. Pardridge made a desperate effort to field the ball, but fell short, and the Jackrabbits discovered the weak place in the defense. Two bunts rolled down the third-base line in succession, and, although Pardridge, playing close in a desperate effort to stop that style of attack, managed to throw out the second bunter, runners were on second and third with but one out when "Buckthorne" Black smashed a long hit over center for three bases and scored an instant later on a sharp, slashing hit through Noisy Norton. The three runs seemed to spell the doom of the Bears, and they came in from the field angry, hot and desperate. The roar of the crowd grew stronger when the score board showed the Panthers were winning their game—5 to 1—from the Blues.
McCarthy was first at bat in that inning. As he selected his bat he glanced toward the stand and grew hot with rage at seeing Baldwin laughing until red in the face and slapping Ed Edwards on the back. The gambler's usually stony face wore a smile of relief. McCarthy walked to the plate, pushed the first ball pitched down the third-base line and outsprinted the ball to first. Norton strove to bring him home, but his long-line drive went straight to the left fielder, and when Holleran struck out it seemed as if the chance to score was lost for that inning. McCarthy stood still, a few feet off first base, and, as Randall wound up to pitch, he started at top speed for second base. Jackson, catching for the Jackrabbits, saw him, grabbed the ball and leaped into position to throw. Like a flash McCarthy stopped and danced a step or two back toward first base, as if daring the catcher to throw the ball. Jackson pretended to throw to first, and, as McCarthy edged a step closer the base the catcher saw there was no chance to catch him, and slowly relaxing from throwing position, he took a step forward and started to toss the ball back to his pitcher. In that instant McCarthy acted. He leaped forward, and, before Jackson could recover and spring back into throwing position, the fleet Bear was nearing second base, making a beautifully executed delayed steal. Jackson threw, although it was too late. The ball, hurled over hastily, broke through the second baseman's hands and rolled twenty feet toward center field. McCarthy turned second at full speed and raced for third, while Reilly tore after the ball, and, picking it up, made a fast, low throw toward third. Again the ball escaped the baseman, and McCarthy, without the loss of a stride, turned third base and raced home, sliding under Jackson as he reached for the high-thrown ball.
The game had settled down to a desperate series of attacks by the Bears, and a stubborn defense on the part of the Jackrabbits. In the sixth and again in the seventh the Bears forced the attack, but each time they fell short of scoring, and the eighth inning came with the score 3 to 1 against them. Lucas, who was catching in Kennedy's place, opened that inning, and the Bears' hope arose when he, the weakest hitter on the team, was hit by a pitched ball. Smith drove a hard bounder toward first, but O'Meara knocked down the ball and reached the base in time to retire the big, lumbering pitcher, letting Lucas reach second. Jacobsen struck out, and McCarthy, gritting his teeth, came to bat. One strike and one ball had been called when, looking toward the bench for a signal from Clancy, he saw a sight that made his heart jump. In that fleeting glance he had seen Swanson, in uniform, coming onto the bench through the little doorway under the stands.
Swanson's eye was black and a strip of plaster extended from under his cap onto his forehead. His face was swollen and discolored and a bandage covered his head, showing under his cap.
If he only could get on first base, McCarthy told himself, there was hope, and, as the ball sped toward him he poked out his bat, dropped another bunt toward third base, and, by a terrific burst of speed he beat it to first base, sending Lucas to third.
"Swanson batting for Holleran. Swanson will play shortstop, McCarthy third base, Pardridge in left field."
McCarthy had determined to steal second base, but the chance never presented. The first ball that came whizzing toward the plate Swanson hit. It went like a rocket far out to left center field. Two speedy outfielders glanced at the flying ball, then turned and sprinted for the outer barriers. The ball soared on and on, and with a crash struck against the sign over the left field seats and fell back into the throng in the bleachers, and while the crowd cheered and groaned three Bears trotted around the bases to the plate.
Swanson, running slowly and painfully, crossed the plate, with the score that put the Bears in the lead. He did not stop. Straight toward the box where Edwards and Baldwin sat, he went. His face was terrible. They saw him coming, and Baldwin, apologetic with fear, half arose, as if to cry for help. The gambler, white but still keeping his nerve, shrank back a trifle, but held his seat. Swanson walked straight to them. For an instant he towered over them threateningly, then he said:
"Good afternoon, gentlemen, I hope you're glad to see me."
CHAPTER XIX
Swanson to the Rescue
When Silent Swanson aroused himself from the effects of the blow on the head from the beer mallet in the hands of the treacherous bartender, he sat up feebly and found himself in semi-darkness.
"Someone crowned me with a crowbar," he muttered to himself as his brain gradually began to work normally. "They must have kicked me after I went down."
A faint groan from the heavy shadows near him startled him into a realization of what had happened. He felt around for a moment and his fingers touched the body of a man huddled against a wall.
"It must be Ken—and he's hurt," he muttered, and crept toward his companion. Swanson worked over him, shaking and speaking to him and presently Kennedy stirred and sat up against the wall.
"Where are we? What happened?" he inquired in a bewildered manner.
"Search me," replied Swanson mournfully. "I was just getting ready to swing the haymaker on that big fellow when the house fell. I think someone beaned me from behind with a brick and then kicked us around. Ouch—my ribs feel stoved in."
"I'm sore all over," moaned Kennedy. "That fellow didn't do it all by himself, did he?"
"I have a dim recollection of hearing someone tell him to fix us right," replied Swanson. "I may have dreamed it."
"Let's get out of here," urged Swanson suddenly. "If some watchman finds us here we'll be pinched, and it will make a nice story for the reporters."
"Where do you think we are?" asked Kennedy, striving to get to his feet and groaning with every move.
"In the alley back of the joint we were in," replied Swanson. "They must have dragged us to the back door and dumped us."
He had managed to get upon his feet, assisted Kennedy to arise, and slowly and with many groans they went toward the mouth of the alley.
"Let's go around to the front door and clean out that place," urged Swanson, growing angry.
Both men were commencing to recover from the effects of the cruel treatment they had endured, and, as their injured muscles loosened their anger arose. They made their way painfully around the block and to the entrance of the saloon. It was locked and the place was in total darkness. Swanson shook the barred doors without result, then stood gazing blankly against the glass.
"Say, Ken, we must have been knocked out for quite a while," he remarked thoughtfully. "No one is here. They probably closed up as soon as they threw us out—and we haven't a bit of proof against anyone."
"Wonder what time it is?" groaned Kennedy. "We've got to get to bed if we want to play."
"Holy Mackerel," exclaimed Swanson, using his favorite form of swearing. "I forgot! That's it! Ken, after we were knocked out they beat us to keep us from playing. Come on. We've got to forget about fighting and get ready to play. I'll get even with someone for this."
Swanson was thinking rapidly as they limped slowly along the darkened streets in search of a night prowling cabman or taxi-cab, keeping a sharp lookout for policemen, fearing they might be arrested because of their battered condition.
"We've got to get to somewhere we can be patched up and get some sleep," he repeated, urging Kennedy, whose sufferings made their progress slow. "We've got to keep those crooks from finding out where we are. Let them think they've finished us and then show up in time to play."
"I don't think I can play, Silent," moaned Kennedy. "I can't drag myself much farther."
He was making a brave effort to keep on, and for another block Swanson half supported him. Then he gave up and sat down upon the curbing.
"Sit here," said Swanson quickly. "There is an all-night drug store a couple of blocks down; I'll find a cab there."
He limped away as rapidly as possible, and, almost before Kennedy realized it, he returned in a taxicab.
"Caught him just starting home," explained Swanson, as he half lifted Kennedy into the tonneau. "He says there is a hospital less than a mile from here where we can get treatment."
The bruised and battered players groaned and swore under their breath, while the cab made a rapid trip to the hospital, and half an hour later they were resting easily in a private room, their wounds were being washed and dressed and a young doctor was working hard to relieve their sufferings.
"We've got to play ball this afternoon, Doc," said Swanson, watching the surgeon cut and wash the hair from the wound on his scalp. "Fix us up right."
"You'll not play ball this week," said the surgeon cheerfully. "Your friend over there will be all right in a couple of days. He's badly bruised and his hand is sprained, but not seriously. He's sorer than you are, but by morning you'll be a cripple."
"But, Doc, we've got to play," pleaded Swanson. "You've got to fix us up."
"I'll do all I can," remarked the surgeon. "But your right arm is badly wrenched and bruised. The cuts won't hurt, but one of your eyes will be out of commission for three or four days. Whose mule kicked you?"
Swanson, pledging the doctor to secrecy, revealed part of the truth.
"You won't be able to play," he advised his patients, "and Kennedy must take two days off at least."
"I've got to play, Doc," responded Swanson, "if it's on one leg; I've got to."
It was a few minutes past noon when Swanson awoke with a start. The nurse was in the room, moving about quietly, and Kennedy still slept, moving and muttering in his sleep, as if dreaming of the battle. He remained quiet for a few moments, and then said:
"Nurse, please bring me my clothes."
"You must wait until after breakfast," she said, coming to the bedside. "Dr. Anderson was here a short time ago, and said I was to give you your breakfast when you awoke, then call him."
"But I'm in a hurry," protested the player. "I can't wait. They'll be anxious about us."
"The doctor said he would give you treatment and massage, so that you could get out more quickly," she responded. "I'll bring breakfast and then call him."
Kennedy, feeling much refreshed, but too sore and stiff to move without suffering, was awakened for breakfast, and he and Swanson discussed the situation in low tones as they ate.
It was past one o'clock before Swanson commenced to worry about the failure of the doctor to come. After fuming and fretting for more than half an hour he rang for the nurse and sent her in quest of Dr. Anderson. She returned soon and reported that he had been summoned suddenly to assist in performing an important operation, but that he probably would return soon. Not until two o'clock had passed did Swanson commence to become seriously disturbed at the failure of the doctor to appear. A short nap had refreshed him somewhat, and when Kennedy announced that it was past two o'clock he waited a few moments, then commenced ringing the call bell by his bedside to summon the nurse. There was no response, and growing angry and impatient, he rang again and again.
"If I only had a pair of pants," wailed the helpless giant, "I'd break out."
He climbed out of bed and searched the room. In his impatience he bumped his wounded head, and blood flowed afresh from under the bandages, and with a movement of his arm he smeared it over his face. The giant Swede was working himself into a fury. Every few moments he rang the bell, and a few moments before three o'clock the nurse, calm and appearing as if nothing unusual was happening, came in.
"Did you ring?" she inquired.
Swanson started to explode, but stood looking at her in helpless fury.
"Get me my clothes," he ordered in tones that frightened the girl, trained as she was to the outbursts of patients.
"Get me my clothes," he repeated.
"It is against orders," she said hesitatingly. "You cannot go until the doctor"——
"Get me my clothes," he half screamed. "If my clothes aren't here in five minutes I'm going this way."
The nurse, thoroughly alarmed by the fury of the big man, ran from the room, and, within five minutes she returned with another nurse to support her.
"Where are my clothes?" he demanded in an awful voice.
"It's against orders," said the older nurse firmly. "You cannot leave without permission from the doctor in charge."
For an instant it seemed as if Swanson would forget himself and become violent. With an effort he controlled his anger and sank back upon the pillows.
"All right," he said resignedly, "let me telephone to the boss and explain."
"You are not going to quit, Silent?" demanded Kennedy, starting up in bed. "I'll go myself"——
The quick wink that Swanson gave him stopped the catcher's angry expostulation.
"That's a good boy!" said the nurse pleasantly. "There isn't any use to fret. I'll bring you the telephone."
The telephone was brought, and, when the nurse left the room Swanson called up the hotel at which they lived.
"That you, Joe?" he said rapidly. "This is Silent—yes, in hospital. Send a taxi to the corner as fast as you can get it here. I'll be watching."
He cut off the carriage clerk's curious questions by hanging up the receiver.
"What are you going to do?" whispered Kennedy from his bed.
"I'm going out of here," said Swanson. He crept out of bed, and with his face pressed against the window, watched the corner four floors below until a taxicab stopped there and waited. Then, drawing a sheet over his night gown, he opened the door cautiously.
The receiving clerk had a glimpse of a ferocious looking ghost, garbed in a white sheet, and with face smeared with blood, racing down the hallway, and before her screams could bring help, Swanson had run limpingly across the street, leaped into the taxi and was shouting orders to the driver to get him to the ball park.
CHAPTER XX
Hidden Foes
The disappearance and dramatic reappearance of Swanson and Kennedy, who was released from the hospital after the game, was the sensation of the country for twelve hours; then it was paled into insignificance by a new sensation that caused a wave of indignation and an insistent demand for proof from all parts of the country and left the Bears dazed by the series of events that crowded upon them.
The second sensation was the printing of an article in one of the foremost papers of their city in which the charge was made that one member of the Bear team had been bribed; indeed, had been put on the team with the sole end that he might throw games and force the championship upon the Panthers.
The article created a furore which caused the public to forget the mysterious circumstances surrounding the disappearance of Swanson and Kennedy.
Although no name was mentioned, the facts set forth fitted only McCarthy, the new third baseman, and rallied all the admirers of the lithe red-headed boy to his side and set loose a storm of anger and suspicion directed upon him by those who criticised his playing or opposed him through prejudice.
Manager Clancy, after an anxious evening and night trying to get at the facts of the case of Swanson and Kennedy, and getting Kennedy out of the hospital, was the first of the Bears to see the new attack. He read the entire article from end to end, and going to his apartment he telephoned for McCarthy, Swanson, Kennedy and Secretary Tabor to come to his rooms at once.
Manager Clancy was waiting, striding up and down the room restlessly and as the three players entered, he unceremoniously shooed his wife into the next room before she had a chance to defend her boys.
"Fellows," said the manager quietly, "I sent for you because you seem to know more what's going on than the others do. I suppose none of you has read this article in this morning's paper. I'll read it to you."
As he read, the players began to look one at the other and ejaculations of surprise and anger came from them. When Clancy reached the portion of the article telling of the player joining the Bears, McCarthy sprang from his chair.
"Why," he exclaimed, flushing angrily, "why, he means me."
"It's a d——n shame," roared Swanson. "I'll wring his neck."
"Let me finish," said Clancy, and completed the reading. At the end the players broke into excited questions and threats and Clancy said:
"Now, see here, boys; we're against a tough proposition. This article is just part of it. I wanted to talk things over with you fellows. I've sent for Technicalities, and want to find out a few things from him. Now you fellows tell me all you know. By the way, you needn't shy at using Williams's name. I'm not saying he's guilty, but I know he's the one you have been watching."
Detail by detail they described to the manager the events of the preceding days.
"Keep quiet about all that. The case is one we can't beat except on the ball field. Every one of us is certain that Edwards has bribed Williams and that he has lined up this big politician, Barney Baldwin, and now they've dished up this story about McCarthy to try to drive him out of the game. Are you game to stand what the crowd will do to you to-day, Kohinoor?"
"I'll play," replied McCarthy grimly.
"Better stuff your ears with cotton if we're losing," advised the manager. "This crowd will turn on you in a second and accuse you of more than the paper did, if you make an error or two. It will be worse if you stay out of the game. Then they'll think the story is true and that I've laid you off for throwing games. I have a plan. I'm going to act as if I believe McCarthy is trying to throw games."
"Thanks," said McCarthy, gripping the manager's hand gratefully, just as a knock sounded on the door and Technicalities Feehan entered.
"I regret exceedingly my absence when you wanted me, Mr. Clancy," he said. "I have just returned and have been reading this absurd article reflecting upon the integrity of Mr. McCarthy."
"What do you think of it?" asked Swanson.
"Absurd. The figures prove directly the contrary. Let me read to you some of my recent calculations"——
"Never mind—never mind," protested Clancy. "Save them for the paper. What I wanted to find out is who is this fellow Barney Baldwin?"
"Baldwin," said Feehan calmly, "is a politician, accused of much crooked work. I do not know that he ever has been convicted"——
"Meantime," remarked Feehan calmly, "I shall attempt to discover the relations existing between Mr. Edwards, the gamester, and this person who wrote this attack. I shall have some statistics to show the editor"——
"Never mind the statistics," said Clancy, cutting off Feehan before he could bestride his hobby, "I want you to find out who was back of the fellow who wrote that article; whether anyone bribed him to do it. I'm beginning to think we are dealing with bigger men than Ed Edwards.
"Now see here, fellows," he added frowning worriedly, "we're up against the toughest proposition we ever tackled, but we can beat it. The best way to beat them is to pretend we don't suspect a thing and let them work out their own schemes"——"Hello, come in," he called in response to a rap on the door. "Oh, it's you, Bannard! How are you? I'm just having a little talk with the boys. How are things to-day?"
He feigned an indifferent manner.
"Pretty good, Bill. Team all right?" asked the president. "I heard two of the boys got mixed up in a barroom scrap."
"I was just warning them about that," said Clancy. "These are the two (he pointed to Kennedy and Swanson). I was warning them that a lot of tough mugs in this burg are likely to get excited over baseball these days and ball players ought to stick close to the hotel."
"Glad they're not much hurt," said Bannard easily, looking at the battered athletes. "How is the pitching staff? By the way, who is working to-day?"
"It's Williams's turn," said Clancy steadily. "Why?"
"Why, that's what I came to see about," replied the president frankly. "That friend of mine—the one I spoke to you about the other day—wants to see him pitch. I'm starting West at noon and I told him I'd ask you as a favor. He was pretty sore because you didn't put him in the other time I asked you."
"All right. Always glad to oblige when possible," said Clancy grimly.
"Why didn't you ask who his friend is?" inquired Swanson when Bannard departed.
"Bonehead, fool, slow thinker," said Clancy. "I ought to bench myself for not thinking of it. I'll find out the first time I see him."
The players laughed nervously and departed from the room. Scarcely had McCarthy and Swanson reached their quarters when the telephone girl called to tell McCarthy an important call had been coming in for half an hour.
"Very well, connect me," said McCarthy.
He recognized Helen Baldwin's voice, and it shook with emotion, as she made certain she was talking to him.
"Oh, Larry," she said, "I must see you! I must—to-night, if possible! Please come!"
"What is the matter, Helen?" he asked anxiously. "It's impossible to come to-night—and after the last"——
"I know, I know, Larry," she said rapidly. "Please, please forget all that. I didn't understand! I didn't know! I've found out something that showed me how bad and wicked I have been. I didn't mean to bring harm to you"——
"Uncle came home," she said. "He'd been drinking. He made terrible threats against you."
"I'll be up to-night," said McCarthy.
"Better look out—it's a trap," warned Swanson, who had heard McCarthy promise to call that night.
"There's something wrong up there," replied McCarthy. "I'm going to Baldwin's house to-night."
They went downstairs talking in low tones. On the parlor floor Betty Tabor was sitting reading. She had scarcely spoken to McCarthy since the day she had heard him in conversation with Helen Baldwin. Impulsively she dropped her book and came toward him with her hand outstretched.
"Mr. McCarthy," she said rapidly, "I wanted to tell you—I do not believe a word of these horrible things the paper says about you. It is hateful! I told them they were false. I didn't think they'd dare tell others"——
"Them?" inquired McCarthy. "Then you've heard this story before?"
"Yes," she admitted. "I refused to listen—I knew there was not a word of truth in the stories. I knew you were honest"——
"I thank you very much, Miss Tabor," he said quietly. "I shall not need to ask who told you."
"I only wanted you to know I believed in you," she said simply, and as he looked into her eyes, she lowered them with a quick blush and hastened to recover her book.
CHAPTER XXI
Fair Play
Thirty thousand persons were packed into the big stands on the Bears' Park, and ten thousand others camped in the outer field seats when the teams ran out to play that day.
A few loyalists applauded McCarthy as he trotted along with the other players, but the ripple of applause died suddenly as if the friends he had in the crowd feared to start a counterstorm of criticism and abuse.
The great crowd was strangely quiet, although a hum of comment spread through the stands when the Bears took the fielding practice and Jacobson, the pitcher, practiced at third base, while McCarthy remained near the stands idly warming up a recruit pitcher. The buzz arose to a hum of excitement. Reporters, deserting the press box, swarmed down under the stands and crowded to the entrance at the rear of the Bears' bench, calling for Clancy, who went to speak with them.
"Why isn't McCarthy in the game?" demanded the spokesman, who already had written that McCarthy was suspended and out of the game.
"He is in the game," replied Clancy innocently. "Why shouldn't he be?"
For an instant the reporters stood undecided, then sprinted back to their posts, to change what they had written and alter the line-up.
Bill Tascott, the umpire, swaggered out to the plate, dusted the rubber, while the megaphones announced the batteries, and, at that instant McCarthy, jerking his glove from his belt, hurled his catcher's mitt to the bench and trotted out to third base, as Jacobson walked toward the bench.
The little scattering applause that greeted him grew and grew until the crowd applauded heartily and gave round after round of applause for the third baseman. It was the American spirit of fair play and justice revealing itself, and the crowd, accepting Manager Clancy's confidence in his third baseman, rendered its verdict of not guilty in cheers.
The Jackrabbits had figured cunningly that McCarthy would be unnerved by the strain of the situation, and "Hooks" O'Leary, the manager, had ordered that the attack be directed upon him. The first batter pushed a slow, twisting bounder down the third-base line and McCarthy, racing forward, scooped the ball with one hand and still running, snapped it underhand to first base ten feet ahead of the runner. He knew that his feat was mere bravado and that he had taken a reckless and useless chance, but the crowd needed no further convincing, but broke into a crashing testimonial of applause, and he knew he was safe so far as their confidence in him was involved.
The game developed into a panic, then the rout of the Rabbits and the triumphant Bears rushed to victory by a score of 11 to 2. And, while they were winning, the Panthers won one game by a wide margin and lost the second after a fierce pitcher's duel, 2 to 1, leaving the Bears a full game in the lead of the pennant race, with but five games to play, while the Panthers played four.
"The place to contradict baseball stories," remarked Clancy, grimly, in the club house, as the players were dressing after the victory, "is on the ball field. If we had lost to-day we would have been a bunch of crooks, but as we won, we're all honest."
He glanced quickly toward where Williams was dressing, but the pitcher kept his eyes averted and seemed not to hear the remark.
"And Kohinoor," the manager added, "I give it to you for nerve in pulling off that circus stuff in the first inning. But if you do it again it'll cost you a bunch of your salary."
McCarthy found a note in his key box when he returned to the hotel. He had torn it open to read when Miss Betty Tabor, who had returned from the grounds with Mrs. Clancy, came laughing and almost dancing across the lobby toward the group of players, leaving her portly, but no less elated companion, to pant along behind her.
"Oh, it was glorious, boys!" she said. "I never was so excited in my life as when you made those four runs in the third inning. And Mother Clancy was so wrought up she dropped three stitches in her fancy work and had to work all the rest of the game picking them out."
"She has a frightful case of nerves," said Swanson sarcastically. "I believe she'd break a needle if we won the world's championship the last inning of the deciding game."
They laughed joyously as the girl turned to McCarthy and said frankly:
"I am so glad for your sake, Mr. McCarthy. I was so angry I could have turned and told some of the people behind me what I thought of them before the game started, but when you fielded that first ball they cheered you—and that made up for it."
"They should have heard what Mr. Clancy had to say about it," he laughed, and then growing serious said, "It is kind of you, Miss Tabor. I am glad to know someone had faith in me."
They were standing a little apart from the group, which was slowly moving toward the elevators, chattering excitedly as school boys and girls. The feeling of relief from the anxiety and suspicion that had fallen upon them gave rise to exuberance.
"Mr. Clancy is taking us for an auto ride all around the city to-night," said Miss Tabor. "Shall I ask him to invite you to come with us? There's an extra seat."
"It's awfully good of you," he said in genuine regret. "I wish I could—but I have an engagement."
"Oh," she said, her tones chilling quickly. "I'm sorry."
"Miss Tabor," he pleaded eagerly, "please do not think I do not want to go"——
"Did I hint such a thing?" she inquired, with an air of innocent indifference.
He could not fence with her upon that basis and after a moment of idle exchange of formalities she turned to join Mrs. Clancy and McCarthy went to his room. Swanson was stretched upon the bed, reading newspapers, and flinging each sheet at random as he finished scanning its contents.
"Darn the luck," said McCarthy, hurling his glove and shoes toward his trunk.
"Did his 'ittle tootsie wootsy treat him mean?" asked Swanson in his most exasperating tones.
"Aw shut up, you big dub," snapped McCarthy angrily, resorting to ball players' repartee to cover his feelings.
"Maybe his lovey dovey is just jealous and will forgive her 'ittle pet," taunted the giant. "Petty mustn't mind what lovey says in her notes."
"Oh," said Swanson, with vast relief when he found Swanson was barking up the wrong tree, "I forgot all about the note."
He dragged the missive from his pocket and scanned it hastily, then tossed it across to Swanson.
"Date is off," he announced joyously. "Needn't watch me to-night."
Swanson read:
"Dear Larry:
"Don't come to-night. Uncle will be here—with friends—and I'm afraid. I must see you soon as possible. Will try to arrange to meet you somewhere to-morrow. I will telephone. H."
And while Swanson read the note McCarthy was at the telephone.
"Miss Tabor," he was saying eagerly, "this is Mr. McCarthy. I find my engagement for this evening is canceled. Please ask Mr. Clancy if I may go. Please. Yes, I said please. Shall I say it again?"
"And, Miss Tabor, if that spare seat is in the tonneau—— No, Mrs. Clancy should sit with her husband."
CHAPTER XXII
A Victory and a Defeat
Another crowd of enormous size greeted the Bears as they raced onto the ball field early the next afternoon to play the doubleheader that was to complete the season's series against the Jackrabbits.
The paper that had printed the attack upon the team had given space to a partial retraction, and, although the players did not know it, the reporter who had written the article had been suspended during an investigation that was inspired because Technicalities Feehan had, after overwhelming two editors with his statistics, convinced them that no basis of truth existed for such charges.
The Bears were happy and confident. With a full game the advantage and only five more games to play, and those comparatively easy; with the pitching staff in good condition, they considered the pennant as won.
McCarthy and Swanson almost had forgotten to keep watch upon Williams. They despised him, and in the club house and on the field they ignored him completely. Several of the other players, although they knew nothing of the plot, had come to ignore the pitcher, and he shunned them all. He seemed nervous and laboring under a heavy strain. Two or three times he started toward Clancy as if to speak to him, but each time the manager, who was watching him, turned away to address another player. Finally, Williams seemed to gather his courage, and with a pretense of indifference he sauntered toward Clancy, who was talking with several of the players.
"Which game do I work, Bill?" he asked, tossing his glove down and picking up a bat.
"I think I'll save you for the first game of the World's Series, Adonis," replied Clancy. "It's a shame to waste you beating these dub clubs."
The hidden sarcasm in the words stung. The pitcher started, then rallied and said:
"What have you got it in for me about? Haven't I worked my head off to win for your team?"
"I haven't made any kick," responded Clancy shortly. "When I have a kick coming I'll make it good and strong."
"I'm not joking, Bill," the pitcher persisted. "My arm is good, and a lot of my friends are wondering why I don't work when it's my turn."
"Tell them," said Clancy very quietly, "that I have only one third baseman, and that I don't want him killed."
Williams's eyes were opened. He felt beneath the bitter calmness of the manager's voice the fact that Clancy knew—at least part of the truth. His jaw dropped and his face went white. Clancy, with a short laugh, started to run away.
"Then I don't work to-day?" Alarm, pleading and a note of despair in his tones as if he realized what the manager's decision meant to him.
"No, not to-day," replied Clancy, watching him sharply.
He turned away with exaggerated carelessness, and the rat-faced, cold-eyed man in the stands, who had been watching them closely, gritted out an oath and turned to Barney Baldwin, who was sitting beside him:
"He isn't going to let Williams pitch," He said. "We're done for, Baldwin."
The politician turned purple with rage.
"Well, by ——, Edwards," he snarled, "we'll see about this. I'll put this over or know why."
The first game of the afternoon was a romp for the Bears. They scored early, and by clean hitting and dashing play on the bases, piled up tallies until the opponents were hopelessly defeated before the fifth inning. The game was a stern chase from that to the finish, and the Bears, scoring steadily, won, 9 to 2.
Instead of being elated by the victory Clancy seemed worried. On the bench he was fretful and uneasy.
"Don't you fellows take any wide chances in the next game," he decreed while the pitchers were warming up for the final battle against the Jackrabbits. "We want this game. I'm sending Wilcox in to win it. Who's that young bird the Rabbits are warming up? Hoskins, eh? Busher? Well, watch him. These young fellows with nothing but a strong arm are dangerous as the deuce at this time of the year."
Unlike their manager, the players were confident. Their easy victory in the first game, the fact that Wilcox, their best right-handed pitcher, was to start the game against an unknown and untried "busher" fresh from some small team and nervous through desire to win his first game, made it seem as if victory should be easy.
They blanked the Jackrabbits easily in the first inning, and, obedient to orders, attacked the pitching of the youngster, Hoskins, with every art known to them. They coached noisily, they waited at the plate, they crowded close to the plate and they ran at the ball.
"What's that bird got?" demanded Clancy as each batter returned to the bench. "Nothin', eh? Nothing, and you swingin' your bat like you was stirrin' apple butter? Nothin'? Say, you fellows get busy and make a run or two."
In spite of the orders, the abuse and criticism heaped upon them by the anxious manager, the Bears were not able to hit the balls offered by the tall, cool youngster picked up by the Jackrabbits from some obscure club. He had steadied from his early symptoms of stage fright and was pitching beautifully. His curve ball angled across the plate, his speed jumped high across the shoulders of the batters. The fifth inning came with the score nothing to nothing.
The players no longer were confident. The batters no longer came back to the bench with reports that the pitcher "had nothing," but they grew serious and anxious and silent. They tried bunting, but the Jackrabbits were prepared and checked the assault. They changed, and instead of waiting they hit the first ball pitched. They realized now that they were engaged in a contest with a pitcher of merit, for they knew the difference between hitting unluckily and hitting good pitching.
Wilcox, a quiet, studious pitcher, was among the first to realize that the youngster was pitching well.
"Get a run for me, fellows," he begged. "This kid has a world of stuff on the ball. Just meet that fast one—poke it, and it may go over safe. Get a run for me and we'll trim them."
The veteran was pitching slowly, cautiously. Two or three times the Jackrabbits threatened to score, but each time Wilcox put another twist on the ball and stopped them. Inning after inning he pleaded with his fellows to make a run, and Clancy stormed and grew sarcastic with each failure.
"Get him this time, fellows; finish it up," begged Clancy when the Jackrabbits had been blanked. Norton was the first batter. He chopped his bat with a short stroke and sent a safe hit flying to right. A sacrifice pushed him along to second base and the crowd commenced to cheer as Pardridge came to bat. The big fellow drove his bat crashing against the first ball. It went on a line almost straight toward second base. Norton was tearing for the plate when O'Neill, the Jackrabbit second baseman, running across, leaped and stretched out one hand. The ball stuck in his extended glove, he came down squarely on second base and the triumphant scream of the crowd ended in a gasp of disappointment at the realization that a double play had balked the Bears' attack and ended the inning.
The Jackrabbits, aroused by their narrow escape, attacked with new vigor. A fumble gave them the opening. Despite the most determined efforts of Wilcox they forced a run across the plate and the Bears were thrown back under a handicap.
McCarthy was the first batter. He crowded close to the plate, determined to force the young pitcher to earn his victory. He refused to hit until two strikes and three balls had been called, and then, shortening his grip upon his bat, he hit the straight, fast ball sharply to center for a base. Instead of sacrificing, Swanson received orders to hit and run and, although he was thrown out at first base, McCarthy reached second, and Babbitt, the first baseman, came to bat. Hoskins appeared nervous. The strain was telling upon the youngster, and Babbitt hit the first ball. From the sound of the bat hitting the ball, McCarthy knew the hit was not on the ground, and as he started homeward a glance showed him that Merode, the speedy little center fielder, was running back into the deep field with his eye on the ball. It was a fly-out unless Merode muffed, and McCarthy, knowing that such a muff happens only four or five times a season, returned and perched upon second base, ready to sprint for third the instant the ball struck the fielder's hands. The thought flashed through his brain that the Blues had released Merode because of a weak arm and a habit of lobbing the ball back to the infielders instead of throwing it back with all his power. The ball fell into the upstretched hands of the outfielder. McCarthy leaped and raced for third base. He knew that Merode would not throw there because of his weak arm and the length of the throw, so he swung a little outside the base path, slowed up as he turned third, and glanced toward the field. The ball was coming in. Merode had thrown it slowly and carelessly toward the shortstop. McCarthy leaped forward toward the plate. The shortstop, running out to meet the slow throw, heard the cry of alarm from the fielders and the roar of excitement from the crowd. He knew what was happening. He grabbed the ball, whirled and threw like a shot to the plate. McCarthy was two-thirds of the way home; but the ball, striking the ground, bounded into the hands of the catcher six feet ahead of him. Like a flash McCarthy hurled his body inside the line, with one foot outstretched to touch the goal. He had out-guessed the catcher. His foot, stretched out, felt the sharp jar of some object, then struck the plate, and, rolling over and over, he arose covered with dust.
The crowd was roaring. Nine out of ten thought McCarthy had counted with the tying run, but Bill Tascott, crouching over the plate, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, signaling that the runner was out and the Bears beaten.
Like flood waters breaking a dam, the crowd surged from the stands, shouting, screaming, threatening. A thousand men, mad with disappointment, swarmed around the umpire, pushing, shoving, shaking fists and screaming. McCarthy pushed his way hurriedly into the mob, which was growing more and more threatening.
"Let him alone. He was right," he cried loudly. "The ball touched my foot as I slid in."
Those who heard him stopped, and in an instant the danger was over. The crowd, subsiding suddenly, began to melt away. Tascott grinned as he turned to McCarthy.
"That was tough luck, Kohinoor," he said. "I was pulling for you to beat the ball, and you had it beat, but your leg kicked up and hit the ball as you slid. I'd have given a month's salary to call you safe."