It was a long jump from an unstable footing, but Joe made it and clutched one of the spiles. It was slimy and slippery, but he held on with all the strength of his trained muscles. His feet, swinging wildly about, touched the rung of a ladder. In another moment he swarmed up it, and stood panting and breathless on the wharf.
“Back her! Back her!” screamed Hennessy from the fog. “Don’t let him get away!”
Joe chuckled, as he heard the wild splashing of the water and the pounding of the screw.
“Good-bye, Captain!” he sang out. “Hope I didn’t spoil your beauty. Give my regards to Rio Janeiro.”
Baseball Joe wasted little time in reaching the end of the pier. He hailed a cab at the first thoroughfare he came to and was soon once more at the hotel.
He found his party ready to start and wondering where he had gone.
“Where on earth have you been, Joe?” asked Mabel. “We were beginning to get worried about you.”
“Oh, I was just called away by a telephone message,” Joe parried.
He had no desire to let the women of the little group know that he was being made the victim of any hostile machinations. They would have magnified the danger and worried without ceasing.
“Well, it’s all right as long as you are here now,” Mabel said brightly, flashing Joe one of the dazzling smiles that always made his heart beat more quickly.
There had been a tenderer note in her voice ever since he had rescued her from the reckless ride on which Fleming had taken her. She blushed when she remembered how she had taken refuge in his arms in her first paroxysms of relief. It had been instinctive, and she had fled to them as naturally as she would have gone to those of her brother in similar circumstances. How strongly those arms had held her and how absolutely safe they had made her feel!
Barclay had been looking curiously at Joe ever since the latter had returned. He had been more alarmed than he would have cared to confess by his unexplained absence. Knowing his chum so well, he could see that even now he was laboring under repressed excitement. But his chance for an explanation did not come until some time later. It was only after they had bestowed their charges in their Pullman car and had said good-night and had gone forward to the car in which the Giants were quartered, that Jim was able to relieve his impatience.
“Come on now, old man, and tell me all about it,” he demanded.
“All about what?”
“You know well enough. Quit your stalling and come across with the story. Where did you go? Who called you up? Get it off your chest.”
Joe readily complied. There was very little he ever kept from Jim, and just now he felt especially the need of a confidant.
Jim listened with growing excitement and indignation.
“The hounds!” he exclaimed hotly.
“That doesn’t begin to express it,” said Joe. “It was about as dirty a piece of business as I ever heard of. It’s worthy of a reptile like Fleming.”
“I’d like to have him here this minute,” cried Jim. “I’d repeat the dose you gave him yesterday.”
“What puzzles me is as to who was in cahoots with him,” mused Joe. “He couldn’t have put a thing like that through alone. Think of the wires that had to be pulled to carry out the plan.”
“I suppose the big fellow that Anderson heard talking with Fleming was at the bottom of that,” conjectured Jim. “It surely was smooth work.”
“Oh, it was all prearranged carefully enough,” agreed Joe. “There wasn’t anything left to chance.”
“It was pretty slick, using McRae’s name to get you there, too,” commented Jim. “They knew you’d do anything he asked that was reasonable. What beats me is how they could counterfeit his voice so that you were taken in by it.”
“Well, you know how it is,” Joe replied. “When any one at the telephone gives you his name you take it for granted. It sounded a little strange, but it was a pretty good imitation at that. Probably they’ve rung in some actor who’s accustomed to mimic voices. He could easily have hung around the hotel and listened to Mac talking, till he got a pretty good line on his voice. Where I blame myself is that I hadn’t kept Anderson’s warning in mind. But I was thinking of other things——”
“Yes,” interrupted Jim dryly. “You’d just been walking with a charming young lady. I understand.”
He grinned quizzically, and Joe made a friendly thrust toward him which he adroitly ducked.
“Well, ‘all’s well that ends well,’” Joe quoted.
“If it is ended,” said Jim seriously. “They may cook up something else, now that this has failed.”
“I guess they’ve shot their bolt,” replied Joe lightly. “This will probably discourage them, and they’ll give it up. But it gives me the cold shivers to think how nearly they put this scheme of theirs across.”
“It was just touch and go,” agreed Jim. “You did some mighty quick thinking, old man,” he added admiringly.
“It was a case of must,” answered Joe. “I just had to think quickly, or it would have been all up.”
“By the way, are you going to say anything to McRae about this?”
“What’s the use?” returned Joe. “There’s nothing he could do. It would only worry him and make him hopping mad, and he’s got enough on his mind as it is. Besides, I couldn’t tell him the whole story without bringing Mabel’s name into it, and I’d rather cut off my hand than do that.”
Just at that moment McRae came through the car. He was in high spirits, and greeted them cordially as he sat down by them.
“Wouldn’t you boys better have your berths made up?” he inquired. “It’s getting pretty late and I want you to be in good shape for to-morrow. We’ll want that game badly, too. It isn’t enough to have evened up. We want to jump right out into the lead.”
“I suppose you’re going to pitch Markwith to-morrow,” said Joe, after having signaled the porter and told him to prepare the berths.
“I’m not sure yet,” answered McRae thoughtfully. “He certainly pitched pretty good ball in those last three innings to-day, and I’ll see how he warms up to-morrow before the game. But just at this present moment I’m inclined to pitch Barclay.”
Jim’s heart began to thump. He had not expected to figure in the Series, except perhaps as a relief pitcher. It was his first year in the big league and though he had shown some “crackerjack stuff,” he was not supposed to be seasoned enough to work a full game at such a critical time.
To tell the truth, he would not have had a chance of taking part if it had not been for the accident to Hughson. McRae was famous for the way he stuck to his veterans, and though he believed in “young blood,” he always took a long time in developing his new pitchers before he would trust them in a game on which a great deal depended. Sometimes he kept them on the bench for a year or two, absorbing “inside stuff” and watching the older players before he considered them ripe for “a killing.”
But he was hard put to it now to handle his crippled staff to the best advantage. He did not dare to use Joe too often for fear of hurting his effectiveness by overwork. Markwith was brilliant but unreliable. Sometimes he would pitch superbly for the better part of a game. Then all too often there would be a fatal inning when he would lose his “stuff” entirely, and before he could be replaced the game would have gone to pieces.
“I may pitch Jim to-morrow,” McRae went on reflectively. “If he wins, we will have the edge on the Sox, and I can take a chance on Red for Friday’s game. Then I’ll have you, Joe, to put the kibosh on them in the final game on Saturday.
“But if Jim loses to-morrow the Sox will have three games tucked away and only need one more. In that case, Joe, I’m going to pitch you Friday to even up and Saturday to win. Think you can stand two games in succession and win out?”
“I’d work my head off to do it,” replied Joe earnestly.
“It’ll put a big strain on your head and arm too,” said the manager, “but you’ll have all winter to rest up in afterwards, and we may have to chance it.”
He chatted with them a minute or two longer, and then, as the berth had been made up, he left them.
“Gee whiz, Joe!” ejaculated Jim, as he crept into the upper berth, his teeth chattering in his excitement. “To think of me pitching a game in the World Series before that whale of a crowd at the Polo Grounds!”
“It’s the chance of your life, Jim,” responded Joe. “You’re made as a pitcher if you win. And you will win, too. I’m sure of it. You had those fellows right on your staff in that inning or two you pitched at Boston.”
“Well, here’s hoping,” murmured Jim, getting in between the sheets. “If I don’t, it won’t be for lack of trying.”
It was, indeed, a “whale of a crowd” that greeted the Giants on their victorious return. All New York was jubilant, and comments were rife everywhere on the gameness of their pets in the fight they were making against accident and hard luck.
The team was cheered singly and collectively as they came on the field and scattered for preliminary practice. McRae and Robson paid especial attention to the warming up of the pitchers, for up to the last minute the manager was undecided as to whom he should play.
Both Jim and Markwith seemed to have plenty of “smoke” as they sent their slants and benders over. But the older pitcher was inclined to be wild, while Jim’s control was all that could be asked. So with many inner quakings McRae finally decided that Jim should do the twirling.
The crowd was somewhat startled when they saw the young “second string” pitcher going on the mound. They were well aware of McRae’s predilection for his old players, and they wondered at his willingness to-day to take a chance.
But whatever may have been their misgivings, there was nothing but the heartiest applause for the youngster. If generous rooting and backing would help him to win, he should have them.
There was a host of Princeton men there, too, and they gave the old college yell that Jim had heard so often when as an undergraduate he had twirled for the Orange and Black.
But, perhaps, if the truth were told, Jim’s greatest incentive came from the fact that Clara was watching him from a box in the upper stand, her pretty face flushed and her bright eyes sparkling. It was astonishing how much that young woman’s approbation had come to mean to Jim in the short time he had known her.
He was a little nervous at the start, and Cooper, the first man up, drew a base on balls. He was nipped a moment later, however, in an attempt to steal, and with the bases again empty Jim fanned Berry and made Loomis chop a grounder to Larry that resulted in an easy out at first.
“Bully for you, old man!” cried Joe, encouragingly. “You got through that inning finely. The first is usually the hardest because you’re finding your bearings. Besides, you’ve got rid of the head of their batting order.”
Fraser was in the box for the Red Sox, and it looked at the start as though he were going to prove fully as good as in the first game. For four innings he turned back the New Yorks, who seemed to have lost all the hitting ability they had shown the day before.
“What’s the matter with the boys?” growled McRae, uneasily. “It would help Barclay a lot if they handed him something to go on.”
The New Yorks gave him that lead in the fifth. Denton and Willis singled, and Denton scored when Cooper, the right fielder, lost Becker’s fly in the sun and it went for a double. Becker was forced at third on Iredell’s bouncer to Girdner, and both Willis and Iredell scored when Berry made a wild throw of a sharp hit by Curry.
This ended the scoring for the inning, but those three runs, in the words of Robson, looked very “juicy.”
The lead, of course, was very gratifying to Jim. It seemed to put him on “easy street.” But at the same time it was dangerous, because it was calculated to give him, perhaps, too much confidence. And over-confidence was a perilous thing to indulge in when the Bostons happened to be one’s opponents.
Jim waked up to this fact in the very next inning, when Walters straightened out one of his incurves with a mighty wallop to the fence on which he easily circled the bases. Two more hits sandwiched in with a pass yielded one more run, and McRae began to look uneasy. A rattling double play got Jim out of what had begun to look like a bad hole, and the rally was choked off then and there.
It had been a bad inning for him, but Jim was a thoroughbred, and he braced.
In the next three innings they only garnered four more hits, and of these only two were “Simon pure.” Loomis got a hit past Denton when the latter was running to cover the base. Then Stock chopped one to the box that took a puzzling bound and went for a single. Girdner lined out a scorcher to center in the eighth and Walters sent one to the same place in the final frame. But this was the sum total of their endeavors and the Giants had no need of playing out their half of the ninth.
It was a very creditable victory for the “kid” pitcher of the Giants. Once more the New Yorks had the upper hand in the desperate fight for the Series. Jim had won his spurs and could count hereafter on taking his regular turn in the box.
The roars of the crowd were like music in Jim’s ears. Still more grateful were the praise and congratulations from his comrades on the team. But, perhaps, he treasured more than all the shy tribute that came that evening from the lips of a remarkably pretty girl.
“You were just splendid to-day, Mr. Barclay,” said Clara, her eyes shining brightly. “Just splendid!”
The feeling in Boston was in marked contrast to that in the metropolis, when the news was flashed over the wires that for the second day in succession the Red Sox had lost.
To be sure they were by no means out of it, and a victory the next day would leave the clubs even up. But the odds now were on the New York side, especially as it was certain that Baseball Joe would pitch in one of the games.
The Red Sox stood in no particular fear of Markwith, although his ability was freely recognized. Still he could be handled. But they had the profoundest respect for Joe, not to say dread, and they had begun to share the feeling that he had the game won when he appeared upon the mound.
Perhaps by none was this conviction felt more keenly than by two men who sat at a table in a café. A groan had just arisen from a throng surrounding the ticker and in that groan the two men read defeat.
“That makes three games the Giants have won,” growled Connelly. “One more and the Series is theirs.”
“But they haven’t won that other one yet,” suggested Fleming, whose face by this time had renewed more nearly its usual appearance, “and it’s up to us to see that they don’t.”
“That sounds good,” growled Connelly. “But so did our other plan sound good. But you see what came of it.”
“It not only sounded good but it was good,” replied Fleming. “You know as well as I do that we only missed putting it over by an eyelash.”
“I haven’t got over wondering yet how Matson slipped out of that net,” Connelly ruminated. “It seemed a dead open and shut certainty that we had him.”
“He’s a slippery customer,” said Fleming, “but because we didn’t get him once doesn’t say that we won’t the next time. But whatever we do, we’ll have to do in a hurry. He’s to be in Boston only one more day.”
“What was it you were telling me about that Hartley?” asked Connelly.
“I don’t know how much there may be in that,” answered Fleming, thoughtfully. “The fellow’s fearfully sore on Matson for some reason or other that I can’t just make out. He’d like well enough to do him a personal injury, too, if he could.
“I got him away from the gang he was ranting to and had a little talk with him. But I wouldn’t dare trust him to do any rough work. He’s half full all the time; and then, too, I think he’s a little crazy. He’d be apt to spill the beans in anything he might undertake.
“There’s only one thing, though, in which he may be of some help to us. He’s on to the signals used by the Giant pitchers and he offered to give them away. That might help some in a close game.”
“It might,” reflected Connelly. “But it isn’t sure enough. The pitchers might tumble to the game and change their signals. Still, we’ll use him, on the off chance that it may help if we don’t think of anything better.”
“The only sure way of beating Matson,” observed Fleming, “is to see that he doesn’t go on the field at all.”
Connelly looked up quickly.
“Nothing like that,” he grunted. “I’ve told you already that I wouldn’t stand for any rough stuff. America wouldn’t be big enough to hold a man who’d do that.”
“Hold your horses,” retorted Fleming. “Who’s talking about injuring or killing him? I’m no more anxious to go to the electric chair than you are.”
“Well, what’s the game then?” asked Connelly.
“Here’s the dope,” answered Fleming. “You see by the score that Barclay pitched for the New Yorks to-day?”
“Yes,” agreed Connelly.
“That gives McRae a little margin to go on,” continued Fleming. “He could afford to lose to-morrow’s game and still be even on the Series. Then he’d still have Matson as his ace for Saturday’s game in New York.
“Now suppose it works out that way. Markwith pitches, we’ll say, and loses.”
“I’m listening,” said Connelly.
“Then the deciding game will be played on Saturday at the Polo Grounds. The Giants will be before their home crowd. Matson goes in to pitch. What’s the answer?”
“A victory for New York,” replied Connelly, grinding his teeth.
“Probably,” agreed Fleming. “Now there’s just one thing to be done. When the Giant team leaves Boston to-morrow night for New York, Matson mustn’t go with them.”
He almost hissed the last words, all the venom he felt toward Joe showing in his eyes.
Connelly thumped the table with his ponderous fist.
“You mean that he must be kidnapped?” he exclaimed. “You think we may put it over better on land than we did on the water?”
“That’s rather an ugly word,” warned Fleming, looking around to see that they were not overheard, “and perhaps it would be better not to use it. What I mean is that in some way he must be kept from taking the train late Friday night or the early train Saturday morning. After that it doesn’t matter what he does.
“You see,” he went on, “there wouldn’t be any come-back in a thing like that. There’d be no need to hurt him. The whole thing would only cover about twelve hours. After nine o’clock on Saturday morning he could be set at liberty and be free as air. But he’d be in Boston and he couldn’t possibly get a train then that would land him in New York in time for the game.”
“It might work,” reflected Connelly. “It’s worth trying, anyhow, unless we think of something better. But it’s going to take a good deal of neat work to carry it through.”
“It will,” admitted Fleming. “And it’s going to be all the harder because he’ll probably be on his guard after what nearly happened to him the other night. But I think it can be done. The first thing is to get the services of half a dozen men that can be trusted to do just as they are told. Do you know of such a bunch that you can lay your hands on?”
“Moriarity does,” replied Connelly, referring to the henchman whom Fleming had been introduced to on the occasion of his first meeting with Connelly. “He knows the tough side of Boston like a book. He could get us just the gang we need in less than no time.”
“That’s good,” commented Fleming. “I’d get him busy at once.”
“Sure thing,” confirmed Connelly. “And now let’s get down to the fine points. We don’t want to have any slip up this time.”
What followed was almost in whispers.
Mr. Beckworth Fleming would, no doubt, have been interested in knowing that while he was speaking of Joe in Boston the latter was discussing him in New York.
It was Reggie who had first brought in his name, as he stood with Joe and Jim in the lobby of the Marlborough, waiting for the others of the party to come down on the way to the train.
“Funny thing happened to-day, don’t you know,” he remarked. “Fellow sitting in the box next to me at the grounds got to talking about an auto accident that happened on Long Island a little while ago.”
Joe and Jim pricked up their ears.
“What did he say about it?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Why, I heard him say that it was the wildest ride he had ever had, and that he’d been wondering ever since how they got through it without getting pinched. Said that half the time the car was going on two wheels. Once they knocked down a man on the Merrick road, and they had come near to smashing up a car they passed just before that.”
“That describes the accident to Anderson,” broke in Jim.
“Yes, and don’t you remember how near they came to running into us just before that?” added Joe. “But did you get any clue as to who the fellows were?”
“I didn’t hear any full names,” replied Reggie, “but several times the man who was telling the story referred to the reckless driving of ‘old Beck,’ whoever that might have been.”
“Beck, Beck,” mused Jim. “That isn’t much of a hint. The directory is full of Becks.”
A thought suddenly came to Joe.
“Fleming’s first name is Beckworth, isn’t it?” he asked Reggie.
“Yes,” replied Reggie.
“And wouldn’t it be natural for his cronies to speak of him as Beck?” Joe went on.
“Sure,” said Reggie. “As a matter of fact, I’ve often heard them refer to him in that way.”
“And he’s known as a reckless driver, isn’t he?” asked Joe, going back in memory to the way in which Fleming had handled the car on that memorable afternoon when he had rescued Mabel from his clutches.
“Yes,” Reggie responded. “In fact, he seems to take a sort of pride in it. I’ve often heard him tell how often he had been arrested for speeding.”
“It begins to look as though he might have been mixed up in that Anderson affair,” mused Jim.
“Yes, but that’s a mighty slender basis to go on,” answered Joe. “Of course he’d deny it, and we couldn’t prove it if we had nothing to back it up with.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Reggie. “Now that you come to speak of it, I remember catching sight of Fleming at the Long Beach Hotel when we were dining there. He was sitting at a table in the further corner of the room. I thought of going over to speak to him, but I noticed that he was with a pretty noisy party, and as the girls were with us I passed it up.”
“Well, now, that’s something more like proof!” exclaimed Joe, with animation. “That brings him near the scene of the accident on the day it happened. He’s a reckless driver and his pals often spoke of him as ‘old Beck.’ I believe he was the fellow that knocked the old man down.”
“It looks like it,” agreed Jim, “and from what we’ve learned of the fellow since, I think he’s just the kind that would go on without trying to help or stopping to see what he had done. But even now we haven’t anything that would convince a jury.”
“No,” agreed Reggie. “Moral proof isn’t legal proof by a long shot. The one thing we need to clinch the matter is the number of the car that held the party.”
“What a pity we didn’t get it,” fumed Joe.
“We weren’t to blame for that,” replied Reggie. “They were going so fast and raising such a cloud of dust that we couldn’t see it. That is, we didn’t get it in full. Seems to me, though, that I heard you say something, Joe, about some numbers that you caught sight of.”
“That’s so,” confirmed Jim. “What were they, Joe? Do you remember?”
“There was a seven and a four,” answered Joe. “But I couldn’t be sure that they were next to each other. There may have been another figure in between. And anyway, as there were probably five or six figures in the whole number, that isn’t very much to go on.”
“I tell you what,” cried Jim, eagerly. “Every car is registered in the State Registry Bureau, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” answered Reggie. “Mine is, I know. They put down the name of the man when they give him his number.”
“Exactly!” returned Jim. “What’s the matter then with our making inquiries at the proper department and finding the number of the car that is registered as owned by Beckworth Fleming?”
“The very thing,” assented Reggie. “But when we find it, what then?”
“Nothing, perhaps,” Jim admitted. “And then, on the other hand, it may mean a great deal. Suppose, for instance, the number has a seven and a four in it?”
“That would certainly bring it much closer to Fleming,” observed Joe, thoughtfully, “and it would make us that much surer in our own minds that he’s the man in question. But it would still fall far short of legal proof.”
“Bother legal proof!” snapped Jim. “The one point is that all these things taken together would make us feel so sure that we were on the right track that we’d feel justified in accusing Fleming to his face of having done it.”
“I see!” exclaimed Joe, his eyes kindling. “You mean to put up a great big bluff and try to catch him off his guard.”
“That’s what,” agreed Jim. “Trust to his guilty conscience. He knows whether he did it or not, and he won’t be sure how much we know. If we act as if we were sure we have him dead to rights, he may give himself away. Try to explain or excuse it and in that way admit it. At any rate, it seems to me it might be worth trying. We can’t lose and we may win.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Reggie. “I believe it might work.”
“It’s a dandy idea,” approved Joe, warmly.
“It would do me a whole lot of good to make him come across handsomely to Anderson,” said Jim. “The old man needs money badly, and Fleming has a good deal more than is good for him. And he can consider himself mighty lucky if he gets off with only a money payment.”
“Well, whatever we do in that line, we’ll have to do right away,” remarked Joe. “To-morrow’s the last day we’ll be in Boston, and I’d like to fix up the matter at once. Anderson we know is there and Fleming probably will be, too.”
“I wish we’d known of this earlier,” remarked Jim. “Of course all the official departments are closed by this time.”
“Yes,” said Joe, “but I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll ask Belden here at the desk to look up the matter for us the first thing to-morrow morning. He can find out the number and call me up on the long distance ’phone to Boston. We ought to know all about it as early as ten o’clock.”
“The very thing,” said Jim.
Joe went over to the hotel desk, where Belden, the night clerk, had just come on duty. He was a warm admirer of Baseball Joe, and, like everybody in New York just then, was happy to do anything he could for the famous pitcher of the Giants.
“Mr. Belden,” Joe began, “I want to ask a favor of you.”
“Only too glad, Mr. Matson,” replied the clerk, his face wreathed in smiles. “What is it?”
“I’d like you to call up the city office of the State Registry Bureau, Broadway and Seventy-fourth Street, early in the morning,” said Joe, “and find out the number of the car owned by a Mr. Beckworth Fleming. Then I’d like to have you call me up on the long distance ’phone, of course at my expense, and let me know what it is. If you’ll do this for me I’ll be greatly obliged.”
The clerk made a note of the name and also of the hotel where Joe would stay in Boston.
“I’ll do it without fail, Mr. Matson. You can depend upon me.”
Joe thanked him and returned to his party, which had now been joined by Mr. and Mrs. Matson and the girls. A couple of taxicabs were pressed into service, and they were carried to the Grand Central Terminal where they embarked on the last trip that was to be made to Boston during the Series.
“What with the game to-morrow and perhaps this Fleming matter on our program, I imagine we’re going to have our hands full,” Jim remarked in an aside to his friend.
“Yes,” laughed Joe, “it looks like a busy day.”
But just how busy a day it was destined to be it would have startled him to learn.
Every member of Baseball Joe’s little party had by this time become thoroughly acquainted with every other, and they formed a very congenial group.
Mr. and Mrs. Matson, as Joe had predicted when he had sent on for them to come, were having the time of their lives. The great world had opened up its treasures for them after the long years they had spent in their quiet village, and they were enjoying it to the full. And their delight in the new vista opened up was, of course, immeasurably increased by their pride in Joe and his achievements so far in the World Series.
Mabel, too, had taken them right into her heart and had won their affection from the start. They could easily see how things stood with her and Joe and were eagerly ready to welcome her into a closer relation.
Reggie was full of life and good-nature, and his knowledge of city life made him invaluable as a guide and companion. As for Clara, she was in a perpetual flutter of happiness. Was she not with her idolized brother? Was she not tasting the delights of a broader life that she had often read of and longed for but scarcely dreamed of seeing? And had not that handsome Mr. Barclay shown himself a devoted and perfect cavalier? Could any girl barely out of her teens possibly ask for more?
So it was a happy party that laughed and chatted as the train sped through the night toward Boston.
“Our last trip to Boston, for a while at least,” smiled Mabel.
“I wonder whether the Series will be settled there or at the Polo Grounds,” remarked Clara. “It would be glorious if when we come back to-morrow night the Giants should have won the Series.”
“Well, we have two chances to the Bostons’ one, anyway,” observed Jim. “They must win to-morrow or they’re goners. We can lose to-morrow and still have a chance.”
“A chance!” objected Clara. “You ought to say a certainty.”
“I’ve learned already that there’s nothing certain in baseball,” laughed Jim.
“But Joe will be pitching that last game,” returned Clara, as though that settled the question.
Joe laughed.
“I wish I could make the Red Sox feel as sure of that as you do, Sis. If they did, they’d quit right at the start.”
“Well, they might as well, anyway,” declared Clara, with assured conviction.
“What is this I see in the paper about a tour of the world after the Series is over?” asked Mr. Matson.
“Why, there’s nothing very definite as yet,” answered Joe. “McRae has been giving some thought to the matter, I believe. If we win the Series, we could go with the prestige of being the champions of the world, which would be a big advertisement. Mac could easily get up another team composed of crack players which could be called the All National or the All America Nine. Then the two teams could travel together and give exhibition games in most of the big cities of the world.”
“Would there be much money in it?” asked Reggie.
“Oh, probably not so much, after all the expenses were taken out,” Joe answered. “Possibly there might be a thousand dollars for each player. Some of the trips have panned out as much as that.”
“Then this isn’t entirely a new idea,” remarked Joe’s father.
“Oh, no,” replied his son. “It’s been done before. The boys have always drawn big crowds and aroused a good deal of interest.”
“And they’d do that to-day more than ever,” put in Jim. “Baseball is no longer simply an American game but a world game. You’ll find crack teams even in Japan and China.”
“It would be a wonderful experience,” remarked Reggie.
“You bet it would!” exclaimed Joe, enthusiastically. “Think of playing ball in sight of the Pyramids! We’d take in all the great cities of Asia and Europe and some in Africa. It would be a liberal education. And instead of spending money in making a tour of the world, we’d be paid for taking it.”
“Rather soft, I call it,” laughed Jim.
“How long would the party be gone?” asked gentle Mrs. Matson, who was somewhat alarmed by the prospect of her boy being separated from her by the width of the globe.
“Oh, not more than five months or so,” Joe replied. “The boys couldn’t very well get started much before the first of November, and they’d have to be back for spring training.”
“They won’t need much training, I imagine,” remarked Jim. “They’ll have been playing while the other fellows have been loafing. They ought to be in first class shape to begin the season.”
“Of course,” observed Joe; “it isn’t a dead sure thing that we’ll go, even if we win the Series. And if we lose, it’s dollars to doughnuts that Mac will call the whole thing off.”
It was getting rather late, and Joe and Jim said good-night to the others and sought their berths.
They were up and abroad earlier than usual the next morning, for the matter of the automobile accident promised to engross all the time they could spare from the game.
Reggie was able to find out for them the place at which Fleming was putting up in Boston. Having ascertained from the clerk that he was still staying there, the next thing was to get hold of Louis Anderson.
Jim hurried up to the address the old man had given them. It was in a humble neighborhood, but the three rooms in which Anderson and his wife were living were neat and clean.
Jim did not want to raise false hopes, in the light of the imperfect information he had. So he told Anderson that he thought he had a clue, though he was not at all sure, as to the men who had run him down.
“Do you think you would be able to recognize the man who was driving, if you should see him?” Jim inquired.
“I’m sure I could,” answered Anderson. “He was on the side nearest me and I got a good look at his face just as the car bore down on me.”
“That’s good,” replied Jim. “Now if you’ll get ready and jump in with me, we’ll go down to where Mr. Matson is.”
The old man complied eagerly, and they were soon on their way down town.
Joe, in the meantime, had hovered in the vicinity of the telephone, waiting impatiently for the long distance call.
Shortly after nine o’clock it came.
“Is this Mr. Matson?” the voice inquired. “Good morning, Mr. Matson. This is Belden talking. I called up just now at the registry office and found that the number of Mr. Beckworth Fleming’s car is 36754. Did you get that? 3-6-7-5-4. Yes, that’s it. Not at all, Mr. Matson. Don’t mention it. Glad to be of service. Hope you win to-day. Good-bye.”
Joe stared at the number that he had jotted down as Belden had called it off. 36754. There were the two figures, 7 and 4, the 7 coming first as he remembered.
It was not proof. But it was corroboration, enough, anyway, to justify the audacious bluff that he had in mind.
Jim returned shortly afterward with Louis Anderson, who greeted Joe, gratefully.
“It’s an awful lot of trouble you two young men are putting yourselves to for me,” he declared in a grateful voice.
“That’s all right,” returned Joe. “It was a dastardly thing that was done to you, and the man who did it has got to pay for it if we can make him. But you mustn’t build your hopes too high. We’ve only probabilities to go on instead of certainties.”
They stepped into the taxicab which Jim had retained, and were soon at the Albemarle where Fleming was stopping.
“Suppose he refuses to receive us when the clerk sends up your card,” asked Jim. “You can’t very well force your way into his rooms.”
“There isn’t going to be any card,” replied Joe. “Reggie gave me the number of his suite and we’ll just go up in the elevator without being announced.”
“But he may slam the door in your face when he sees who it is,” Jim remarked.
“I’ve got a pretty capable foot,” grinned Joe, “and I guess I can keep the door from being shut.”
They got off at the fourth floor and walked along the corridor till they reached the number for which they were looking.
Fleming was already engaged with a visitor. He and Big Connelly were in earnest conversation when Joe rapped on the door. Fleming looked up with some irritation at being interrupted.
“What does that clerk mean by not announcing a caller?” he growled.
“I’ll just step into the bedroom while you see who it is,” said Connelly, tiptoeing into the adjoining room.
Fleming went to the door and opened it. He started back in surprise and alarm when he saw Joe’s face. Then with a snarl he started to slam the door, but Joe thrust his foot between the door and the jamb. Then he gave a push with his brawny shoulder and the next moment he and his companions were in the room. Jim coolly shut the door and stood with his back to it.
“What does this mean?” shouted Fleming, almost stuttering with rage. “Get out of here this minute or I’ll have you thrown out.”
“No, you won’t,” replied Joe, coolly. “I’ve got a little business with you, Fleming, and I don’t go out till it’s finished.”
Before the cold gleam in his eye, Fleming shrank back.
“If you attempt any violence——” he began in a voice that trembled.
“There isn’t going to be any violence unless you make it necessary,” Joe interrupted. “Though I ought to give you another thrashing for that trap you laid for me the other night.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” growled Fleming, sullenly.
“Oh, yes you do. But we’ll let that go. I came here this morning to tell you that we’ve identified you as the driver of the car that ran this man down on the Merrick Road and then went on without stopping to see how badly he was hurt.”
The accusation was so sudden, so positive, so direct, that, as Joe had hoped, it took Fleming fairly off his feet. He stood staring wildly at the group, his face an image of guilt. Then he tried to rally.
“It’s false!” he shouted. “I didn’t do anything of the kind.”
“No use of lying, Fleming,” said Joe, coldly. “We’ve got the goods on you.”
“He’s the man!” cried Louis Anderson, excitedly. “He had a cap on then, and his face was red, as though he was drunk, but he’s the same man. I could swear to him.”
“You’re crazy,” snarled Fleming. “I wasn’t on Long Island that day.”
“Didn’t you have dinner at the Long Beach Hotel that day, eh?” asked Joe.
“N-no,” Fleming denied, avoiding Joe’s eyes.
“Yes, you did,” declared Joe, sternly. “And afterward you nearly crashed into the machine I was in. I saw you hit this man. I looked for the number on your car. The number of that car is 36754. Ever heard those figures before, Fleming?”
His eyes were like cold steel now and seemed to be boring Fleming through and through. He seemed so sure of his facts, so unwavering and relentless, that Fleming crumpled up. The arrow shot at a venture had reached its mark.
“It was the old fool’s own fault,” he growled, casting aside all further pretence of denial. “If he hadn’t run in front of the machine he wouldn’t have got hurt.”
“It wasn’t so,” cried Anderson. “You were swerving all over the road. Your crowd was shouting and singing. You didn’t blow your horn. You were half drunk. And after you hit me you didn’t stop.”
“We’re his witnesses,” said Joe. “And I don’t think he’d have any trouble in getting heavy damages from a jury.”
“Let him try it,” snarled Fleming. “I’ve got more money than he has and I’ll fight the case through every court. He’ll die of old age before he ever gets a cent from me.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” remarked Joe, carelessly. “I don’t suppose you’d care to go to jail now, would you, Fleming?”
“It isn’t a question of jail,” replied Fleming.
“Oh, yes it is,” rejoined Joe. “You may not know that a law has been passed making it a prison offense in New York State to run away after knocking a man down with an auto and not stop to see what you can do for him.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Fleming, going white.
“I know what I’m talking about,” answered Joe, in a voice that carried conviction. “You’d better come to your senses, Fleming. We’ve got you dead to rights. You ran this man down. You’ve admitted it. You ran away without stopping. Half a dozen of us saw you do it. Nothing can save you from going behind the bars if the matter is pressed. You’ll do the right thing by this man, or I’ll see that you’re arrested the minute you set foot in New York.”
“What do you mean by the square thing?” asked Fleming, who now was thoroughly wilted.
“We’re not unreasonable,” said Joe. “You came within an ace of killing this man. He had to go to a hospital. At his age he’ll feel the effect of the shock as long as he lives. It will probably shorten his life. A jury under those circumstances would certainly give him several thousand dollars. I think you ought to give him at least two thousand. Will that be satisfactory, Mr. Anderson?”
The old man nodded.
Fleming reflected a moment. Then he nodded surlily.
“I’ll do it,” he muttered.
“And do it to-day, if you please,” Joe went on smoothly. “I want to know that this thing is settled before I go back to New York. Write down your address, Mr. Anderson, and Mr. Fleming or his lawyer will be up to see you before night. And I’ll run up myself before I leave, to see whether it has been done.”
There was a threat in the last words that warned Fleming against any attempt at evasion or delay. The latter agreed with a nod of his head.
There was no pretence of a farewell that would have been mere hypocrisy under the circumstances, and without a word Baseball Joe’s party left the room, while Fleming stared after them with baffled rage and hate in his eyes.
Once more in the taxicab, Anderson broke out with a flood of thanks that Joe waved aside lightly.
They drove around by way of his humble home and left him there, and then went hurriedly down to their hotel.
Left to themselves in the car, Jim and Joe looked for a long time steadily at each other. Then Jim burst out into a roar.
Joe grinned happily.
“Joe,” cried Jim when his paroxysms had subsided, “as a bluffer you’re a wonder, a real wonder!”
Fleming sat in his chair, limp and sprawling, after the departure of the trio who had burst in on him so unexpectedly. So swept and exhausted was he by the tide of emotions aroused by their visit that he had forgotten all about the presence of Connelly in the adjoining room, and only became conscious of it when the fellow plumped himself down in the chair beside him.
“Some stormy session,” he remarked, as he lighted a fat, black cigar.
Fleming only growled in reply.
“Don’t wonder that you feel sore,” Connelly commented. “They certainly put the skids under you in great shape. That Matson is a bird and no mistake.”
“I’ll get even with him yet,” Fleming broke out stormily. “I won’t let him crow over me. I won’t pay that money.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” returned Connelly, calmly. “He’s got you where the hair is short in that matter of the jail. It mightn’t have been so bad if you’d kept your nerve and denied everything. But he got you so rattled that you admitted knocking that fellow down and then the gravy was spilled.”
“What was the use of keeping it up?” queried Fleming. “He had the facts.”
“Maybe he did,” admitted Connelly, doubtfully, “and then again he may have had only some half facts and made a bluff at the rest. He’s got nerve enough to do it. I have to hand it to him. But now you have admitted it, you’ll have to pony up. What’s a couple of thousand to you, anyway?”
“It isn’t so much the money,” Fleming muttered gloomily. “It’s knowing that he got it out of me and is probably laughing at me this minute.”
“Let him laugh,” said Connelly, with the philosophy that it is so easy to use where others are concerned. “We’ll have our laugh later on. But you want to get that money paid right away, because if we put over on Matson what we’re planning, he’ll be so furious that he’ll send you to jail sure. But if the thing is settled, he’ll be helpless.
“Another thing, unless I’m very much mistaken, Matson himself has given us a mighty valuable tip. He’s put a spoke in his own wheel.”
“What do you mean?” asked Fleming.
“Didn’t you hear him say that he was going to run up to-night to that old man’s house to see whether you’d come across or not?”
“Yes.”
“Well, where could we have a better chance for pulling off our little game? It’s probably a poor neighborhood with the lights none too good and where a scrap wouldn’t attract much attention because it’s a common thing. Moriarity and his bunch could be on hand and the rest would be as easy as taking a dead mouse from a blind kitten.”
“By Jove, the very thing!” ejaculated Fleming, a look of malevolent delight coming into his face.
“Sure it is,” chuckled Connelly. “I’ll get word to Moriarity at once. In the meantime, you’d better settle. Take in all you can of the neighborhood while you’re doing it.”
“Even if Markwith wins this afternoon and so ends the Series, I’d like to put this through on Matson just the same,” snarled Fleming, viciously.
“No we won’t,” declared Connelly, decidedly. “I’m out to keep him from winning the Series and nothing else. If Markwith wins, the game’s up, anyway, and the thing ends for me right there. But if he loses I’ve got a chance, and I’ll see that Matson doesn’t pitch the last game.”
All Boston seemed to have turned out that afternoon at Braves Field. The enormous seating accommodations were taxed to capacity. It was the last chance the loyal Bostonians would have to see their favorites in action. And the fact that if they lost to-day their chance for the world’s pennant was gone brought the excitement to a delirious pitch.
Landers was in the box for the Bostons while Markwith twirled for the Giants. Before the game had gone three innings it was seen that both these gladiators were out to do or die. There was an unusual number of strike outs and the bases were occupied only at infrequent intervals. Up to the fifth it was little more than a pitcher’s duel. But after that, though Landers kept his effectiveness, the Red Sox began to get to Markwith more frequently. It was not that the latter seemed to have let down a particle. His speed and his curves were working beautifully, but in a way almost uncanny the Bostons seemed to know what kind of ball was coming next and set themselves for it accordingly.
In the sixth they gathered two runs. Burkett had clouted out a home run for the Giants in their half, but that left them still one short of a tie.
Boston started the seventh with a rattling two-bagger to center.
“I don’t understand it,” muttered McRae, uneasily. “Markwith never seemed to be in better shape. He’s got a world of smoke.”
“They seem to know just what he’s going to feed them,” commented Robson. “It almost looks——”
He was interrupted by a sharp exclamation from Joe.
“Look over there by the Boston dugout!” he exclaimed excitedly. “There’s Hartley just behind the screen whispering to Banks. I’ll bet that skunk is giving away Markwith’s signals!”
They looked in the direction indicated. Banks, the Boston second string pitcher, was lolling carelessly against the railing of the grandstand, idly chewing on a wisp of straw. Hartley’s face behind the screen was not two feet away from Banks’ ear.
As Markwith prepared to wind up for the next pitch, Hartley leaned forward a trifle and his lips moved. A glance and an almost imperceptible sign passed between Banks and the man at the plate. Then as a low incurve came sweeping up, the batsman caught it square on the seam for a line single to left.
“Great Scott!” cried McRae, leaping up from the bench. “They’re stealing our signals!”
McRae rushed over to the umpire.
“There’s a fellow over there in the grandstand giving away our signs,” he stormed.
Cries of derision came from the stands.
“Hire a hall!”
“Write him a letter!”
“Play ball!”
The umpire called time and walked over with McRae to where Banks was standing.
“Get away from there,” he ordered.
“Why?” asked Banks, impudently.
“Never mind why. Get away I tell you.”
There was nothing left but to obey and Banks sauntered off.
“And as for you,” said the umpire, addressing Hartley, “if I see you talking to any of the players I’ll have you put out of the park.”
“You’re a disgrace to the National League,” cried McRae, glaring at Hartley, “and I’ll see that you get all that’s coming to you for this bit of work.”
“Aw, what’s eating you?” retorted “Bugs” sullenly. “I wasn’t doing anything.” But he seemed to shrivel up before the rage in his former manager’s eyes, and for the rest of the game obeyed the umpire’s injunction.
Markwith and Mylert, who was catching him, instantly changed their signs and the Bostons scored no more. But the damage was already done, for Landers was doing some demon pitching, and the game ended with the score two to one in favor of the Red Sox.
It was a hard game to lose, and Markwith received nothing but condolence and sympathy from his mates. He had pitched superbly and though beaten was not disgraced.
“I wonder how much that traitor got for giving away his own league,” said Joe, bitterly.
“Probably just enough to fill up his wretched skin with booze,” returned Jim. “Fellows like him come cheap.”
“He won’t get another chance,” put in McRae, angrily. “I’ll have the stands searched to-morrow, and if he’s there he’ll be bundled out neck and heels.”
Once more the hard-won lead of the Giants had vanished into thin air. But they took heart of hope and braced up for the struggle on the morrow. They were to play on their own grounds and Joe would be in the box.
All the members of Joe’s party were boiling over with indignation. If anything they took the defeat harder than the players themselves, who had learned in a hard school to take what was coming to them and brace up for revenge.
“Well, to-morrow’s a new day and what we’ll do to those fellows then will be a caution,” Jim declared philosophically.
Perhaps his cheerful view of things was increased by the fact that Clara had promised to let him take her for a cozy little spin to see Bunker Hill Monument by moonlight. The moon just then was in high favor with these two young people.
It was arranged that the pair need not come back to the hotel, but that Jim could bring Clara directly to the train. Mr. Matson and Reggie would escort the others.
Joe grudged every minute spent away from Mabel and stayed with her as long as he could that evening. But he had promised to drop in on Louis Anderson to see that the arrangement with Fleming had been carried out, and at last he left her reluctantly, promising to see her again on the train if only long enough to say good-night.
But though he was deprived of her physical presence, his thoughts were full of her as he was whisked away in the car he had summoned, and the time passed so quickly that he was surprised when the driver drew up in front of Anderson’s house.
“Wait for me here,” he directed as he stepped out. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Very well, sir,” was the response.
Hardly had Joe gone inside when a man stepped up to the curb.
“I want you to take me to the North Station,” he said, preparing to step inside.
“Sorry, sir,” was the answer, “but I’m waiting for the fare I brought here.”
“But I must get that train, I tell you,” persisted the other. “I’ll pay you anything you want. Ten dollars, fifteen even.”
The driver was tempted.
“Make it twenty and I’ll go,” he said. “I suppose the gentleman can pick up another car.”
“Sure he can,” replied the other. “Twenty it is. Get a move on, now.”
He got inside and the car whizzed away.
Joe found Anderson and his wife radiant.
“He did it, Mr. Matson!” the old man cried. “He grumbled a lot about having had to telegraph on to New York to have his bank wire the cash to him, but he did it. And I signed a paper giving him a release of all claims against him. Oh, Mr. Matson, we can never thank you enough for what you have done for us.”
His wife joined in his expressions of gratitude.
“Don’t mention it,” smiled Joe. “I only did what any decent man would do to right a great wrong. And you squared the account when you gave me that warning the other day. I was just on the point of stepping into a trap when I thought of the warning and it saved me.”
“Is that so?” cried Anderson, delightedly. “I’m mighty glad if it helped you.”
They chatted happily for a few minutes and then, as his time was getting short, Joe took his leave with their repeated thanks ringing in his ears.
He was dumbfounded when he saw that the taxicab was not there.
“Where in thunder is that fellow?” he asked himself. “I suppose he’s getting a nip in the nearest saloon.”
But when, after a minute or two spent in waiting, no car appeared, Joe started for the nearest thoroughfare, three short blocks away.
He was just passing the second corner when a man stepped out of the shadows with something in his hand.
“Hi, there, stop!”
“What do you want?” demanded Joe, trying to make out the face in the darkness.
“I want you!” hissed the man.
He took a step closer and raised the object he carried in his hand.
Joe tried to dodge, but it was too late.
There was a quick blow. Joe felt no sense of pain. Rather it was a gradual sinking, sinking, ten thousand fathoms deep!
Then the famous young baseball player became unconscious.