“You know, Mac, that I’m not easily fussed,” Joe went on, while the manager listened with strained attention. “I’ve been up against a lot of things since I’ve been in baseball, but so far have always managed to come out ahead.”

“I know,” put in McRae. “They say that death loves a shining mark, and I’ve noticed that crooks do too. Once let a man come into the limelight as you have, and there’s always a bunch of rascals that begin figuring how they can make something out of him. I know how they’ve tried to dope you, cripple you, and even worse. For the love of Pete, don’t tell me they’ve been at it again.”

“That’s just what has happened,” replied Joe, and then he went on to tell of the building material that had been pushed off the scaffold and from which he had so narrowly escaped with his life.

“The scoundrels!” exclaimed McRae, worked up to a white heat. “If I could only get my hands on one of them there’d be one less rascal out of prison. Have you any idea who it is that’s trying to put it over on you? Give me a hint, and I’ll get the police after them in a hurry.”

“That’s just what we’d better be careful about doing, don’t you think?” suggested Joe. “You know that baseball is on trial now with the public, and if anything of this kind should come out it might queer the game beyond recovery. It was a case of touch and go after that White Sox scandal broke, and anything else just now might prove the straw too much.”

McRae pondered for a moment, wrinkling his brows.

“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed reluctantly. “But does that mean that we’re going to lie down and let those rascals carry out their plans?”

“Not by a jugful!” answered Joe. “We’re going to have those fellows tripped and hog-tied before they know where they’re at. But we’re going to do it so quietly that the outside world won’t get on to it. Trust me, Mac, to handle this matter myself.”

“There’s no one that could do it better; I’m sure of that,” admitted the manager. “But you haven’t answered my question yet. Have you any idea who’s doing this?”

“I have an idea,” affirmed Joe. “But I don’t want to do any one an injustice, and I’m not going to mention names until I’m sure I have the goods on them. Just leave them to my tender mercies, Mac, and trust in my lucky star. You know I’m lucky,” he added, with a grin, “or I wouldn’t be alive and whole to-day.”

“It isn’t luck. It’s brains and pluck,” corrected the manager. “You weren’t behind the door when those things were handed out. I’ll leave it to you, then, Joe. But, for the love of goodness, be careful. You bet I’ll keep my own eyes peeled, too, from now on.”

Robson and some of the other players came along just then and the conversation turned into other channels. But several times on the train ride back to New York Joe caught McRae’s eyes turned on him with a worried expression, and he knew what his manager was thinking about.

The next morning Joe was on his way downtown on a business errand when he saw McCarney and Hupft get on the platform of a subway train as it stopped at a station. For a moment they seemed about to enter the car in which he was sitting, but they changed their minds and went into the car ahead.

Joe was quite sure they had not seen him, and it occurred to him that here was an opportunity to follow his renegade team mates and perhaps discover something of the plot in which they were engaged.

He kept a sharp eye on them, moving up to the front of his own car to note their movements better, and when he saw them rise as the train was slowing up at a station he followed suit, taking care to keep in the rear of the mass of passengers as they hurried out.

The two plotters turned westward and pursued their way, talking earnestly, toward a disreputable section of the city near the river front. At the door of a saloon they halted and looked around. Joe had slipped behind an elevated road pillar and they did not see him.

Apparently satisfied that they were not observed they went into the saloon.

Joe sauntered along slowly and reached a point abreast of the saloon just as a rough looking character pushed open the swinging doors. As they swung back Joe got a glimpse of the interior. There were two or three men lounging in front of the bar, but McCarney and Hupft were not in sight.

Joe had seen also that there was a row of stalls along a balcony at the side of the saloon with dingy curtains over them to insure a certain amount of privacy. He conjectured that the men he had been following were probably in one of these. His resolution was taken on the instant.

He entered the place, which in addition to being a saloon was also run as a cheap hotel and restaurant, and went up to the bar. There he bought a cigar. While he lighted it, which he did deliberately, he noted from the sound of voices that one of the stalls was occupied. He ordered a meal to be brought to him and went up the stairs to the balcony and into the adjoining stall.

There was a murmur of conversation from the stall next to him, and although the voices were pitched low he had no difficulty in identifying them as those of Hupft and McCarney. Hupft seemed to be in a despondent mood, and McCarney was evidently trying to brace him up.

“I tell you, it’s no use,” Joe heard Hupft say. “That fellow has the Indian sign on us. No matter how we try to down him, he wins.”

“He’ll break down soon,” McCarney said confidently. “His luck can’t last forever. You can see he’s throwing his arm out. The harder we make it for him to win games the sooner he’ll have to quit. And think of the melon we’ll split between us when he does.”

“We’ll have to floor him before he quits,” muttered Hupft. “And that’s no easy job either. The fellow has as many lives as a cat. Lemblow thought he had him dead to rights in that timber tumble, but he got away with scarcely a scratch.”

Joe was listening with all his ears when the curtain was pushed aside and a waiter entered with a tray. He set it down on the table and as he glanced at Joe let out an exclamation.

“Ain’t you Baseball Joe?” he asked. “Sure you are! I’ve seen your picture many a time!”

Joe motioned him to be silent, but it was too late. There were muttered exclamations and the scraping of chairs in the adjoining stall, and the next moment Hupft and McCarney were blocking the door.

“So you were spying on us, were you?” snarled Reddy, whose flushed face showed he had been drinking.

He lunged forward as he spoke, while McCarney also rushed at Joe.

The latter’s right fist shot out and caught Hupft a terrific blow straight between the eyes, sending him staggering back against the partition. The next moment Joe’s left had landed on McCarney’s jaw.

They were back at him a moment later, and they went at it hammer and tongs. Joe could have handled either one of them easily, but the two made a formidable combination. Still he was getting the better of it when his foot slipped in the débris of the meal that had been dashed to the floor and he went down heavily, striking the back of his head. He was stunned, and the next instant McCarney and Hupft were both on top of him.