WHO WAS TO BLAME?
On his way in to breakfast next morning, Manager Brennan bought a
copy of the Ashland _Morning Chronicle_ to glance through during the
progress of the meal. Having seated himself and given his order, he
spread open the sheet. The first thing to catch his eye was the flaming
headline, “Palace Theater Wrecked by Mob.”
Having heard echoes of the affair the night before, the manager glanced
over the account with interest. Halfway down the column he stopped
short, clutched the paper, and stared with bulging eyes and purpling
cheeks at a certain short paragraph:
The cause of the riot is not definitely known. It is said,
however, to have been started by the rowdyish behavior of one
of the visiting baseball men who was attending the performance.
We might call Manager Brennan’s attention to the fact that,
while Ashland is always ready to extend every hospitality to
himself and his famous organization, she does not care about
having that hospitality abused.
With a guttural exclamation of rage, Brennan half started from his
seat, only to relax again and glare around.
“You read that stuff?” he demanded, catching the eye of Red Pollock
across the table.
“Sure!” grinned the latter. “Great dope. If Cy hadn’t coaxed me into a
game of draw, I’d been there myself, instead of missing all the fun.”
“You’d ought to thank me,” said Russell philosophically. “If you hadn’t
been so busy losing your dough to Pete and me, you’d likely got your
block knocked off down the street. According to accounts, there wasn’t
nothing playful about that mix-up.”
“I reckon not,” sighed Pollock regretfully. “They say the lad that
started the rumpus, whoever he was, got into a corner and held off the
whole bunch for ten minutes. He must be some scrapper. I got mixed up
in a strike riot in Chicago once, and, believe me, it’s no cinch to
stand off a crowd of roughnecks like that.”
“Humph!” grunted the manager. He had cooled down considerably while the
others were speaking, and was doing some thinking. “Any of the boys see
it?”
“Sure! Buck got a look-in, he was telling us.”
Brennan glanced swiftly down to where Fargo sat at the end of the
table. “How about last night, Buck?” he called, in a deceptively mild
tone. “Were you the one who started the rough-house downtown?”
“Nix on that!” grinned the catcher. “It was going full blast when I got
there. I seen all I wanted to from the outskirts. The crowd was plumb
crazy. About a hundred of ’em trying to get at one poor bloke penned in
behind the upset ticket booth. Them that couldn’t get a whack at him
hit somebody else for luck, and a dozen nice little individual scraps
were going on all over the place.”
“But who was the man?” Brennan persisted. “Didn’t you see him?”
“Couldn’t get a sight of him from the street,” Fargo answered readily.
“The ticket booth was too high. I run into one of your cubs――Locke’s
his name――trying to get out of the crowd, and we came home together.”
The manager frowned suspiciously. He knew Fargo of old, and realized
that he was just the sort of man to be concerned in an affair of this
description. The catcher’s gaze was candid and open, however, and the
closest scrutiny failed to disclose as much as a scratch on his face.
Brennan’s gaze veered swiftly to the next table, where his new
recruit sat with some of the other youngsters. Locke looked cool and
undisturbed as he ate his breakfast with evident relish. The manager’s
keen eye discovered a bit of plaster on one lip and a scratch on one
side of his nose; but, by what Fargo had said about the general nature
of the fighting, those slight abrasions might easily be accounted for.
Besides, Locke did not strike him as having much of the rowdy in his
make-up.
Without further comment, Brennan fell to on his breakfast and resumed
reading the newspaper account. When he had finished it, he came to the
conclusion that if one of his men had indeed been the cause of the
disturbance the fellow must be a scrapper of unusual ability, and would
surely bear upon his person unmistakable marks of the conflict.
Being a man of action, he at once started the round of his players.
He had no desire to antagonize the rougher element in Ashland. He
knew perfectly well that this would mean a constant succession of
bickerings, with the possibility of injury to some of his highclass
players if they got into a fight.
His critical inspection of the men showed the regulars to be beyond
reproach. Not one had even a slight abrasion for which he could not
account. The majority were provided with plausible alibis. Of the cubs,
three were on the suspicious list. Locke he had already eliminated,
and so did not bother about him. The other two were Bert Elgin and a
young fielder named Ross, both of whom――and particularly the first
mentioned――bore telltale signs on their faces.
They told a plausible, well-balanced story: They had been sitting near
the stage of the Palace Theater when the uproar started back by the
door. They arose with the rest of the audience and were carried out by
the rush of the crowd. When they finally emerged into the lobby――Elgin
swore that he had left a good-sized piece of skin from his face on the
edge of the door――the place was filled with men, yelling and fighting
like maniacs. They were so busy forcing their way to the street that
neither had been able to get a look at the cause of the disturbance.
Both were hit several times in the face, and had naturally smashed
back. On reaching the sidewalk, they had left the place at once and
returned to the hotel.
Brennan was slightly nonplused. The story rang true. It agreed
perfectly, moreover, with Fargo’s account of the affair, and the
manager knew that his catcher was not at all on friendly terms with
either Elgin or Ross. Lastly, he was confident that neither of them
had pugilistic skill or nerve enough to stand up before such a crowd
after the manner which every account agreed that the unknown had done.
Puzzled, with a vague feeling that there was something about it which
he did not understand, Brennan was obliged to content himself with a
strict order that the entire squad forego shows of any description in
the future, under penalty of heavy fines.
Later in the day he instituted inquiries throughout the town, with
equal lack of success. The majority of people who had been at the
theater had lost their heads, and could tell him nothing that he wanted
to know. Three men there were who swore that they had obtained a good
look at the mysterious individual, but their descriptions were so
totally at variance that the manager gave up his quest in disgust.
“A lot of dough-heads!” he growled. “Sounds as if they were each
describing a different person.”
Which happened to be exactly the truth.