AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
There was great hilarity in the Giants’ camp that night, and this
feeling was shared by the entire city. Now the Chicagos would have to
take all the remaining games to win, and with Joe and Hughson pitching
two of them, this seemed altogether unlikely.
Joe was on his way to the grounds the next morning to get a little
preliminary practice. He just wanted to “toss up a few” to make sure
that his arm was in perfect working order for the game that afternoon.
He wanted to settle the thing then and there, so that the long strain
would be over and the two remaining games would be simply for the sake
of finishing out the schedule.
He had plenty of time, and for the sake of the walk he left the elevated
train two stations this side of the Polo Grounds and walked north
through Eighth Avenue. There were many vacant lots in this locality, and
there were not very many people on the avenue at that hour.
He glanced carelessly at a man who passed him with his hat drawn down
over his face. It struck him that there was something about the fellow
that was vaguely familiar. Where had he seen that lean, sharp-featured
face?
Suddenly it came to him and he turned about like a flash.
The man was Talham Tabbs!
By this time the crazy man was nearly a block away, and he too was
looking back as though the recognition had been mutual.
Joe did not hesitate for an instant. Fate had thrown this chance in his
way and he might never have another. He started to run and then checked
himself for fear of alarming his quarry and subsided into a swift walk.
But the cunning of the insane man had seen Joe’s first movement and
interpreted it correctly. He turned into a vacant lot and broke into a
run.
Joe hesitated no longer at following his example; and the next moment a
lively chase was on.
By the time Joe turned into the lot, Tabbs was three hundred feet
ahead and running hard. But he was no match for a young man who was in
the pink of condition and who was able to circle the bases in fifteen
seconds flat. In less than a minute Joe was close on his heels. Tabbs
turned and twisted desperately and just as Joe reached out his hand to
grasp him, he dodged under his arms and doubled on his tracks. Joe swung
around as though on a pivot, and in another moment his hand was on the
collar of the panting man. He dug his knuckles into Tabbs’ neck and the
latter ceased to struggle.
For a moment neither spoke, each trying to regain his breath. Then, to
Joe’s astonishment, Tabbs grinned affably and twiddled his fingers as he
had done previously in the Riverside jail.
“Hello, brother,” greeted Tabbs. “That was a good game of tag, wasn’t
it? I guess I’m it.”
There was such an utter absence of malice or resentment, that Joe, who
had been bracing himself for a struggle, was taken aback, and his heart
smote him a little as he saw Tabbs’ friendly signal. But he was quick to
follow his lead.
“I guess you are,” he laughed. “It’s just the morning for a little run.
You’re certainly a dandy sprinter.”
A look of gratified vanity came over Tabbs.
“Let’s try it again,” he suggested. “I’ll chase you this time and I’ll
bet you can’t get away from me.”
“That’s a good idea,” agreed Joe, “but first I want to rest a little.
It isn’t every one who can keep it up like you, you know. Suppose we go
down to your rooms and have a little talk about lodge matters first.
Where are you living?”
“Up here in Amsterdam Avenue,” replied Tabbs, promptly. “Come right
along.”
They walked out to the avenue, Joe cudgeling his brains as to what the
next step should be. As they reached the corner, he saw one of the
policemen who had been assigned to duty at the Polo Grounds. He was in
citizen’s clothes and bowed cordially to Joe.
“Excuse me just a moment, while I speak to this friend of mine,” said
Joe to his companion.
“Certainly,” said Tabbs, politely.
Joe led Reardon, the policeman, aside.
“Reardon,” he said, hurriedly, and in a low voice, “this man is crazy.
I want you to keep out of sight but follow us. When you see us go into
a house, call up the Marlborough and tell a Mr. Varley there to come up
right away. Then stand guard at the door until I turn this man over to
you to be sent back to the asylum he escaped from.”
“All right,” said Reardon, who had been too long on the force to be
surprised at anything.
A few minutes’ walk brought Joe and Tabbs to a comfortable old-fashioned
boarding house.
“Here we are,” the crazy man said, and led the way to a large room on
the second floor. Joe noted in a corner a large valise with Tabbs’
initials on it.
They sat down and chatted about various things, and except for an
occasional foolish remark that had no bearing on the subject, Joe would
not have known that he was talking to a lunatic. Tabbs had evidently
been a man of keen intelligence and wide observation. Joe kept leading
him on, trying desperately to kill time till Reggie should arrive.
“If you’re rested enough now, we’ll go out and finish that game of tag,”
Tabbs had just remarked, when a taxi whirled up to the door. Joe flung
open the door of the room and Reggie came flying up the stairs and
dashed in, followed by Reardon, who carefully closed the door and put
his broad shoulders against it.
Tabbs looked in surprise at this sudden invasion of his rooms. Then he
recognized Reggie and smiled genially.
“How do you do, Mr. Varley?” he said.
“Where are my securities?” demanded Reggie, breathless with excitement.
“Your securities?” repeated Tabbs. “Let me see. Perhaps I have them over
here.”
He walked over to the valise, unlocked it, took out a package and looked
it over.
“These must be the ones,” he continued. “They’ve been in my way for some
time and I’ve thought more than once of throwing them away. I was trying
to remember how I got hold of them.”
With trembling fingers Reggie thumbed the papers. Then he gave an
exclamation of delight.
“Every one of them here!” he cried. “Joe, I can never thank you enough
for getting them back for me.”
“Well, now,” said Tabbs, blandly, “let’s go and have that game of tag.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to let that go just now,” said Joe, rising to go.
“But this friend of mine will take my place,” pointing to Reardon.
Tabbs assented cheerfully and waved a gay farewell to Joe and Reggie, as
they went downstairs to the taxi, leaving him in Reardon’s custody.
“Poor old fellow!” sighed Joe, as he looked for the last time on the
wreck of what had been a splendid man.
Reggie was eager to share his rejoicing with Mabel and Joe would have
gone with him if he could. But so much time had been consumed that the
young pitcher had no more than time to get a light lunch and hurry off
to the Polo Grounds.
But when he reached the clubhouse, distressing news awaited him. A
disaster had come upon the New York camp.
The great Hughson had had his arm twisted in an auto accident and was
out of the game for the series!
Joe was knocked off his balance by the news. He realized at once the
far reaching consequences of the calamity. He knew the panic it would
create in the New York camp and the renewal of heart and hope that would
come to the enemy now that their most dreaded foe was out of the running.
McRae was stamping about the clubhouse like a crazy man. Robson sat
moodily in one corner, his arms folded on his breast. The players, in
various conditions of undress, were white and shaken at the report that
had just come over the telephone from Hughson’s house.
It was not advisable to approach McRae in his present frantic condition
and Joe made his way over to Robson.
“How did it happen?” he asked. “And how bad is it?”
“So bad that it may knock us out of winning the pennant,” groaned
Robson. “I don’t know anything about how it happened. Mrs. Hughson, who
called us up, was so excited that she couldn’t tell us very clearly. Mac
has sent for a taxi, and as soon as it comes we’re going up to Hughson’s
house.”
At that moment word was brought that the taxicab was waiting, and McRae
and Robson hurried toward the door.
McRae caught sight of Joe standing near.
“You come along with us,” he ordered. “Even if Hughson’s arm is hurt,
his tongue and brain are probably all right, and he may be able to give
you some fresh pointers on those Chicago sluggers after facing them
yesterday.”
Joe was only too willing, and they bundled in. The driver, under the
promise of a generous tip, made fast time on his way to Hughson’s house.
They found the great pitcher reclining on a lounge with his arm in
bandages and his face drawn with pain. He greeted them with a smile that
was evidently an effort.
“Come up to look at the wreck?” he inquired, as they crowded anxiously
around him. “Well, I’m worth a dozen dead men yet, even if this arm of
mine is on the blink.”
“In the name of hard luck,” moaned McRae, “how did it all happen?”
“Got caught between two trolley cars,” replied Hughson. “I was in a
taxi on Eighth Avenue on my way to the grounds and the driver tried to
cross the tracks. Thought he could just slip by between cars coming in
opposite directions, but missed his guess. I might just as well have
been killed as not, but all hands did their best, and I got off with a
wrenched back and a strained arm.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing broken?” inquired Joe anxiously.
“Dead sure,” was the reply. “The doctor’s just got through fixing me up,
and he says that there are no bones or ligaments broken. But I’ll be on
the shelf for two or three weeks.”
“Two or three weeks!” groaned McRae. “And this series will be over in
two or three days!”
“It’s tough luck,” said Hughson bitterly. “I’d have given my share of
the World’s Series money not to have had this thing happen.”
“Just when we had those fellows on the run, too,” remarked Robson
gloomily. “That beating you gave them yesterday took a good deal of vim
out of them and we’d probably have cleaned ’em up today. But when they
hear of this they’ll be like wild men and there’ll be no holding them.”
“I’ll trust Matson to tame them,” was Hughson’s comforting remark. “He’s
as good a man at this moment as I ever dared to be.”
“Nobody’s as good as you are, Hughson,” was Joe’s answer to this
generous praise. “But you can do an awful lot for me just now in giving
me pointers on what to feed those fellows,” he added.
“And you’ll have to hurry,” broke in McRae, looking at his watch. “We
haven’t much more than time now to get back to the grounds.”
For five minutes there was an animated discussion, and then, with a
cordial goodby to Hughson, the three entered the waiting taxicab and
were whirled back to the Polo Grounds.