A STIRRING BATTLE
“Fleming’s got busy in a hurry!” exclaimed Joe. “But just what was it
they were planning to do?”
“That’s just the trouble,” answered Anderson. “I don’t rightly know
just what mischief they were cooking up. They kept their voices pretty
low most of the time, and then, too, my hearing isn’t any too good,
especially since I had that accident. Once I heard one of them say:
‘It’ll put him on the toboggan all right.’
“I didn’t dare to stir for fear they’d see me, or I’d have tried to edge
around the tree so as to get closer to them. But from the number of
times they spoke your name and the ugly way they did it, I was sure they
had it in for you.
“I stayed there until they went away and the last thing one of them said
was: ‘I’ll set the thing going the first thing in the morning.’ And the
other one said: ‘It can’t start too quick for me.’”
“Did you see what kind of looking men they were?” asked Joe.
“I peeked out at them as they were leaving, but all I could see was that
one of them was a big, heavy man and the other was slimmer and seemed to
have something the matter with his face. It was puffed up as though he
had the toothache.”
“Fleming, sure enough!” ejaculated Jim, grimly.
“I guess I know how he got that toothache,” Joe remarked grimly.
“Why, is he any one you know?” inquired Anderson.
“I’m pretty sure I do,” replied Joe. “There aren’t likely to be two men
named Fleming who want to do me up.”
“Do be careful now, Mr. Matson,” the old man urged. “I can’t bear to
think of anything happening to you after all that you have done for me.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” answered Joe. “And I can’t thank you enough,
Mr. Anderson, for the trouble you’ve taken to come and tell me about
this.”
“It’s little enough,” answered Anderson. “I only wish I could do more.
But I know you must be pretty busy just now, with the big game coming
on, so I’ll just jog along. Hope you have luck to-day, Mr. Matson.”
He said good-bye and went away. After he had gone the two friends
looked at each other very long and thoughtfully.
“What do you make of it, Joe?” asked Jim at length.
“Why, I hardly know,” replied Baseball Joe, slowly. “I wish the old man
had been able to get something a little more definite. The only thing
that seems clear is that that snake is trying to make trouble for me.
But, pshaw! ‘Threatened men live long,’ you know, and I’m not going to
worry about it.”
But Jim was not inclined to dismiss the matter so lightly.
“Do you think they might try anything like the drugged coffee game?” he
inquired. “Hartley got away with that once on you, and it might be done
again.”
“Not likely,” answered Joe. “But what’s the use of worrying? I’m going
to put it right out of my mind for the present. I’ve got to pitch this
afternoon and I’m not going to think of anything else.”
True to his nefarious promise, Connelly, at just about the same time
that morning, was having a private conversation with the captain of a
tramp ship that was lying at a wharf far down on the Boston harbor front.
The tramp was a battered, rusty-looking old hooker that seemed to
be about as tough and disreputable looking as the skipper, who was
shouting orders to his crew when Connelly came on board.
There was a mutual recognition.
“How are you, Mr. Connelly?” the captain said, as he came forward to
greet the newcomer. “And what is it that’s bringing you so far from
Chicago?”
“How are you, Captain Hennessy?” returned Connelly, cordially grasping
the gnarled hand that was extended to him. “I happened to be in town on
business and I heard you were loading up here. How’s the carrying trade
just now?”
“None too good,” replied the skipper. “What with freights ’way down and
the competition of the big liners, it’s all we can do to make a living
these days. But come down to the cabin and wet your whistle. Talking’s
dry business.”
Connelly needed no urging, and they were soon seated at a table in the
cramped cabin, with a bottle and glasses between them.
They talked of indifferent matters for a time, and then Connelly
broached the object of his visit.
“Where are you going this trip?” he asked.
“Down the South American coast as far as Rio Janeiro,” was the answer.
“Porto Rico will be my first stop.”
“And when do you expect to start?”
“I may finish up loading to-day if I have luck,” replied the skipper.
“If so, I’ll get my clearance papers and slip out early to-morrow
morning.”
“I suppose you’ve done a bit of shanghaiing in your day, eh, Hennessy?”
remarked Connelly, jocularly.
“Many’s the time, especially in the old sailing days,” grinned Hennessy,
a light of evil reminiscence in his little eyes. “But there’s little
call for it nowadays.”
“I was just wondering,” went on Connelly, “if you’d do me a favor and
take a fellow along with you on this trip that doesn’t want to go.”
“It might be managed,” returned the skipper a little doubtfully.
“There’d be a nice little slice of money in it for you,” Connelly
explained. “You see it’s a young fellow that’s got in with a wild gang
ashore, and his folks think a sea voyage wouldn’t do him any harm.”
Hennessy’s hesitation vanished at the mention of money and his eyes had
an avaricious gleam.
“Sure I’ll do it!” he exclaimed. And then, with voices slightly lowered,
the pair perfected their scheme.
A little later Connelly left the ship and walked rapidly away with a
triumphant glint in his vulture-like eyes.
He found his confederate waiting for him in the same café where they had
met the night before. Fleming jumped up from the table at which he had
been sitting and came rapidly forward to meet him.
“Well?” he said eagerly.
“It’s all right,” responded Connelly. “It didn’t take much urging to
turn the trick. I told you he’d be only too glad to oblige me.”
He went over the events of the morning rapidly, and Fleming exulted.
“So far, so good,” he gloated.
“But the hardest part is yet to come,” Connelly reminded him. “We’ve
got the stage set for the play, and the next thing is to have the chief
actor on hand when the curtain rings up.” And then the two talked the
matter over in detail.
The enthusiasm at Braves Field that afternoon was at fever heat. The
Boston rooters turned out in the biggest crowd of the Series so far. The
last game their favorites had won filled them with confidence, and they
were out to cheer their pets on to another victory.
Even the knowledge that Matson was to pitch for the Giants, which had
been featured in the morning papers, was not sufficient to daunt them.
They felt that luck was with the Red Sox, as had already been shown in
the accident to Hughson and the rain that had snatched the second game
from the New Yorks. And that luck, they felt sure, would persist. The
wish may have been father to the thought, but there was no doubt as to
the optimism that existed in the home town of the Red Sox.
The Giants faced the test with quiet confidence. The odd game was
against them, but they looked forward serenely to evening up the score
that afternoon with Baseball Joe in the box.
McRae had a little talk with his team in the clubhouse before they went
out for practice.
“Go right in, boys, and eat them up,” he exhorted them. “Those fellows
never saw the day they could beat you if you were doing your best.
“They’ll probably put in Roth against you. He’s a good southpaw, but
southpaws are just your meat. Look out for that ‘bean’ ball of his. He’s
sure to use it in trying to drive you away from the plate. But don’t let
it rattle you for a minute. Be quick to dodge, though, for I don’t want
to have any of you hurt at this stage of the Series.
“And don’t let Matson do it all. He can’t carry the whole team on his
shoulders. No matter how well he pitches, he can’t win unless you bat in
some runs. Hand him a few right from the start.
“Little old New York is rooting for you to win, boys. Don’t fall down
on the job. You’ll own the city if you come back with a row of Boston
scalps at your belt. And I know you can do it if you try. Go in and
wallop the life out of ’em.”
There was a cheer which told McRae that his words had gotten “under the
skin,” and the Giants dashed briskly out on the field.