PLOTTING MISCHIEF
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.