A BLUFF THAT WORKED
Every member of Baseball Joe’s little party had by this time become
thoroughly acquainted with every other, and they formed a very congenial
group.
Mr. and Mrs. Matson, as Joe had predicted when he had sent on for them
to come, were having the time of their lives. The great world had opened
up its treasures for them after the long years they had spent in their
quiet village, and they were enjoying it to the full. And their delight
in the new vista opened up was, of course, immeasurably increased by
their pride in Joe and his achievements so far in the World Series.
Mabel, too, had taken them right into her heart and had won their
affection from the start. They could easily see how things stood with
her and Joe and were eagerly ready to welcome her into a closer relation.
Reggie was full of life and good-nature, and his knowledge of city life
made him invaluable as a guide and companion. As for Clara, she was in
a perpetual flutter of happiness. Was she not with her idolized brother?
Was she not tasting the delights of a broader life that she had often
read of and longed for but scarcely dreamed of seeing? And had not that
handsome Mr. Barclay shown himself a devoted and perfect cavalier? Could
any girl barely out of her teens possibly ask for more?
So it was a happy party that laughed and chatted as the train sped
through the night toward Boston.
“Our last trip to Boston, for a while at least,” smiled Mabel.
“I wonder whether the Series will be settled there or at the Polo
Grounds,” remarked Clara. “It would be glorious if when we come back
to-morrow night the Giants should have won the Series.”
“Well, we have two chances to the Bostons’ one, anyway,” observed Jim.
“They _must_ win to-morrow or they’re goners. We can lose to-morrow and
still have a chance.”
“A chance!” objected Clara. “You ought to say a certainty.”
“I’ve learned already that there’s nothing certain in baseball,” laughed
Jim.
“But Joe will be pitching that last game,” returned Clara, as though
that settled the question.
Joe laughed.
“I wish I could make the Red Sox feel as sure of that as you do, Sis. If
they did, they’d quit right at the start.”
“Well, they might as well, anyway,” declared Clara, with assured
conviction.
“What is this I see in the paper about a tour of the world after the
Series is over?” asked Mr. Matson.
“Why, there’s nothing very definite as yet,” answered Joe. “McRae has
been giving some thought to the matter, I believe. If we win the Series,
we could go with the prestige of being the champions of the world, which
would be a big advertisement. Mac could easily get up another team
composed of crack players which could be called the All National or the
All America Nine. Then the two teams could travel together and give
exhibition games in most of the big cities of the world.”
“Would there be much money in it?” asked Reggie.
“Oh, probably not so much, after all the expenses were taken out,” Joe
answered. “Possibly there might be a thousand dollars for each player.
Some of the trips have panned out as much as that.”
“Then this isn’t entirely a new idea,” remarked Joe’s father.
“Oh, no,” replied his son. “It’s been done before. The boys have always
drawn big crowds and aroused a good deal of interest.”
“And they’d do that to-day more than ever,” put in Jim. “Baseball is no
longer simply an American game but a world game. You’ll find crack teams
even in Japan and China.”
“It would be a wonderful experience,” remarked Reggie.
“You bet it would!” exclaimed Joe, enthusiastically. “Think of playing
ball in sight of the Pyramids! We’d take in all the great cities of Asia
and Europe and some in Africa. It would be a liberal education. And
instead of spending money in making a tour of the world, we’d be paid
for taking it.”
“Rather soft, I call it,” laughed Jim.
“How long would the party be gone?” asked gentle Mrs. Matson, who was
somewhat alarmed by the prospect of her boy being separated from her by
the width of the globe.
“Oh, not more than five months or so,” Joe replied. “The boys couldn’t
very well get started much before the first of November, and they’d have
to be back for spring training.”
“They won’t need much training, I imagine,” remarked Jim. “They’ll have
been playing while the other fellows have been loafing. They ought to be
in first class shape to begin the season.”
“Of course,” observed Joe; “it isn’t a dead sure thing that we’ll go,
even if we win the Series. And if we lose, it’s dollars to doughnuts
that Mac will call the whole thing off.”
It was getting rather late, and Joe and Jim said good-night to the
others and sought their berths.
They were up and abroad earlier than usual the next morning, for the
matter of the automobile accident promised to engross all the time they
could spare from the game.
Reggie was able to find out for them the place at which Fleming was
putting up in Boston. Having ascertained from the clerk that he was
still staying there, the next thing was to get hold of Louis Anderson.
Jim hurried up to the address the old man had given them. It was in a
humble neighborhood, but the three rooms in which Anderson and his wife
were living were neat and clean.
Jim did not want to raise false hopes, in the light of the imperfect
information he had. So he told Anderson that he thought he had a clue,
though he was not at all sure, as to the men who had run him down.
“Do you think you would be able to recognize the man who was driving, if
you should see him?” Jim inquired.
“I’m sure I could,” answered Anderson. “He was on the side nearest me
and I got a good look at his face just as the car bore down on me.”
“That’s good,” replied Jim. “Now if you’ll get ready and jump in with
me, we’ll go down to where Mr. Matson is.”
The old man complied eagerly, and they were soon on their way down town.
Joe, in the meantime, had hovered in the vicinity of the telephone,
waiting impatiently for the long distance call.
Shortly after nine o’clock it came.
“Is this Mr. Matson?” the voice inquired. “Good morning, Mr. Matson.
This is Belden talking. I called up just now at the registry office
and found that the number of Mr. Beckworth Fleming’s car is 36754. Did
you get that? 3-6-7-5-4. Yes, that’s it. Not at all, Mr. Matson. Don’t
mention it. Glad to be of service. Hope you win to-day. Good-bye.”
Joe stared at the number that he had jotted down as Belden had called it
off. 36754. There were the two figures, 7 and 4, the 7 coming first as
he remembered.
It was not proof. But it was corroboration, enough, anyway, to justify
the audacious bluff that he had in mind.
Jim returned shortly afterward with Louis Anderson, who greeted Joe,
gratefully.
“It’s an awful lot of trouble you two young men are putting yourselves
to for me,” he declared in a grateful voice.
“That’s all right,” returned Joe. “It was a dastardly thing that was
done to you, and the man who did it has got to pay for it if we can make
him. But you mustn’t build your hopes too high. We’ve only probabilities
to go on instead of certainties.”
They stepped into the taxicab which Jim had retained, and were soon at
the Albemarle where Fleming was stopping.
“Suppose he refuses to receive us when the clerk sends up your card,”
asked Jim. “You can’t very well force your way into his rooms.”
“There isn’t going to be any card,” replied Joe. “Reggie gave me the
number of his suite and we’ll just go up in the elevator without being
announced.”
“But he may slam the door in your face when he sees who it is,” Jim
remarked.
“I’ve got a pretty capable foot,” grinned Joe, “and I guess I can keep
the door from being shut.”
They got off at the fourth floor and walked along the corridor till they
reached the number for which they were looking.
Fleming was already engaged with a visitor. He and Big Connelly were in
earnest conversation when Joe rapped on the door. Fleming looked up with
some irritation at being interrupted.
“What does that clerk mean by not announcing a caller?” he growled.
“I’ll just step into the bedroom while you see who it is,” said
Connelly, tiptoeing into the adjoining room.
Fleming went to the door and opened it. He started back in surprise
and alarm when he saw Joe’s face. Then with a snarl he started to slam
the door, but Joe thrust his foot between the door and the jamb. Then
he gave a push with his brawny shoulder and the next moment he and his
companions were in the room. Jim coolly shut the door and stood with his
back to it.
“What does this mean?” shouted Fleming, almost stuttering with rage.
“Get out of here this minute or I’ll have you thrown out.”
“No, you won’t,” replied Joe, coolly. “I’ve got a little business with
you, Fleming, and I don’t go out till it’s finished.”
Before the cold gleam in his eye, Fleming shrank back.
“If you attempt any violence----” he began in a voice that trembled.
“There isn’t going to be any violence unless you make it necessary,” Joe
interrupted. “Though I ought to give you another thrashing for that trap
you laid for me the other night.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” growled Fleming, sullenly.
“Oh, yes you do. But we’ll let that go. I came here this morning to tell
you that we’ve identified you as the driver of the car that ran this
man down on the Merrick Road and then went on without stopping to see
how badly he was hurt.”
The accusation was so sudden, so positive, so direct, that, as Joe had
hoped, it took Fleming fairly off his feet. He stood staring wildly at
the group, his face an image of guilt. Then he tried to rally.
“It’s false!” he shouted. “I didn’t do anything of the kind.”
“No use of lying, Fleming,” said Joe, coldly. “We’ve got the goods on
you.”
“He’s the man!” cried Louis Anderson, excitedly. “He had a cap on then,
and his face was red, as though he was drunk, but he’s the same man. I
could swear to him.”
“You’re crazy,” snarled Fleming. “I wasn’t on Long Island that day.”
“Didn’t you have dinner at the Long Beach Hotel that day, eh?” asked Joe.
“N-no,” Fleming denied, avoiding Joe’s eyes.
“Yes, you did,” declared Joe, sternly. “And afterward you nearly crashed
into the machine I was in. I saw you hit this man. I looked for the
number on your car. The number of that car is 36754. Ever heard those
figures before, Fleming?”
His eyes were like cold steel now and seemed to be boring Fleming
through and through. He seemed so sure of his facts, so unwavering and
relentless, that Fleming crumpled up. The arrow shot at a venture had
reached its mark.
“It was the old fool’s own fault,” he growled, casting aside all further
pretence of denial. “If he hadn’t run in front of the machine he
wouldn’t have got hurt.”
“It wasn’t so,” cried Anderson. “You were swerving all over the road.
Your crowd was shouting and singing. You didn’t blow your horn. You were
half drunk. And after you hit me you didn’t stop.”
“We’re his witnesses,” said Joe. “And I don’t think he’d have any
trouble in getting heavy damages from a jury.”
“Let him try it,” snarled Fleming. “I’ve got more money than he has and
I’ll fight the case through every court. He’ll die of old age before he
ever gets a cent from me.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” remarked Joe, carelessly. “I don’t suppose you’d
care to go to jail now, would you, Fleming?”
“It isn’t a question of jail,” replied Fleming.
“Oh, yes it is,” rejoined Joe. “You may not know that a law has been
passed making it a prison offense in New York State to run away after
knocking a man down with an auto and not stop to see what you can do for
him.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Fleming, going white.
“I know what I’m talking about,” answered Joe, in a voice that carried
conviction. “You’d better come to your senses, Fleming. We’ve got you
dead to rights. You ran this man down. You’ve admitted it. You ran away
without stopping. Half a dozen of us saw you do it. Nothing can save you
from going behind the bars if the matter is pressed. You’ll do the right
thing by this man, or I’ll see that you’re arrested the minute you set
foot in New York.”
“What do you mean by the square thing?” asked Fleming, who now was
thoroughly wilted.
“We’re not unreasonable,” said Joe. “You came within an ace of killing
this man. He had to go to a hospital. At his age he’ll feel the effect
of the shock as long as he lives. It will probably shorten his life. A
jury under those circumstances would certainly give him several thousand
dollars. I think you ought to give him at least two thousand. Will that
be satisfactory, Mr. Anderson?”
The old man nodded.
Fleming reflected a moment. Then he nodded surlily.
“I’ll do it,” he muttered.
“And do it to-day, if you please,” Joe went on smoothly. “I want to know
that this thing is settled before I go back to New York. Write down your
address, Mr. Anderson, and Mr. Fleming or his lawyer will be up to see
you before night. And I’ll run up myself before I leave, to see whether
it has been done.”
There was a threat in the last words that warned Fleming against any
attempt at evasion or delay. The latter agreed with a nod of his head.
There was no pretence of a farewell that would have been mere hypocrisy
under the circumstances, and without a word Baseball Joe’s party left
the room, while Fleming stared after them with baffled rage and hate in
his eyes.
Once more in the taxicab, Anderson broke out with a flood of thanks that
Joe waved aside lightly.
They drove around by way of his humble home and left him there, and then
went hurriedly down to their hotel.
Left to themselves in the car, Jim and Joe looked for a long time
steadily at each other. Then Jim burst out into a roar.
Joe grinned happily.
“Joe,” cried Jim when his paroxysms had subsided, “as a bluffer you’re a
wonder, a real wonder!”