STEALING SIGNALS
Fleming sat in his chair, limp and sprawling, after the departure of the
trio who had burst in on him so unexpectedly. So swept and exhausted was
he by the tide of emotions aroused by their visit that he had forgotten
all about the presence of Connelly in the adjoining room, and only
became conscious of it when the fellow plumped himself down in the chair
beside him.
“Some stormy session,” he remarked, as he lighted a fat, black cigar.
Fleming only growled in reply.
“Don’t wonder that you feel sore,” Connelly commented. “They certainly
put the skids under you in great shape. That Matson is a bird and no
mistake.”
“I’ll get even with him yet,” Fleming broke out stormily. “I won’t let
him crow over me. I won’t pay that money.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” returned Connelly, calmly. “He’s got you where
the hair is short in that matter of the jail. It mightn’t have been so
bad if you’d kept your nerve and denied everything. But he got you so
rattled that you admitted knocking that fellow down and then the gravy
was spilled.”
“What was the use of keeping it up?” queried Fleming. “He had the facts.”
“Maybe he did,” admitted Connelly, doubtfully, “and then again he may
have had only some half facts and made a bluff at the rest. He’s got
nerve enough to do it. I have to hand it to him. But now you have
admitted it, you’ll have to pony up. What’s a couple of thousand to you,
anyway?”
“It isn’t so much the money,” Fleming muttered gloomily. “It’s knowing
that he got it out of me and is probably laughing at me this minute.”
“Let him laugh,” said Connelly, with the philosophy that it is so easy
to use where others are concerned. “We’ll have our laugh later on. But
you want to get that money paid right away, because if we put over on
Matson what we’re planning, he’ll be so furious that he’ll send you to
jail sure. But if the thing is settled, he’ll be helpless.
“Another thing, unless I’m very much mistaken, Matson himself has given
us a mighty valuable tip. He’s put a spoke in his own wheel.”
“What do you mean?” asked Fleming.
“Didn’t you hear him say that he was going to run up to-night to that
old man’s house to see whether you’d come across or not?”
“Yes.”
“Well, where could we have a better chance for pulling off our little
game? It’s probably a poor neighborhood with the lights none too good
and where a scrap wouldn’t attract much attention because it’s a common
thing. Moriarity and his bunch could be on hand and the rest would be as
easy as taking a dead mouse from a blind kitten.”
“By Jove, the very thing!” ejaculated Fleming, a look of malevolent
delight coming into his face.
“Sure it is,” chuckled Connelly. “I’ll get word to Moriarity at once.
In the meantime, you’d better settle. Take in all you can of the
neighborhood while you’re doing it.”
“Even if Markwith wins this afternoon and so ends the Series, I’d like
to put this through on Matson just the same,” snarled Fleming, viciously.
“No we won’t,” declared Connelly, decidedly. “I’m out to keep him from
winning the Series and nothing else. If Markwith wins, the game’s up,
anyway, and the thing ends for me right there. But if he loses I’ve got
a chance, and I’ll see that Matson doesn’t pitch the last game.”
All Boston seemed to have turned out that afternoon at Braves Field. The
enormous seating accommodations were taxed to capacity. It was the last
chance the loyal Bostonians would have to see their favorites in action.
And the fact that if they lost to-day their chance for the world’s
pennant was gone brought the excitement to a delirious pitch.
Landers was in the box for the Bostons while Markwith twirled for the
Giants. Before the game had gone three innings it was seen that both
these gladiators were out to do or die. There was an unusual number of
strike outs and the bases were occupied only at infrequent intervals.
Up to the fifth it was little more than a pitcher’s duel. But after
that, though Landers kept his effectiveness, the Red Sox began to get to
Markwith more frequently. It was not that the latter seemed to have let
down a particle. His speed and his curves were working beautifully, but
in a way almost uncanny the Bostons seemed to know what kind of ball was
coming next and set themselves for it accordingly.
In the sixth they gathered two runs. Burkett had clouted out a home run
for the Giants in their half, but that left them still one short of a
tie.
Boston started the seventh with a rattling two-bagger to center.
“I don’t understand it,” muttered McRae, uneasily. “Markwith never
seemed to be in better shape. He’s got a world of smoke.”
“They seem to know just what he’s going to feed them,” commented Robson.
“It almost looks----”
He was interrupted by a sharp exclamation from Joe.
“Look over there by the Boston dugout!” he exclaimed excitedly. “There’s
Hartley just behind the screen whispering to Banks. I’ll bet that skunk
is giving away Markwith’s signals!”
They looked in the direction indicated. Banks, the Boston second string
pitcher, was lolling carelessly against the railing of the grandstand,
idly chewing on a wisp of straw. Hartley’s face behind the screen was
not two feet away from Banks’ ear.
As Markwith prepared to wind up for the next pitch, Hartley leaned
forward a trifle and his lips moved. A glance and an almost imperceptible
sign passed between Banks and the man at the plate. Then as a low
incurve came sweeping up, the batsman caught it square on the seam for
a line single to left.
“Great Scott!” cried McRae, leaping up from the bench. “They’re stealing
our signals!”