A BLOW IN THE DARK
McRae rushed over to the umpire.
“There’s a fellow over there in the grandstand giving away our signs,”
he stormed.
Cries of derision came from the stands.
“Hire a hall!”
“Write him a letter!”
“Play ball!”
The umpire called time and walked over with McRae to where Banks was
standing.
“Get away from there,” he ordered.
“Why?” asked Banks, impudently.
“Never mind why. Get away I tell you.”
There was nothing left but to obey and Banks sauntered off.
“And as for you,” said the umpire, addressing Hartley, “if I see you
talking to any of the players I’ll have you put out of the park.”
“You’re a disgrace to the National League,” cried McRae, glaring at
Hartley, “and I’ll see that you get all that’s coming to you for this
bit of work.”
“Aw, what’s eating you?” retorted “Bugs” sullenly. “I wasn’t doing
anything.” But he seemed to shrivel up before the rage in his former
manager’s eyes, and for the rest of the game obeyed the umpire’s
injunction.
Markwith and Mylert, who was catching him, instantly changed their signs
and the Bostons scored no more. But the damage was already done, for
Landers was doing some demon pitching, and the game ended with the score
two to one in favor of the Red Sox.
It was a hard game to lose, and Markwith received nothing but condolence
and sympathy from his mates. He had pitched superbly and though beaten
was not disgraced.
“I wonder how much that traitor got for giving away his own league,”
said Joe, bitterly.
“Probably just enough to fill up his wretched skin with booze,” returned
Jim. “Fellows like him come cheap.”
“He won’t get another chance,” put in McRae, angrily. “I’ll have the
stands searched to-morrow, and if he’s there he’ll be bundled out neck
and heels.”
Once more the hard-won lead of the Giants had vanished into thin air.
But they took heart of hope and braced up for the struggle on the
morrow. They were to play on their own grounds and Joe would be in the
box.
All the members of Joe’s party were boiling over with indignation. If
anything they took the defeat harder than the players themselves, who
had learned in a hard school to take what was coming to them and brace
up for revenge.
“Well, to-morrow’s a new day and what we’ll do to those fellows then
will be a caution,” Jim declared philosophically.
Perhaps his cheerful view of things was increased by the fact that Clara
had promised to let him take her for a cozy little spin to see Bunker
Hill Monument by moonlight. The moon just then was in high favor with
these two young people.
It was arranged that the pair need not come back to the hotel, but that
Jim could bring Clara directly to the train. Mr. Matson and Reggie would
escort the others.
Joe grudged every minute spent away from Mabel and stayed with her as
long as he could that evening. But he had promised to drop in on Louis
Anderson to see that the arrangement with Fleming had been carried out,
and at last he left her reluctantly, promising to see her again on the
train if only long enough to say good-night.
But though he was deprived of her physical presence, his thoughts were
full of her as he was whisked away in the car he had summoned, and the
time passed so quickly that he was surprised when the driver drew up in
front of Anderson’s house.
“Wait for me here,” he directed as he stepped out. “I’ll only be a few
minutes.”
“Very well, sir,” was the response.
Hardly had Joe gone inside when a man stepped up to the curb.
“I want you to take me to the North Station,” he said, preparing to step
inside.
“Sorry, sir,” was the answer, “but I’m waiting for the fare I brought
here.”
“But I must get that train, I tell you,” persisted the other. “I’ll pay
you anything you want. Ten dollars, fifteen even.”
The driver was tempted.
“Make it twenty and I’ll go,” he said. “I suppose the gentleman can pick
up another car.”
“Sure he can,” replied the other. “Twenty it is. Get a move on, now.”
He got inside and the car whizzed away.
Joe found Anderson and his wife radiant.
“He did it, Mr. Matson!” the old man cried. “He grumbled a lot about
having had to telegraph on to New York to have his bank wire the cash
to him, but he did it. And I signed a paper giving him a release of all
claims against him. Oh, Mr. Matson, we can never thank you enough for
what you have done for us.”
His wife joined in his expressions of gratitude.
“Don’t mention it,” smiled Joe. “I only did what any decent man would
do to right a great wrong. And you squared the account when you gave me
that warning the other day. I was just on the point of stepping into a
trap when I thought of the warning and it saved me.”
“Is that so?” cried Anderson, delightedly. “I’m mighty glad if it helped
you.”
They chatted happily for a few minutes and then, as his time was getting
short, Joe took his leave with their repeated thanks ringing in his ears.
He was dumbfounded when he saw that the taxicab was not there.
“Where in thunder is that fellow?” he asked himself. “I suppose he’s
getting a nip in the nearest saloon.”
But when, after a minute or two spent in waiting, no car appeared, Joe
started for the nearest thoroughfare, three short blocks away.
He was just passing the second corner when a man stepped out of the
shadows with something in his hand.
“Hi, there, stop!”
“What do you want?” demanded Joe, trying to make out the face in the
darkness.
“I want you!” hissed the man.
He took a step closer and raised the object he carried in his hand.
Joe tried to dodge, but it was too late.
There was a quick blow. Joe felt no sense of pain. Rather it was a
gradual sinking, sinking, ten thousand fathoms deep!
Then the famous young baseball player became unconscious.