VICTORY
Joe hardly knew what to do. He realized that all his efforts toward
getting the old ball player back on the right road might go for naught
if Pop went off with these loose companions.
And yet would he relish being interfered with by the young pitcher? Pop
was much older than Joe, but so far he had shown a strong liking for the
younger man, and had, half-humorously, done his bidding. Indeed Pop was
under a deep debt not only of gratitude to Joe, but there had been a
financial one as well, though most of that was now paid.
"But I don't want to see him slip back," mused Joe, as he walked along
in the shadows, taking care to keep far enough back from the twain. But
Pop never looked around. He seemed engrossed in his companion.
"What shall I do?" Joe asked himself.
He half hoped that some of the other members of the nine might come
along, and accost Pop, perhaps taking him off with them, as they had
done several times of late. For the old player was becoming more and
more liked--he was, in a way, coming into his own again, and he had a
fund of baseball stories to which the younger men never tired listening.
"If some of them would only come along!" whispered Joe, but none did.
He kept on following the two until he saw them go into one of the less
disreputable lodging houses in a poor quarter of the city. It was a house
where, though some respectable workingmen, temporarily embarrassed, made
their homes for a time, there was more often a rowdy element, consisting
of tramps, and, in some cases, criminals.
At election time it harbored "floaters" and "repeaters," and had been
the scene of many a police raid.
"I wonder what he can want by going in there?" thought Joe. "It's a good
thing Gregory can't see him, or he'd sure say my experiment was a
failure. It may be, after all; but I'm not going to give up yet. Now,
shall I go in, and pretend I happened by casually, or shall I wait
outside?"
Joe debated the two propositions within himself. The first he soon gave
up. He was not in the habit of going into such places, and the presence
of a well-dressed youth, more or less known to the public as a member
of the Pittston nine, would excite comment, if nothing else. Besides, it
might arouse suspicion of one sort or another. Then, too, Pop might
guess why Joe had followed him, and resent it.
"I'll just have to wait outside," decided Joe, "and see what I can do
when Pop comes out."
It was a dreary wait. From time to time Joe saw men slouch into the
place, and occasionally others shuffled out; but Pop did not come, nor
did his ragged companion appear.
Joe was getting tired, when his attention was attracted to a detective
whom he knew, sauntering rather aimlessly past on the opposite side of
the street.
"Hello!" thought the young ball player, "I wonder what's up?" He eyed
the officer closely, and was surprised, a moment later, to see him
joined by a companion.
"Something sure is in the wind," decided Joe. "I'm going to find out."
He strolled across the highway and accosted the detective with whom he
had a slight acquaintance.
"Oh, it's Matson, the Pittston pitcher!" exclaimed the officer.
"What's up, Regan?" asked Joe.
"Oh, nothing much. Do you know Farley, my side partner? Farley, this is
Matson--Baseball Joe, they call him. Some nifty little pitcher, too,
let me tell you."
"Thanks," laughed Joe, as he shook hands with the other detective.
"Why, we're looking for a certain party," went on Regan. "I don't mind
telling you that. We'll probably pull that place soon," and he nodded
toward the lodging house. "Some of the regulars will be along in a
little while," he added.
"Pull," I may explain, is police language for "raid," or search a
certain suspected place.
"Anything big?" asked Joe.
"Oh, nothing much. There's been some pocket-picking going on, and a few
railroad jobs pulled off. A lot of baggage belonging to wealthy folks
has been rifled on different lines, all over the country, and we think
we're on the track of some of the gang. We're going to pull the place
and see how many fish we can get in the net."
Joe did not know what to do. If the place was to be raided soon it might
mean that his friend, the old pitcher, would be among those arrested.
Joe was sure of his friend's innocence, but it would look bad for him,
especially after the life he had led. It might also be discouraging to
Pop, and send him back to his old companions again.
"How long before you'll make the raid?" asked Joe.
"In about half an hour, I guess," replied Regan. "Why, are you going to
stick around and see it?"
"I might. But there's a friend of mine in there," spoke Joe, "and I
wouldn't like him to get arrested."
"A friend of yours?" repeated Regan, wonderingly.
"Yes. Oh, he's not a hobo, though he once was, I'm afraid. But he's
reformed. Only to-night, however, he went out with one of his old
companions. I don't know what for. But I saw him go in there, and that's
why I'm here. I'm waiting for him to come out."
"Then the sooner he does the better," observed Farley, grimly. "It's a
bad place."
"Look here," said Joe, eagerly, "could you do me a favor, Mr. Regan?"
"Anything in reason, Joe."
"Could you go in there and warn my friend to get out. I could easily
describe him to you. In fact, I guess you must know him--Pop Dutton."
"Is Old Pop in there?" demanded the officer, in surprise.
"Yes," responded Joe, "but I'm sure he's all right. I don't believe you
want him."
"No, he's not on our list," agreed Regan. "Well, say, I guess I could do
that for you, Joe. Only one thing, though. If Farley or I happen in
there there may be a scare, and the birds we want will get away."
"How can we do it, then?" asked Joe.
A figure came shuffling up the dark street, and, at the sight of the two
detectives and the young pitcher, hesitated near a gas lamp.
"Hello! There's Bulldog!" exclaimed Regan, but in a low voice. "He'll
do. We'll send him in and have him tip Pop off to come out. Bulldog is
on our staff," he added. "He tips us off to certain things. Here,
Bulldog!" he called, and a short, squat man shuffled up. His face had a
canine expression, which, Joe surmised, had gained him his name.
"Slip into Genty's place, Bulldog," said Regan in a low voice, "and tell
a certain party to get out before the bulls come. Do you know Pop
Dutton?"
"Sure. He and I----"
"Never mind about that part of it," interrupted the detective. "Just do
as I tell you, and do it quietly. You can stay in. You might pick up
something that would help us."
"What, me stay in there when the place is going to be pulled, and get
pinched? Not on your life!" and the man turned away.
"Hold on!" cried Regan. "We'll get you out all right, same as we always
do. You're too valuable to us to go to jail for long."
Then, as Bulldog started for the dark entrance to the lodging house, Joe
realized that he had seen what is called a "stool-pigeon," a character
hated by all criminals, and not very much respected by the police whom
they serve. A "stool-pigeon" consorts with criminals, that he may
overhear their plans, and betray them to the police. Often he is himself
a petty criminal. In a sense he does a duty to the public, making it
more easy for the authorities to arrest wrong-doers--but no one loves a
"stool-pigeon." They are the decoy ducks of the criminal world.
I am making this explanation, and portraying this scene in Joe Matson's
career, not because it is pleasant to write about, for it is not. I
would much rather take you out on the clean diamond, where you could
hear the "swat" of the ball. But as Joe's efforts to make a new man of
the old pitcher took him into this place I can do no less than chronicle
the events as they happened. And a little knowledge of the sadder,
darker and unhappy side of life may be of value to boys, in deterring
them from getting into a position where it would appeal to them--appeal
wrongly, it is true, but none the less strongly.
The Bulldog had not been in the building more than a minute before the
door opened again, and Pop Dutton, alone, and looking hastily around,
came out. Joe got in a shadow where he could not be seen. He did
not want his friend humiliated, now that he had seen him come out
victorious.
For the young pitcher could see that Pop was the same straight and sober
self he had been since getting back on the right road. His association
with his former companions had evidently not tempted him.
"Oh, I'm glad!" exulted Joe.
Pop Dutton looked curiously at the two detectives.
"Thanks," he said briefly, as he passed them, and they knew that he
understood. Not for a long time afterward did the former pitcher know
that to Joe he owed so much. For, though his intention in going to the
rendezvous of the unfortunates of the under-world was good, still it
might have been misconstrued. Now there was no danger.
Afterward Joe learned that Pop had been urged by the man he met on the
street to take part in a robbery. The old pitcher refused, but his false
companion tried to lure him back to his old life, on the plea that only
from his own lips would his associates believe that Pop had reformed.
And Pop made them plainly understand that he had.
Pop Dutton passed on down the street, and, waiting a little while, Joe
followed. He did not care to see the raid. The young pitcher soon
reached his hotel, and he felt that Pop was safe in his own boarding
house.
The next morning Joe read of the wholesale arrests in the lodging house,
though it was said that the quarry the detectives most hoped to get
escaped in the confusion.
"Baggage robbers, eh?" mused Joe. "I wonder if they were the ones who
went through Reggie Varley's valise? If they could be caught it would
clear me nicely, providing I could prove it was they."