THE STRANGER'S VISIT
Promptly the next morning at eleven, Westland put in an appearance at the
Matson home. He was carefully groomed and everything about him indicated
money. He fairly exuded prosperity.
He greeted Joe with a cordiality that seemed a trifle overdone,
considering their brief acquaintance.
"By George, Mr. Matson," he said, "this town has fallen for you all right.
The whole place is buzzing with that affair of last night, and I don't
wonder. If it hadn't been for you, the coroner and undertaker would be
busy this morning."
"Oh, I don't know," responded Joe. "If I hadn't got to it someone else
would. It wasn't much of a blaze anyway, and ten to one it would have gone
out of itself."
"Modest I see," laughed Westland. "They say that all great men are. But
you can't get anyone in this town to take such a slighting view of it as
you do yourself."
"You said last night that you had a business matter you wanted to see me
about," suggested Joe, in order to change the subject.
"So I have," replied Westland, "and I've traveled over a thousand miles to
talk to you personally about it."
He lighted a fresh cigar while Joe waited indifferently. He had been
interviewed so much in the last year or two on all conceivable subjects
that his curiosity was scarcely awakened.
"Of course, Mr. Matson," began Westland, "you've heard of the new major
league that has just been organized and----"
Joe's bored feeling vanished and he was wide-awake in an instant. So this
was what the visit meant! Jim's prediction was coming true sooner than he
had expected.
"Pardon me, Mr. Westland," he interrupted, "but if this is about baseball,
I have a friend visiting me who is as much interested in the game as I am.
In fact, he's a player himself. It's Jim Barclay of the Giants. You've
heard of him, of course. Hello there, Jim!" he called, as he threw open
the door into the adjoining room, where Jim was watching a distracting
dimple come and go in Clara's cheek as they chatted together.
"Really, Mr. Matson," said Westland, visibly flustered, "much as I would
like to meet Mr. Barclay, I would rather----"
But just then Jim came strolling in, and Joe hastened to introduce him. He
had used the stratagem in order to have a witness at hand. He was
determined that no false or twisted version of the interview should be
given out broadcast in the interest of the new league.
Despite his annoyance, Westland was diplomat enough to make the best of
the situation, and he acknowledged the introduction graciously.
"Mr. Westland called in connection with the new league we were reading
about yesterday, Jim," explained Joe, "and I knew that you would be
interested and so I called you in."
Jim's jaw set a trifle, but he only nodded and Westland went on:
"I'm a business man, Mr. Matson, and so are you. So I won't beat around
the bush, but come straight to the point. You're the greatest pitcher in
the country, and we want to secure your services for the new league. We've
got oceans of money behind us, and we're prepared to let you name your own
terms. We'll give you anything in reason--or out of reason for that
matter--if you'll sign up with us."
He delivered himself of this with the air of a man sure of having his
offer accepted. But if he had expected Joe to gasp with astonishment and
delight, he was disappointed.
"Well," said Joe quietly, after a moment's pause, "that's certainly a very
liberal proposition----"
"Oh, we're no pikers," put in Westland complacently.
"But there's one little thing in the way," Joe went on; "and that is that
I'm already signed up with the Giants for the next two years."
Westland saw that he was in for a tussle and braced himself.
"Of course, of course," he said, with the tolerant smile of a man of the
world. "I didn't think for a minute that McRae would let his kingpin run
around loose without being signed up. But you know what baseball contracts
are. They're so jug handled that no court would uphold them for a minute.
In fact, McRae wouldn't dare to bring it into court. He may threaten and
bluster, but that will be the end of it. That ten-day clause alone would
kill it with any judge."
"Even admitting that I could break my contract with the Giants and get
away with it," said Joe, leading him on, "what guarantee would you have
that I wouldn't do the same thing with you if I should want to?"
"The guarantee of your own self-interest," replied Westland, flicking the
ash from his cigar. "We'd make it so much worth your while to stay with us
that there wouldn't be any inducement to go anywhere else."
"In other words," said Joe, with a touch of sarcasm, "if you once bought
me you'd rely on your money to see that I'd stay bought."
"Now, now, Mr. Matson," put in Westland deprecatingly, "there's no use
putting it in so harsh a way as that. This is simply business I'm talking
to you, and in this world every man has got to look out for Number One.
Now I don't know how much money McRae pays you, but I make a guess that
it's about five thousand a year, a little more or a little less. Now I'll
tell you what we're prepared to do. We'll hand you twenty thousand dollars
the day you put your signature to a contract with us. Then we'll agree to
pay you fifteen thousand dollars a year for a three-years' term. And to
make the whole thing copper riveted, we'll put the whole amount in the
bank now, subject to your order as you go along. So that even if the new
league should break up, you could loaf for three years and be sixty-five
thousand dollars to the good."
With the air of one who had played his trump card and felt sure of taking
the trick, Westland from out his pocket drew a fountain pen.
"Put up your pen, Mr. Westland," said Joe calmly, "unless you want to
write to those who sent you here that there's nothing doing."
Jim brought his fist down on the arm of his chair with a bang.
"That's the stuff, Joe!" he cried jubilantly. "You knocked a home run that
time."
A look of blended astonishment and vexation came into Westland's eyes. He
seemed to doubt the evidence of his ears.
"Surely you're joking, Mr. Matson," he said. "No man in his senses would
turn down such an offer as that."
"I must be out of my senses then," replied Joe, "for that's exactly what
I'm doing."
"Perhaps you think we're bluffing," said Westland, "but money talks, and
here is where it fairly shouts."
He drew from his pocket a roll of bills of large denominations and laid it
on the table.
"There's the signing-up money," he explained. "They wanted me to bring a
certified check, but I insisted on the actual cash. Count it if you like
and take it to the bank if you doubt that it's good. There's twenty
thousand dollars in that roll, and every cent of it's yours if you put
your name at the bottom of this contract."
He laid an official-looking document on the table beside the bills, and
leaned back in his chair, ostensibly intent on the end of his cigar, but
watching Joe keenly from the corner of his eyes.
That pile of crisp yellowbacks was more money than Joe had ever seen at
one time in his life, except through the bars of a cashier's cage. And all
he had to do was to reach out, sign his name, and the next minute thrust
the bills into his pocket. They meant independence. They meant security.
They meant the power and comfort and luxury that money can give.
But they also meant treachery and dishonor, and Joe never wavered for an
instant.
"It's a lot of money, Mr. Westland," he agreed, "but it isn't enough."
A look of relief came into Westland's eyes. Perhaps his task wasn't
hopeless after all.
"If that's the case, perhaps we can raise the figures a little," he said
eagerly, "although we thought we were making a very liberal offer. But as
I said before, we're no pikers, and we wouldn't let a few thousands stand
between us. State your terms."
"You don't understand," replied Joe. "What I meant was that there isn't
money enough in your whole crowd to make me go back on my word and jump my
contract."
"Hot off the bat!" exclaimed Jim. "Gee, I wish McRae and Robbie and the
rest of the Giant bunch could have heard this pow-wow."
Westland evidently had all he could do to contain himself. He had felt so
serenely confident in the power of his money that he had scarcely allowed
himself to think of failure. Yet here was his money flouted as though it
were counterfeit, and he himself, instead of being greeted with open arms,
was being treated with scorn and contempt.
"Upon my word, Mr. Matson," he said, with an evident effort to keep cool,
"you have a queer way of meeting a legitimate business proposition."
"That's just the trouble," retorted Joe. "It isn't legitimate and you know
it. In the first place you're offering me a good deal more than I'm
worth."
"Oh, I don't know about that," expostulated Jim loyally. "There's at least
one man in the league getting that much, and he never saw the day when he
was a better man than you are."
"More than I'm worth," repeated Joe. "Still, if that were all, and you
were simply trying to buy my baseball ability, it would be your own affair
if you were bidding too high. But you don't want to give me all this money
because I'm a good pitcher. It's because you want to make me a good liar.
You think that every man has his price and it's only a matter of bidding
to find out mine."
"Now, now!" said Westland, spots of color coming into his cheeks.
"And more than that," went on Joe, not heeding the interruption, "you want
to make me a tool to lead others to break their contracts, too. I'm to be
the bellwether of the flock. You figure that if it's once spread abroad
that Matson has jumped into the new league, it will start a stampede of
contract breakers. I tell you straight, Westland, it's dirty business. If
you want to start a new league, go ahead and do it in a decent way. Get
new players and develop them, or get star players whose contracts have
expired. Play the game, but do it without marked cards or loaded dice."
Westland saw that he had lost, and he threw diplomacy to the winds.
"Keep your advice till it's asked for!" he snarled, snatching up the money
and jamming it viciously into his pocket. "I didn't come to this jay town
to be lectured by a hick----"
"What's that?" cried Joe, springing to his feet.
Westland was so startled by the sudden motion that he almost swallowed his
cigar. Before Joe's sinewy figure he stepped back and mumbled an apology.
Then he reached for his hat, and without another word stalked out of the
house, his features convulsed with anger and chagrin.
As he flung himself out of the gate, he almost collided with a messenger
boy bringing a telegram to Joe.
The latter signed for it and tore it open hastily. It was from the Giants'
manager and read:
"I hear the new league is coming after you hotfoot. But I'm betting
on you, Joe.
"McRae."
He handed it over to Jim who read it with a smile.
"Betting on me, is he?" said Joe. "Well, Mac, you win!"