DANGER SIGNALS
The travelers were now in the most picturesque part of their journey, and
the magnificent views that spread before them as they topped the ridges of
the continent and dropped down on the other side into the land of flowers
and eternal summer were a source of unending interest and pleasure.
"I'll tell you what, Joe," remarked Jim: "I never had an idea that this
section of our country was so truly grand."
"It certainly is magnificent scenery," was Joe's answer. "Just look at
those mountain tops, will you? Some height there, believe me!"
"Yes. And just see the depth of some of those canyons, will you? Say! if a
fellow ever fell over into one of those, he'd never know what happened to
him."
"I've been watching this particular bit of scenery for some time,"
remarked Joe. "It somehow had a familiar look to it, and now I know why."
"And why is it, Joe?"
"I'll tell you. Some time ago I saw a moving picture with the scene laid
in the Rocky Mountains, and, unless I'm greatly mistaken, some of the
scenes were taken right in this locality."
"Was that a photo-play called 'The Girl From Mountain Pass?'" questioned
another player who was present.
"It was."
"Then you're right, Matson; because I was speaking about that film to the
conductor of this train, and he said that some of the pictures were taken
right around here. His train was used in one of the scenes."
This matter was talked over for several minutes, but then the conversation
changed; and, presently, the chums went off to talk about other matters.
Joe and Jim were lounging in the rear of the observation car, talking over
the stirring events of the night before, when McRae happened along and
dropped into a seat beside them.
"Some game that was yesterday, boys," he remarked genially. "Those Denver
fellows were curly bears, but we trimmed them just the same."
"Yes," grinned Jim. "But we weren't comfortable while we were doing it."
"They sure did worry us," acquiesced Joe. "They made us know at least that
we'd been in a fight."
"It was that ninth-inning work of yours that pulled us through, Joe,"
declared McRae. "That stunt you pulled of whirling on your heel and
shooting it over to third was a pretty bit of inside stuff. And there
wasn't anything slow either about spearing that ball that Thompson hit."
"I'd have let the fielders take care of that," admitted Joe, "if there
hadn't been so much at stake. My hand stung for an hour afterward. But I'd
have hated to let those fellows crow over us."
"That fellow, Alvarez, that Thorpe rang in on us was a sure-enough
pitcher," observed McRae. "I'd sign him up in a minute if it weren't for
that dark skin of his. But it wouldn't work. We had a second baseman like
that one time, and although he was a rattling good player it nearly broke
up the team. It's too bad that color should stand in the way of a man's
advancement, but it can't be helped.
"By the way," he continued, drawing a paper from his pocket, "here's
something that may interest you. It's the official record of the National
League of the pitching averages for this season. It made me feel good when
I read it and you'll see the reason why."
He handed them the paper, which they opened eagerly to the sporting page.
Joe's heart felt a thrill of satisfaction as he saw that his name stood at
the head of the list, and Jim, too, was elated, as he noted that although
this was his first year in a major league his name was among the first
fifteen--a rare distinction for a "rookie."
"Some class to the Giants, eh?" grinned McRae. "There's sixty names in
that list and no single team has as many in the first twelve as we have.
That average of yours, Joe, of 1.53 earned runs per game is a hummer.
Hughson is close on your heels with 1.56. The Rube, you see, is eighth in
the list with 1.95, and Jim's eleventh with 2.09. I tell you, boys, that's
class, and to cap it all we won the pennant."
"Two pennants, you mean," corrected Jim with a smile.
"And neither one to be sneezed at," grinned Joe.
"We sure had a great season," observed McRae. "If we start next year with
the same team we ought to go through the league like a prairie fire. I
have every reason to think that Hughson will be in tip-top shape when the
season opens, and if he is, there won't be any pitching staff that can
hold a candle to ours. But----"
He paused uncertainly and looked at Joe as though he wanted to speak to
him privately. Jim saw the look and took the hint.
"I guess I'll go into the smoker and see what the rest of the fellows are
doing, if you'll excuse me," he said, rising and strolling back.
McRae greeted his departure with evident satisfaction.
"I'm glad to have a chance to talk to you alone, Joe," he said. "You're my
right bower and I can talk to you more freely than to anyone else, except
Hughson. I don't mind telling you that this new league is worrying me a
lot."
"What is it?" asked Joe with quick interest. "Anything happened lately?"
"Plenty," replied McRae. "I've kidded myself with the idea that the thing
was going to peter out of its own accord. Every few seasons something of
the kind crops up, but it usually comes to nothing. Usually the men who
put up the coin get scared when they see what a big proposition it is
they've tackled and back out. Sometimes, too, they go about it in such a
blundering way that it's bound to fail from the start.
"But this time it's different. They've got barrels of money behind them,
and they're spending it like water. There's one of them named Fleming,
whose father is a millionaire many times over, and he seems to have money
to burn. They certainly are making big offers to star players all over the
country. You saw the way they came at you, and they're doing the same in
other places. There isn't a paper that I pick up that doesn't give the
name of some big player that they're tampering with. The last one I saw
was Altman of the Chicago White Sox. I guess though, that is a wrong
steer, for Altman has come out flat for his old team and denies any
intention of jumping his contract."
"Bully for Nick!" exclaimed Joe. "I guess I helped to queer that deal. I
saw Westland talking to him, and he seemed to have him going, but I put a
few things straight to Nick and he seems to have come to his senses before
it's too late."
"There's Munsey of the Cincinnatis, he's left his reservation," continued
McRae. "He's the crack shortstop of the country. They've got a line out,
too, for Wilson of the Bostons, and you know they don't make any better
outfielders than he is. In fact, they're biting into the teams everywhere,
and none of them know where they're at. If I'd known they were going at it
so seriously, and hadn't got so far in my preparations for this trip, I
think I wouldn't have gone on this world's tour. It looks to me as though
the major leagues would be backed up against the wall and fighting for
their lives before this winter's over."
"It may not be as bad as you think," said Joe consolingly. "Even if they
get a lot of the stars, there will be a great many left. And, besides,
they may have trouble in finding suitable grounds to play on."
"But they will," declared McRae. "They've got the refusal of first-class
locations in every big city of the major league. I tell you, there's
brains behind this new league and that's what's worrying me. I don't know
whether it's Fleming----"
"No," interrupted Joe, smiling contemptuously, as he thought of the
dissipated young fellow whom he had thrashed so soundly. "It isn't
Fleming. He's got money enough, but there's a vacuum where his brains
ought to be."
"Then it's his partners," deduced McRae. "And their brains with his money
make a strong combination."
"Well," comforted Joe, "there's one good thing about this trip, anyway.
You've got the Giants out of reach of their schemes."
McRae looked around to see if anyone were within earshot, and then leaned
over toward Joe.
"Don't fool yourself," he said earnestly. "I'm afraid right now there are
traitors in the camp!"