THE SIGNED CONTRACT
"If old Pharaoh could only see us now!" chortled Jim, as the teams lined
up for their first game.
"He'd probably throw a fit," grinned Denton.
"Not a bit of it," said Joe. "He'd probably be up in the grandstand,
eating peanuts and singing out once in a while to 'kill the umpire.'"
"And he'd do it too," laughed Jim. "I'll bet an umpire in those days would
have had a hard job to get life insurance. It would have been good dope to
get a tip before the game as to just what team Pharaoh wanted to win."
"I think you men are awfully irreverent," reproved Mabel, who, with Clara,
was seated in the first row in the stand right behind the players' bench
and had overheard the conversation.
"Not at all," laughed Jim. "It's a big compliment to Pharaoh to suggest
that he would have been a baseball fan if he hadn't been born too soon. It
puts him on a level with the President of the United States."
The teams were playing on the cricket field used by the English residents,
and not far off the Pyramids reared their stately heads toward the sky. It
was a strange conjunction of the past and the present, and all were more
or less impressed by it.
"Well, I must confess that in my wildest dreams of seasons gone by, I
never supposed that I would be pitching here in Egypt in the shadow of the
pyramids," remarked Joe.
"It certainly takes a fellow back to ancient days," put in Jim. "Just
imagine playing before a crowd of those old Egyptians!"
"Well, they had fun in their day just as well as we have," said McRae.
"Just the same, they didn't know how good baseball is."
"They didn't even know anything about yelling to kill the umpire when a
wrong decision was given," remarked Joe, with a grin, and at this there
was a general laugh.
There was a big outpouring of Europeans and visiting Americans, and under
the inspiration of their interest and applause both teams played
brilliantly. It was a hammer-and-tongs contest from start to finish, and
resulted in the first tie of the trip, neither team being able to score,
although the game went to eleven innings.
"Still two ahead," McRae said to Brennan, as they left the grounds after
the game.
"We're gunning for you," retorted Brennan good-naturedly, "and we'll get
you yet. You've had all the breaks so far, but our turn has got to come."
"Tell that to the King of Denmark," laughed McRae. "We've got your number,
old man."
The party "did" Egypt thoroughly, visiting Cairo, Thebes and Memphis,
climbing the Pyramids, sailing on the Nile, viewing the temples of Karnak
and Philae, the statue of Memnon, and countless other places of interest
in this cradle of the world's civilization. And it was a tired but happy
crowd that finally assembled at Alexandria to take ship for Naples, their
first stopping place on the continent of Europe.
Braxton was no longer with the party, having left it at Ceylon, and others
had dropped away here and there. But in the main the members were the same
as at the beginning. Their health had been excellent, and only a few
things had occurred to mar the pleasure of the trip.
The discomfort that Joe had felt had largely worn away with the passing of
time. Every day was bringing him nearer the time when with the opening of
the season he would actually appear on the diamond wearing a Giant
uniform, and thus effectually dispose of the slander that had troubled
him.
There had just been time enough to receive some of the earliest papers
from America that had been published after the receipt of his denial. That
denial had evidently produced a great effect, coupled as it was with the
offer to give a thousand dollars to charity if the new league could
produce any contract signed by him. "Money talks," and the paper intimated
that the All-Star League had the next move and that it would be "in bad"
with the public if it failed to make its statements good.
"They'll have a hot time doing it," grinned Joe.
"I'm wondering how they'll dodge it," remarked Jim.
"By getting out a new lie to bolster up the old one probably," conjectured
Joe.
The latest papers from America had come on board just as the steamer left
Alexandria, and in the hurry of getting aboard and settling down in their
new quarters it was after supper that night before Joe hurried to the
smoking room to have a look at them.
"Got a thousand dollars handy, Joe?" inquired Denton, as Joe came near
him.
"Because, if you have, the All-Star League wants it," added Larry.
"What do you mean?" asked Joe, all the old discomfort and apprehension
coming back to him.
"Read this," replied Larry, handing him a paper opened at the sporting
page.
Joe read:
"All-Star League Calls Matson's Bluff. Produces Signed Contract.
Facsimile of Contract Shown Below."
And staring right out at him was the photographic reproduction of a
regulation baseball contract and at the bottom was written the name:
"Joseph Matson."
Joe stared at it as though he were in a dream. Here was the old blow at
his reputation, this time with redoubled force. Here was what claimed to
be the actual contract. But it was not the body of the contract that held
his attention. The thing that made him rage, that gave him a sense of
furious helplessness, that put his brain in a whirl, was this:
_He knew that that was his signature!_
No matter how it came there, it was his. A man's name can seldom be so
skilfully forged that it can deceive the man himself. It may get by the
cashier of the bank, but when it is referred back to the man who is
supposed to have written it, that man knows instinctively whether he ever
wrote it. Perhaps he cannot tell why he knows it, but he knows it just the
same.
So Joe _knew_ that it was his signature that was photographed on that
contract. But he also knew another thing just as certainly.
_He had never signed that contract!_
Both things contradictory. Yet both things true.
Larry and Denton were watching him closely. Joe looked up and met their
eyes. They were two of his oldest and warmest friends on the Giant team
and had always been ready to back him through thick and thin. Confidence
still was in their gaze, but with it was mixed bewilderment almost equal
to Joe's own.
Before anything further could be said, McRae and Robbie joined the group.
"Well, Joe, there's the contract," said McRae.
"It seems to be a contract all right," replied Joe. "I haven't had time to
read what it says, but that doesn't matter anyway. The only important
thing is that I never signed that contract."
"That seems to be a pretty good imitation of your signature at the bottom
there," chimed in Robbie.
"It's even better than that," said Joe, taking the bull by the horns. "It
isn't even an imitation. It's my own signature."
Both Robbie and McRae looked at him as if they thought he was crazy.
"I don't get you, Matson," said McRae, a little sternly. "And it seems to
me it's hardly a time for joking. There's the contract. You say you didn't
sign it, and yet you admit that the name at the bottom is your own
signature. How do you explain it?"
"I don't pretend to explain it," replied Joe. "There's crooked work
somewhere that I've got to ferret out. Somehow or other my name, written
by me, has gotten on the bottom of that contract. But I never put it
there. Some rascal has, and when I find him, as I will, may Heaven have
mercy on him, for I won't!"