A TENSE MOMENT
When a mysterious stranger takes up his abode in any community, there is
sure to be a difference of opinion regarding his true nature. To some he
is certain to be a romantic figure, to others an evil menace. It was so
with the “Prince.” There were those who said he was a famous young
chemist working out a formula that was to be of vast benefit to all the
world. There were others—and this was strange—many others who said, “He
is an industrial spy! Colonel Chamberlain will find this out too late!”
But what is an industrial spy? Probably there was not one person in ten
who could have told. And always the thing we do not understand is the one
we fear most.
Having heard all this, Johnny, on the day following his visit to the
“Prince,” buckled up his courage and walked into Colonel Chamberlain’s
office.
“Hello, Johnny!” the Colonel greeted him. “What’s troubling you? Lost
last week’s game? Well, you can’t win ’em all. You’ll win next time.”
“We sure will,” Johnny agreed, “but it’s not that.
“Colonel—” Johnny was sitting on the edge of his chair. “Colonel
Chamberlain, what is an industrial spy?”
“An industrial spy?” The Colonel sat up. “He’s a man paid by one nation
to steal industrial secrets from another nation—new inventions, new
processes, new chemical inventions.
“But,” he added quickly, “if you think our J., the one you call ‘Prince,’
is an industrial spy, think again. He’s not!”
“I—I’m glad.” Johnny settled back in his place.
“But see here!” He was on his feet now. “Look at this, and this, and
this.” He was dragging things from a paper bag.
“What’s it all about?” The Colonel smiled.
“I’ll tell—tell you all about it.” Johnny seemed out of breath.
When he got going, however, the things he said, the proof he gave for all
the things he believed, left the good Colonel staring.
“If all you say is true—and of course it is—” the Colonel said slowly,
“something should be done about it.”
He went into a brown study. He drummed the desk with his pencil.
“Tell you what,” he said at last, “Rome was not built in a day. Let’s not
be in a hurry. The evidence you already possess convinces you and me. But
would it convince everyone? We’ll just wait a bit and see if we cannot
gather more. If those two men return they will do something else. We’ll
be prepared to trap them. Let’s see if we can’t worry along until two
weeks from—let’s see—” he consulted his calendar. “Yes sir! That’s the
very day!”
Johnny knew he was speaking now of something strange and quite unknown to
him.
“Yes sir!” the Colonel repeated, “You see if we can’t wait to spring this
thing two weeks from next Saturday, after the game, the last of the
season. And Johnny—” he leaned forward to whisper in the boy’s ear. “I
think at that time I can tell you J.’s secret. Or—wait! Better still—I’ll
have him tell it.”
“That,” said Johnny in a tone that carried conviction, “will be swell!”
A moment later he found himself once more in the street. His precious
paper bag of “evidence” was securely tucked under his arm.
After taking a dozen steps he paused to look back. Strangely enough, in
his mind’s eye he saw at that moment not a brick building, but an
airplane landing. From the airplane two persons stepped. One slim and
dark with a dyed face, and the other was Colonel Chamberlain. Then his
own words to the aviator on that night several days ago, came back to
him: “Looks like a jail delivery.”
“But it couldn’t have been Colonel Chamberlain!” he told himself stoutly
now. “Or, if it was, it surely was all right.” He was determined not to
lose faith in a friend. “‘Thine own friend and thy father’s friend
forsake not,’” he whispered.
Saturday afternoon came. The day was bright and clear. A brisk breeze
from the west was blowing loose papers across the diamond. “Good!” Johnny
exulted to himself. “There’ll be no soaring airplane today. But that ugly
pair will be up to something!” His brow wrinkled. Once again he murmured,
“I wonder why.”
The fame of the “Prince” had traveled far. The fact that he would once
again appear had been highly advertised. There is nothing like a first
class mystery to draw a crowd. The crowd was there for sure. The
bleachers were packed and all available space overflowing long before the
game was scheduled to start.
The umpire had taken his place, the mysterious pitcher was moving toward
the box. Johnny was staring dreamily at nothing at all, when Goggles,
with a strange look on his face, came sidling up to him.
“Jo—Johnny!” He stared through his thick glasses. He fairly stammered in
his excitement. “Johnny, you didn’t see tho—those men who ca—came back to
g—get something out of that bun—bungalow. Wan—want to see them? Well,
th—there they are! Right over there, close to Big Tim Murphy!”
“Big Tim!” Johnny’s blood ran cold. Big Tim had once been the promoter of
a Sunday baseball league. Could it be that Big Tim was trying to get the
ball park, that these two were his aids?
It flashed through Johnny’s mind that he might be behind the group who
were seeking to get control of their ball ground. “Can it be that Big Tim
has hired these men to annoy our pitcher?” he asked himself. He hated to
think this. Big Tim was not like Big Bill Tyson. He had very little money
and he surely was not soft and flabby. Big Tim worked. “Must give him the
benefit of the doubt,” he decided.
That the strangers sitting close to Big Tim were here for no good purpose
became apparent at once. Hardly had the “Prince” taken his place than
they began to razz him.
If the “Prince” heard them, he made no sign. The throng that gathered
that day had never seen better pitching than came from his supple arm
during the first four innings of that game.
For all this, the mysterious pair became more and more personal and
cutting in their shouts at that silent figure on the mound.
“They should be put off the grounds!” Goggles fumed.
“Ought to mob ’em!” Johnny agreed.
The affair came to a sudden climax as, at the end of the fourth inning
the “Prince” on his way to the bench passed close to the strangers. Then
it was that the larger of the two, leaning far forward, called him a
name. He spoke low. It was not a pretty name. Few heard it. Johnny heard.
The pitcher too must have heard, for his lips turned blue and twitched in
a manner painful to behold. He did not speak. He marched straight on.
Big Tim Murphy must have heard, for, slowly lifting his great bulk from
his bleacher seat, he stood towering above the two strangers.
“Look a-here!” His tone was like the low rumble of a lion. “You’ve said
enough. Fact is, you’ve said a few words too much.” He cleared his
throat. “I’ve been watchin’ these boys with their ball game. They’re
puttin’ on a good, clean, honest show.”
Johnny felt a sudden ache in his throat. Big Tim was championing their
cause! Big Tim!
“As for that pitcher,” Tim went on, “I don’t know him—reckon there ain’t
many here that does. But I been watchin’. He ain’t done nothin’ to you.
Not a thing! Not here. If he’s done things in other places, then you go
there to settle ’em. You can’t spoil these boys’ baseball game.”
“_You_ don’t look like a Sunday School scholar!” the larger man sneered.
“All right—” Tim’s voice boomed. “Just for that, you’ll apologize!”
He took a step forward. “You called that pitcher a name that in this town
means an apology or a fight! You’ll beg that pitcher’s pardon. You’ve got
three minutes to do it. An’ if you don’t, I’ll pop your heads together
till they crack like pumpkins bustin’ on the frozen ground!”
“He’ll do it too!” Goggles whispered to Johnny.
“But two of them!” Johnny whispered.
“Don’t matter. He’ll do it.”
Tim had dragged a huge watch from his pocket. The men were silent. The
whole throng was still. The chirping notes of a robin in a distant apple
tree could be heard distinctly. So a moment passed.
Big Tim did not move a muscle; just stood there watching the second hand
go around. So another moment passed.
“All—all right.” The larger of the two strangers wet his lips. “All
right, you win. Call that fellow over. I’ll tell him.”
“Hey!” Tim roared, “You pitcher! Come over here! This fellow’s got
somethin’ to say to you!”
The “Prince” came. The little ceremony was soon over. Then the game was
resumed.
“Big Tim,” Johnny whispered, “Even Big Tim is with us! What a wonderful
town this is!” Then a thought struck him with the force of a blow. “If
only I had the thought-camera I could take a picture of what’s in those
fellow’s minds.” He was away like the wind.
He was back in fifteen minutes, but the place where the strangers had
been was vacant. “Gone!” he murmured as a wave of keen disappointment
swept over him.
They were gone. But were they through? He doubted that. What would they
do next? And why? There came no answer.
That was a red letter day for old Hillcrest. The gate receipts were
wonderful. Never in the town’s history had there been so many paid
admissions to a ball game. This crowd had come to see a mysterious youth
pitch a ball game. They were not disappointed. The “Prince” lasted the
whole nine innings. After the episode of Big Tim Murphy and the
strangers, he pitched like one inspired. In the remaining innings only
six men got on base and none came home. The score at the end stood 12 to
1. Again the Hillcrest rooters went wild. Once more Johnny sighed deeply
as he murmured, “Only one more game, and the pennant will be won.”
That game was still nearly two weeks off. When that game was played the
Hillcrest team would be back from their airplane cruise.
“Will it be a triumphant return?” he asked himself. “Will they bring home
the money needed to make the ball field truly our own?” He thought of the
short dark man who had seemed so determined that Irons O should not be a
success. He thought of the two strangers, of the Chinaman Tao Sing, and
of the Federal agents. “In that time,” he told himself, “anything may
happen, just anything at all.” And, as you shall see, many things did
happen.