PERPLEXING PROBLEMS
“I hope you’re right, Robbie,” replied McRae, “and I believe you are.
But not a word about this to anybody yet until we’ve mulled it over in
our minds from every angle and are ready to spring it. I don’t want
Iredell to get any inkling of it yet, for then perhaps he’d get sullen
and indifferent and things will be even worse than they are now.”
“I’ll keep it under my hat,” promised Robbie. “How do you think
Iredell’s going to take it? He’s an ugly sort of customer, you know,
when he gets roiled.”
“I guess he’ll be easy enough to handle,” returned McRae. “I’ll let
him down easy and heal his wounds with a little increase in salary.
But whether he does or not, I’m not going to let any one’s personal
ambitions stand in the way of the success of the team. That comes
before anything.”
“Well now, to change the subject,” said Robbie, “who are we going to
put in the box to-morrow? We’ve got to have that game, or the Chicagos
will have a clean sweep of the series.”
“I guess we’ll have to depend on Markwith,” replied McRae. “The
Chicagos have never been able to do much against his southpaw slants.
Other things being equal, I’d put Barclay in the box. But he pitched
the last part of to-day’s game, and perhaps it will be too soon to ask
him to repeat. Even at that I may take a chance. I’ll see how they warm
up before the game.”
“It’s too bad that Matson was hurt in to-day’s game,” remarked Robbie.
“We were counting on him to take at least two games from St. Louis.
Barclay, perhaps, could take another. Three out of four would help us
some in winding up the trip. But if they trim us, too, as all the other
Western teams have done, I’ll hate to go back and face the New York
fans.”
“I’ll work Jim in two of them,” said McRae. “Markwith, Bradley and
Merton will have to help him out. Possibly Joe will be in shape for the
last game. And maybe the team will take a brace and wake up. At any
rate, we can only hope. There isn’t much nourishment in hope, but it’s
all we’ve got.”
In the meantime, Jim and Joe had finished their dressing and were
preparing to leave the clubhouse.
Jackwell and Bowen were the only occupants left in the place. They were
sitting in a corner engaged in earnest conversation.
“How is the leg, Matson?” asked Bowen, as the two chums passed near
them.
“None too good,” returned Joe. “But it doesn’t feel as sore as I feel
inside to see that game go flooey. Pity you fellows weren’t in it.
McGuire and Renton weren’t so bad in the field, but they’re not as good
stickers as you fellows, and your bats might have turned the tide. By
the way, are you feeling any better now?”
“I’m all right,” answered Jackwell, a little confusedly.
“I’m not feeling exactly up to snuff,” said Bowen. “But I guess I’ll be
able to go in to-morrow.”
“Ptomaine poisoning’s a pretty bad thing,” said Joe, looking at them
rather quizzically. “It usually hangs on for days. You’re lucky to get
over it so quickly.”
“You look fit as a fiddle,” added Jim, dryly. “Or is it the hectic
flush of disease that gives you such a good color?”
“I guess it was only a slight attack,” said Jackwell. “Just enough to
put us out of our stride for the day.”
“I’ve got to get to the hotel and get there quickly,” declared Joe, a
twinge going through his foot as he stepped down from the threshold of
the clubhouse. “Mabel will be at the hotel, wondering what on earth has
happened to me.”
“By jiminy, that’s so!” cried Jim, turning to stare at his chum. “What
will you think of me, old boy, if I confess that in the excitement of
the game I’d forgotten about her coming?”
Joe grinned.
“You wouldn’t have been so quick to forget if Clara had been able to
come along with her,” he said, as he walked along gingerly, favoring
his injured leg.
“Say, Joe, that leg must be pretty bad,” said Jim, anxiously. “Better
rest a while, don’t you think, before starting out?”
“I tell you I’ve waited too long already,” returned Joe. “Just call a
taxi, will you? and we’ll spin down to the hotel in no time.”
Jim went personally in search of a conveyance. It was not hard to find
one, and he returned almost immediately to find Joe limping toward him
with the aid of a cane furnished by Dougherty. The latter had offered
him his shoulder, but Joe, with a smile, refused.
“I may be a cripple, but I refuse to be treated as such,” he told Jim,
in response to the latter’s protest. “Next thing you know, they’ll be
offering to carry me on a stretcher.”
Nevertheless, Jim noted that Joe sighted the taxicab with eagerness,
and leaned back in its shabby interior with a sigh of relief.
“Hate to show myself to Mabel in this shape,” he said ruefully. “Looks
as though I’d had the worst end of the fight.”
“Rather step up lively to the tune of ‘Hail the Conquering Hero Comes,’
I suppose?” said Jim, with an understanding grin. “I think I get your
train of thought all right, old man. But I wouldn’t worry, if I were
you. Nothing you could do would ever make Mabel think you anything but
a hero.”
“Let’s hope you have the right dope,” said Joe.
He looked abstractedly from the dingy windows of the cab at the
spectacle of the crowded streets. At that moment he really saw nothing
but his young wife as she had looked the last time they had been forced
to say good-bye. It had seemed to him then that he could never bear
to part from her again. He was so eager to get to her that he had a
ludicrous desire to get out and push the taxicab along.
“Thought it was to-night that Mabel was coming,” remarked Jim,
interrupting his reverie. “You could have met her at the train then.”
“Reggie found that he would have to come to the city on business, and
since it was necessary for him to come on an earlier train, Mabel
decided to change her own plans so that she could come along with
him,” explained Joe.
“Oh, so we’re about to see our old friend, Reggie, again!” exclaimed
Jim, with real enthusiasm. “Glad to see the old boy, though I can’t
help wishing he’d mislay that monocle of his. ‘The bally thing makes
me nervous, don’t you know?’” he finished, in perfect imitation of the
absent Reggie.
Reginald Varley not only had the fact that he was Mabel’s brother to
recommend him to Joe and Jim, but despite his affectation of a supposed
English accent and the absurdity of a monocle, Reggie was a fine and
likable fellow.
For his part, Reggie professed a great admiration for the chums,
especially for his brother-in-law, Baseball Joe. When he could help it,
he never missed an opportunity of following the exploits of the two,
and, therefore, he had been grateful on this occasion to business for
furnishing him an excuse for accompanying his sister to Chicago while
the Giants were still there.
“Suppose we go light on this accident, Jim,” suggested Joe, indicating
his injured leg and foot. “Just a slight sprain you know.”
“I get you,” returned Jim, adding, as his suddenly startled gaze leaped
to the traffic that whirled past the rapidly moving taxicab: “Look at
that car coming toward us. On the wrong side of the street, too! That
driver’s either drunk or crazy!”
Instantly Joe took in the danger. A big automobile, being driven at
terrific speed, had rounded the corner on two wheels and was charging
down upon them. It seemed that the driver of their taxicab would be a
superman if he should prove able to avoid a terrible accident.
Jim had opened the door as though to jump, but Joe called to him.
“Sit tight, Jim,” he gritted. “It’s the only way.”
Lucky for them that the taxi man was keen witted. He saw the only
thing that was possible to do in such an emergency, and did it without
hesitation.
With a wild bumping of wheels and screeching of emergency brake, the
car skidded up on the sidewalk, slithered along for a few feet and came
to a standstill. The oncoming car had missed the rear wheels of the
taxicab by the fraction of an inch!
Pedestrians, sensing the imminent peril, had scattered wildly, and
now returned vociferously to view the curious spectacle of a taxicab
planted squarely in the middle of the sidewalk.
Joe’s relief at the narrow escape from disaster changed immediately to
impatience with the rapidly gathering and gaping crowd.
“More delay! Say, Jim, can’t we beat it out of here?”
“Fine chance! Especially with your game leg,” Jim retorted, adding with
a chuckle: “Here comes a cop. Watch him get rid of the crowd.”
“More likely to arrest us for disorderly conduct and disturbing the
peace,” said Joe, disconsolately. “Fine husband Mabel will think she
has. She’ll think I’m mighty anxious to get to her.”
“Don’t be such a gloom hound,” laughed Jim. “This cop has a pleasant
face. Wait till I give him some blarney.”
At that moment the policeman, having interviewed the sullen and angry
chauffeur, opened the door of the cab. The constantly gathering crowd
pressed forward curiously to get a glimpse of Joe and Jim.
The officer, a round-faced, good-natured-looking individual, stared at
Joe for a moment and then broke into a broad grin.
“Begorry, if you ain’t the livin’ image of Baseball Joe, the greatest
slinger in captivity, my name ain’t Denny M’Lean!”
“Sure, it’s Baseball Joe! And we owe the fact that he’s still living to
the quick wits of our friend here,” broke in Jim, indicating the still
furious chauffeur. “That fool in the other car was driving on the wrong
side of the road, officer----”
“Sure he was!”
“I saw it myself!”
“Looked like a head-on collision, I’ll tell the world!”
These and other cries came from the crowd, among whom the news that the
great Baseball Joe occupied the cab with another famous twirler had
spread like wildfire.
“Do me a favor, will you, officer?” urged Joe, taking out his watch and
glancing at it hastily. “I’m already late for an appointment. Clear the
road, will you, and let us get going?”
“So far as I see, there ain’t no particular objection to that,”
returned the bluecoat, with exasperating deliberation. “The sidewalk
ain’t no proper parkin’ place for an automobile, as you know. But as
you seem to be havin’ plenty of witnesses that say ye couldn’t have
done no different, ’twill be easy to overlook yer imperdence. Now
thin,” turning to the crowd, “did any one of ye notice the license
plate of that law-breakin’ car?”
Several persons came forward with more or less reliable information.
After making a note of this, while Joe fumed with increasing impatience,
the officer returned and grinned at them, his eyes snapping with humor.
“Lucky for McRae of the Giants that Baseball Joe kept a whole skin on
him this day. When I get that truck driver I’ll be tellin’ him what I
think of him in no unsartin terms. Good-bye to yez, and good luck.”
He thrust his huge paw inside the cab, and Joe gripped it heartily. For
many years after this meeting with the great Giant twirler, Sergeant
Dennis M’Lean was to exhibit proudly the hand that had been gripped by
Baseball Joe.
They were off at last, crawling through the close-packed crowd, and
with tremendous relief found themselves once more part of the traffic,
speeding toward the Wheatstone Hotel where Mabel and Reggie were
waiting for them.
“Suppose we’ll have a few blowouts now, just to make the thing real
good,” grumbled Joe, and Jim laughed.
“Here we are before the Wheatstone now,” he said. “Just goes to show
how sound your gloomy prophecies are!”
Joe’s heart leaped as he saw the great building which he was making
his headquarters during the stay of the club in Chicago and where he
had also engaged a room for Reggie. He started to leap from the cab,
which had slowed at the curb, but a sharp twinge from his injured leg
reminded him of his partly crippled condition.
“Take it easy, old man,” warned Jim. “If you don’t favor that foot, you
may find yourself laid up for a month instead of a week.”
It was all very well for Jim to say “take it easy,” but when a young
married man has been separated from his wife for weeks, the thing isn’t
so easily done.
They rode in the elevator to the fifth floor where, leaning on his cane
and refusing the help of Jim’s arm, Joe got out and hobbled down the
corridor to the door of his apartment.
“Remember, I’m not really hurt, I just imagine I am,” he cautioned Jim
once more, as he put his hand on the knob.
Instantly the door opened and a vision of bright hair and rosy face
seized him by the hand and dragged him into the room.
“You too, Jim! Come in, do!” cried Mabel, breathlessly. “Reggie and I
have been waiting ages for you. Joe--Joe, dear--that cane! You----”
“It’s nothing, nothing at all, little girl,” soothed Joe, his arms
about her. “Just a little spill on the field. Be all right in a week.
Ask Doc Dougherty, if you don’t believe me.”
Mabel held him off anxiously at arm’s length and looked appealingly at
Jim.
“Is he telling me the truth? Is he?”
“Well, I like that!” said Joe, before Jim could answer. “As if I didn’t
always tell you the truth?”
“You know, I never make it my business to interfere in the quarrels
of husband and wife,” drawled the familiar tones of Reggie, as,
attracted by the sound of voices, he strolled in from the other room.
“In fact, quarrels of any kind are foreign to my gentle disposition,
don’t you know. But on this occasion, I really feel called upon to
interrupt. Jim, my dear fellow, how is the old bean to-day? Rippin’,
from the looks of it, what? My word, brother-in-law,” turning to Joe
and adjusting his monocle so as to scrutinize him the better, “you have
been indulging in a fisticuff of some sort, yes? Tried to do for the
old teammates, did you?”
“Oh, leave him alone, Reggie, do!” protested Mabel, all tender
solicitude, as she led Joe to a chair and forced him into it. “Can’t
you see he is all tired out? Now don’t talk, dear, unless you want to,”
she added to Joe, placing a cushion behind his head and looking at him
anxiously, her pretty head on one side.
Joe heaved a contented sigh and smiled up at her.
“As long as you don’t tell me not to look at you, I don’t care!” he
said.