_In the Deeper Waters_
Two defeats at the hands of the Maroons sent the Bears into the final
game of the series desperately determined to win. Their pitching staff
was exhausted from the effort to stop the team which they had expected
to beat easily.
The game was a brilliant exhibition of defensive playing on the part of
the Bears, who were driven back by the hard hitting of the Maroons. In
spite of the fierce batting of the Maroons the magnificent defensive
work of the Bears held their rivals to two runs, while by their
brilliant and resourceful attack and skilful inside work they had
scored three runs on five scattered hits, and at the start of the
eighth inning were holding grimly to their lead of one run.
McCarthy, spurred by determination to redeem himself for the errors of
the preceding games, was giving a wonderful exhibition of third-base
play. The knowledge that Helen Baldwin, her uncle and a group of
friends were sitting in one of the field boxes directly behind him
urged him to greater efforts. It was his long hit in the sixth inning,
followed by a clever steal of third, that had enabled the Bears to gain
the lead which they were holding by their fast work on the infield.
The Bears failed to score in their half of the eighth, and the Maroons
opened with a fierce assault upon Klinker that threatened to break down
the Bears' inner wall of defense. Swanson's brilliant stop and throw
of a vicious drive checked the bombardment, but a safe drive and a
two-base hit went whizzing through beyond the finger tips of the diving
infielders, and there were runners on second and third bases, one out
and a hit needed to turn the tide in favor of the Maroons again.
The infield was drawn close in the hope of cutting off the runner from
the home plate. It was desperate baseball, and, as the infielders
advanced to the edge of the grass, each man knew that a line smash, a
hard-driven bounder between them, or even a fumble, probably meant the
destruction of their pennant hopes.
The ball was hit with terrific force straight at McCarthy, who threw up
his hands and blocked desperately. The ball tore through his hands,
struck his knee with numbing force and rolled a few feet away. He
pounced upon it and like a flash hurled it to Kennedy at the plate, so
far ahead of the runner who was trying to score that he turned back
toward third, with Kennedy in pursuit. Swanson had come up to cover
third, and the runner from second base stood at the third bag watching
the play, ready to dash back if the runner, trapped between third and
the plate, managed to elude the pursuers and regain third base.
Kennedy passed the ball to Swanson, and as the runner turned back,
Swanson threw to McCarthy, who had fallen in behind Kennedy, leaving
the pitcher to cover the plate if the runner broke through in that
direction. The runner started to dodge, but McCarthy, without an
instant's hesitation, leaped after him and drove him hard back toward
third base, so hard that the runner went on over the bag and ten feet
beyond before he could stop. Like a flash McCarthy leaped sideways,
touched the other runner who was starting back to second base, and,
with a fierce dive, he threw his body between the base and the runner
who had overslid it and tagged him.
Before he could scramble to his feet to claim the double play he heard
Clancy, excited in spite of his long experience, shouting: "Good
boy--nice work." As the umpire waved both runners out the crowd,
bewildered for an instant by the rapidity with which McCarthy had
executed the coup, commenced to understand and broke into a thundering
round of applause as he limped toward the bench.
With that attack staved off, the Bears held the Maroons safe in the
ninth and closed the final Western trip of the team with a hard-earned
victory. They started homeward that evening with confidence renewed
and the men hopeful.
The Bears were scheduled to stop en route to the home grounds to play a
series of three games against the Travelers, a team low in the standing
of the clubs, but one of the most dangerous of all. It was a slow but
heavy-hitting aggregation, and at times more dreaded than were the
stronger clubs. The series was a critical one for the Bears as, after
that, they would return to the home grounds to play all the other
games, with the exception of two against the Blues.
McCarthy was happier and more interested than he had been since he
joined the Bears. Restlessly he awaited an opportunity to talk with
Betty Tabor. Since his interview with Helen Baldwin he had been
strangely jubilant for a young man who had just been discarded by the
girl to whom he was engaged. He wondered how much of the conversation
Betty Tabor had overheard, and worried about it. He wanted to explain
to her who Miss Baldwin was and how he had happened to be talking with
her, yet he knew it would seem presumptuous for him to broach the
subject. Why should Betty Tabor think enough of him to be jealous?
Yet, in spite of this, he decided that, at the first opportunity, he
would mention meeting Helen Baldwin.
He went to bed annoyed and with an odd sense of being wronged. He
determined to see the girl at breakfast and almost decided to confide
in her the secret of his past life. But he did not see her at
breakfast. After a restless night he was among the first in the dining
car and he loitered, but the girl, usually one of the earliest risers,
slept late, and when the train reached the city of the Travelers she
went with Manager Clancy and his wife in a taxicab, while McCarthy was
bundled with the other players into the big auto 'bus. He failed to
catch a glimpse of her during luncheon and was in a bad humor when the
team made an early start for the ball park.
The game was a runaway for the Bears. They piled up such a large score
during the early innings that Manager Clancy was able to take out
Morgan in the sixth and send Shelby, a second-string pitcher, to finish
the game, saving up more strength and skill to use at the finish.
It was a jubilant crowd of players that returned to the hotel after the
game. They sang and laughed and were happy again. They had won, and
during the afternoon the Panthers, overconfident, had suffered two
defeats by the Maroons, leaving the teams again practically tied for
the lead.
McCarthy spent the evening loitering around the hotel lobbies, still
hoping for an opportunity to see Miss Tabor, and she failed to appear
at dinner and was not with Mr. and Mrs. Clancy when they started out
for a car ride. He wandered aimlessly around until, abandoning his
quest, he went to his room disconsolately. It was not yet eleven
o'clock, but Swanson was preparing for sleep. As McCarthy came into
the room he stopped to laugh. The giant shortstop was in his pajamas,
on his back in the bed. With one bare foot he was holding a sheet of
paper against the head board, and with a pencil grasped between the
toes of the other foot he was laboriously striving to write.
"What was you trying to do, Silent?" asked McCarthy, laughing harder.
"Figuring my share of the World's Series receipts," responded Swanson,
laboring harder. "Clancy said he'd fine any one of us caught with a
pencil in his hand doping out these statistics," said Swanson, "and I
just had to know."
They were ready to settle down for the night when the telephone rang in
the connecting room. The door between the rooms was ajar, and Swanson
sprang from bed to respond to the call.
"Hello!" he said. "Hello! Yes, this is Williams's room, but he isn't
in just now. What? Oh, yes, I understand. I'll tell him.
Hello--hold a minute, here he is now."
"Hey, Adonis," Swanson called to the pitcher, who was just entering the
room from the hallway. "Someone wants you."
He handed the receiver to Williams carelessly and walked back into the
room, where McCarthy was stretched upon the bed reading. His face was
working rapidly as if trying to tell McCarthy something by lip signals.
"I'm tired," said Swanson in a loud tone; "let's sleep late in the
morning." Then approaching McCarthy's bed he said in a whisper:
"Listen. Try to catch what he says."
"Hello! Yes, this is Williams," said the pitcher brusquely. Then his
voice changed suddenly. "Yes, Ed, I know you. To-night? Aw, say, Ed,
I've got to have sleep! Can't it wait? I'll be there in a quarter of
an hour."
He hurried out of the room, and before the door slammed behind him
Swanson had leaped from bed and was dressing with great haste.
"Kohinoor, that was Easy Ed Edwards calling him."
"What are you going to do?" inquired McCarthy.
"Get a move on yourself," ordered the giant. "Something is up and I
want to know what it is. Wait a minute," he added as if by sudden
inspiration, and ran to the telephone.
"Hello," he said to the operator. "Can you tell me where that call for
Mr. Williams came from just now? He has forgotten which hotel he is to
meet his friend at. Thank you," he said after a moment's wait.
"Hurry. He's going to the Metropolis Hotel," he ordered. "We must
catch up with him."
They dressed with the speed of men accustomed to changing clothing four
or five times a day, and before Williams had been five minutes on his
way they were racing for the elevator. Swanson, hastily leaping into a
waiting taxicab, ordered the driver to make all possible speed to the
corner nearest the Metropolis Hotel.
"What is up?" asked McCarthy, as they settled back in the cushions of
the taxi as it lurched over the pavement.
"There is something funny going on in this ball club," said Swanson.
"And I am going to find out what it is. Whatever it is, Williams is
mixed up in it. I want to find out why he is meeting Edwards to-night
and what is up."
"What do you think?" asked McCarthy.
"I haven't got it figured out," said Swanson, scratching his head.
"There has been something wrong for two weeks. Ever since you joined
the club Williams hasn't been natural. He acts mysterious off the
field and worse than that on it. He has only won one of his last three
games, and ought to have lost them all the way he pitched."
The taxi jerked to a stop at the corner opposite the hotel, and
Swanson, after reconnoitering carefully, led the way across the street
and into the cafe.
"I used to know this place like a book when I was hitting the booze,"
he said. "They'll be in here--or I don't know Williams. Let's take
the corner booth so we can see who comes in and goes out."
Five minutes later two men came through the swinging doors from the
hotel lobby. Swanson could see them, but McCarthy was out of the range
of vision. Swanson drew back deeper into the booth.
"Who is it?" inquired McCarthy in a whisper.
"Sh--h! It's Williams and Edwards. They're going into the booth next
to us. Put your ear close to the partition. I'd give a farm to hear
them."
The players sipped their soft drinks, while in turn they strove to hear
what was passing in the next booth. Occasionally they could
distinguish a voice, but the words were unintelligible. Ten minutes of
vain listening ensued. Then a heavy man in evening clothes hurried
into the cafe, and after a hasty glance into the booths entered the one
in which Edwards and Williams were waiting.
"I wonder who that fat man is?" whispered Swanson.
"It's a lucky thing he didn't recognize me," replied McCarthy in low
tones. "That's Barney Baldwin, the broker and politician, one of the
big men of this part of the country--and a crook."
"Whew," whistled Swanson. "Let's sneak. We can't hear anything--and
the water is getting deep."