_McCarthy in Disgrace_
Events crowded upon each other rapidly the following day. The first
was a telephone call soon after breakfast that summoned Manager Clancy
to the Metropolis Cafe.
"Hello, Mac," said Clancy gladly. "How you hittin' em? Haven't seen
you in an age. How's tricks?"
"Pretty good, Bill. You're looking fine," replied McMahon, manager of
the cafe, who in his youth had played ball on the team with the now
famous Clancy. "I was worried about something I heard this morning and
thought I'd send for you. I couldn't come up."
"What is it? Let's have a drink--make mine grape juice."
"When I came down this morning Johnny, the night man, told me one of
your players was in here until after midnight last night," said the old
ball player.
"Which one?" demanded the manager angrily.
"He didn't know him, except that he was a ball player. He was a
sandy-haired fellow, rather slender and wiry looking."
"McCarthy--maybe," said the manager thoughtfully and worried. "I
didn't think that bird would do it. Something funny."
He had leaped at the identification.
"That isn't the worst of it, Bill," continued McMahon, "that fellow was
with Easy Ed Edwards and a big fat guy in a dress suit."
"What?" demanded Clancy, starting indignantly. "Sure of that?"
"Johnny knows Ed Edwards. They sat in the booth over there and had
four quarts of wine, and the player was pretty well lighted up when
they got out."
"Thanks, Mac," said Clancy worriedly. "This is tough news at this
stage of the game. I'll have to take a look into it."
Clancy, his weather-beaten face furrowed with a heavy frown, walked
slowly back to the hotel.
President Bannard, of the Bears, was waiting for him in the lobby.
"Good morning, Bill," he said. "You're out early. I wanted to see
you."
"Had some business downtown and went out an hour or so ago," replied
the manager. "What's the woe?"
"Who's going to pitch to-day?" asked the president.
"I don't know. I never decide in advance," responded the manager
carelessly. "Guess it will be either Wilcox or Williams--whichever one
looks best warming up."
"If it's all the same to you," said the president diplomatically, "I
wish you'd let Williams work."
"Why?" demanded Clancy, on the defensive in an instant.
"It's this way, Bill," explained the president. "You know I don't own
this club. I've got most of my money in it, but another fellow has
control of the stock. He is going to the game and he asked me to let
Williams pitch, as he never has seen him work."
"Williams hasn't been very steady in his last three games," remarked
the manager thoughtfully. "I don't want to risk this pennant to please
anyone, no matter if he owns the whole league."
"Well, you said yourself that your choice was between Williams and
Wilcox, so I can't see it makes any difference."
"You know I don't like to announce pitchers ahead of time," said the
manager.
"It seems to me the owner ought to have a right"----
"Now look here, Bannard," said Clancy sharply, "when I signed this
contract it was with the agreement that I was to run the business on
the ball field and let your end of it alone. I'm perfectly willing to
oblige a stockholder, but I'm going to win this pennant, and I'll do
what I please with the playing end of the game. If Adonis looks good
warming up he'll go in, if he don't I'll send someone else to the
slab--and that goes."
"Well--have it your own way"; the president had surrendered entirely to
the aggressive manager. "Put him in if you can, and if you can't I'll
explain that he wasn't right--twisted himself or something."
Clancy went to his room puzzled and annoyed and, as usual, he sought
advice and enlightenment by consulting Mrs. Clancy, whose abundant good
nature and portliness formed a striking contrast with his seriousness
and slenderness.
"Willie," she said, laying down her sewing after Clancy had stood at
the window, whistling and gazing out for ten minutes without saying a
word. "Well, Willie--who has broken a leg or sprung a Charlie horse
now?"
"Nothing much, mother," said the big manager quietly. "Nothing
much--just worrying a little over the way things are going."
"Bill Clancy," she ejaculated indignantly. "Do you think you can fool
anyone with that talk? Do you think I could live with you eighteen
years, come next Martinmas, and not know when you're in trouble? Tell
your old lady what it is."
"Sure, mother," he said fondly, coming to put his arm around her waist.
"Haven't you enough troubles of your own?"
"Me have troubles?" She was indignant. "Nothing troubles me but
worrying over those pesky boys of yours. What's wrong now, Willie?"
"One of the boys out skylarking last night--and drinking."
"Saints forgive him," she said piously, but with a note of relief.
"Sure you'll not be fining the poor boy? Perhaps he needed a drink or
two to keep up his courage."
"Nothing like that, mother," he replied seriously. "This was one of
the young fellows out with some gamblers drinking wine till past
midnight. It looks serious."
"Now, Bill Clancy, you just send for that boy to come right up here and
talk it over. Tell him he must behave and explain what it means to all
the boys. Then you'll shame him and he'll be a good boy. They're all
good boys," she protested earnestly, "only they do try a poor woman."
"I guess that's the best plan, mother," he said. "You trot over into
the other room and I'll have him up."
"Which one is it this time, Willie?"
"McCarthy!"
"McCarthy--why, Willie, he wouldn't--there's some mistake. That poor
boy wouldn't do such a thing. And him grieving his heart out because
Betty Tabor won't treat him well any more. That's what's the trouble,
Willie."
"We'll see what it is," said the manager, checking her flow of defense
curtly. "I'll have him up. You run into the other room with the
sewing and--don't listen."
His telephone call found McCarthy in his room, and the young third
baseman promptly ascended to the manager's apartment and entered
innocently.
"Good morning, Boss," he said, following the burlesque style of
greeting used by the Bears to their manager.
"Good morning," said Clancy curtly, as he scrutinized the face of the
player for signs of a debauch and found the blue eyes clear and fresh.
"You wanted to see me?" inquired McCarthy, thrown a little off his easy
bearing.
"Yes--where were you last night?"
"I--in my room"--he suddenly remembered the excursion with Swanson. "I
was out for a while," he concluded lamely.
"Were you in the cafe of the Metropolis Hotel late?"
"Yes," confessed McCarthy, bridling at the tone employed by the
manager. "I was in there."
"Drinking?"
"Yes--lemonade."
"Nothing stronger?"
"No."
"No wine?"
"No--I'm not in the wine class."
"Who were you with?"
"You're the manager," said McCarthy quietly, although he was rebellious
inwardly. "You may ask me anything you want to about myself or my
actions--but you surely don't expect me to tell on anyone else?"
"I don't want you to tell on any ball player--but who were you with?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell."
"You needn't tell me--I know," said the manager angrily. "You got up
out of bed to go there to meet Easy Ed Edwards--and you were with him
while three of you drank four quarts of wine."
For an instant McCarthy clenched his hands until the nails bit into the
palms, and a flood of angry color flashed into his face. With an
effort he controlled himself.
"You've got everything backwards," he said at last, gazing straight at
the angry manager. "I can't explain just now--but you'll find out some
day--and apologize."
He turned without another word and left the room. Clancy, who had
expected angry denials, threats, perhaps a personal encounter, sat
gazing at the closed door, and then to himself he said:
"It looks bad, but hanged if I don't believe him. No fellow could lie
and look like that."