_A Race to Save the Day_
Kohinoor McCarthy, emerging from his cell into the fetid atmosphere of
the receiving room of the police station, was met by Cramer, who broke
from the group of reporters, lawyers and police officials stirred to
activity at that early hour by the frantic efforts of Technicalities
Feehan. His head was rudely bandaged and his discolored face was
swollen and cut.
There was no time for questionings.
"Hurry, McCarthy," said Cramer. "There is an automobile outside
waiting to take you to the station. You have about a quarter of an
hour to catch the train."
McCarthy, with a word of thanks, hastened through the station, leaped
down the steps with an agility that proved his injuries did not affect
his speed, and sprang to the car.
The morning sun was just commencing to reach down into the cavern of
the street into which the car leaped, and it shone directly in their
eyes. The car lurched around a corner and swung into the avenue for
the race to the station. At that instant the girl's veil flapped back,
revealing her face.
"Betty!" exclaimed McCarthy. "You"----
"You didn't know me?" she asked as she steadied the car and increased
its pace over the smooth asphalt.
"Why are you here? What are you doing?" he asked in astonishment.
"I had to come," she replied swiftly. "There was no one else. We must
catch the train. Don't talk, please."
He leaned back wearily and watched the street as it seemed to flow past
them.
"How much time have we?" he asked above the roaring of the wind.
"The train leaves at 6.35," she called back, without lifting her eyes.
"Watch for clocks."
She had increased the speed gradually and the light car jumped as it
struck a cross-town street-car track. Suddenly the car jolted, slid to
a quick stop and with an exclamation of despair the girl strove to
reverse and killed the engine.
"The street is closed below," she said. "Crank up, the engine is dead."
McCarthy leaped from the car and cranked rapidly. A precious minute
was lost before the engine throbbed and the girl, turning the car
quickly, ran back a block, swung across to a side street and raced for
the station.
"The captain of the bell boys is waiting with the tickets. I sent him
before I left the hotel," she said without lifting her eyes. "Jump
from the car the moment I stop. He'll meet you at the gate."
"Two minutes--can we make it?" he asked.
"We'll try." Her face was set and white. She whirled the corner of
the avenue onto the side street at full speed. A block and a half away
was the station. The car was at racing speed now. The girl kept the
siren screaming, hoping for a clear way. They tore toward the
intersection of the streets--and directly ahead a lumbering team of
horses, drawing a heavy wagon, trundled across their path. With a
sudden swerve, a grinding of the emergency and a sickening lurch, the
car checked its mad flight, scraped past the rear of the wagon, and
gathering speed renewed the race against time.
"Goodbye," he said, leaning suddenly inward as the car commenced to
lose momentum. "When I come back"----
"Hurry, hurry," she pleaded. "Run"----
He leaped before the car stopped and, with one glance back toward her,
sprinted down the long passageway.
The gate was closing. He cried aloud, and ran faster. The gate
clanged. A boy in uniform ran to him and shoved tickets into his hands
as they ran side by side.
"Open it! Let me through!" he screamed at the gateman, just starting
to lock the gate.
McCarthy was sprinting desperately in pursuit of the train already half
way down the long train shed. He ran until his heart pounded audibly
against his ribs, straining every muscle, and crying for the train to
stop. Faster and faster it went, and, near the end of the station,
McCarthy realized he had lost the race and, stopping, he stood
dejectedly looking after the rapidly disappearing observation car.
The gateman let him out with a sympathetic word, but he did not raise
his head. He knew that, 235 miles away, twenty men were hoping for his
arrival. He would hire a special train. He whirled at the
thought--and then remembered he was without money.
He felt a hand touch his arm and, turning quickly, he saw Betty Tabor.
"I missed it," he said, hopelessly.
"I know, I know," she responded quickly. "The boy who had the tickets
told me. There is no time to lose. I have a plan."
"A special train?" he asked. "I have no money."
"The auto," she replied quickly. "I will drive it. I've driven it
hundreds of miles"----
"Betty," he expostulated, using her name unconsciously. "You
cannot--maybe we can find a driver."
"I can and I will," she said decisively; "it is only 235 miles. We
have eight hours. We can make it. The car is fast and easy to handle."
Still arguing, she led him back to the car, and they rode quickly back
to the hotel over part of the route they had traversed during their
wild flight. They breakfasted while the car was being prepared for the
run, studying road maps while they ate.
"Betty, how can I ever thank you," he said, leaning forward over the
table.
"By calling me Miss Tabor and winning the game to-day," she said,
coolly, without looking up from the maps.
"The car is ready," the head waiter announced. "A good trip to you,
Miss Tabor."
"You have a good driver, McCarthy," said the manager, who alone knew
the object of the trip. "She handles that car better than I do. I
have given her permission to tear it to pieces to get you through."
The start was undramatic. The car rolled easily along to the drive and
presently was lifting and dropping over the hills of the splendid
speedway. A gentle breeze from the river fanned them as they rushed
through it.
In five minutes they were clear of the congested traffic on the bridge
and the car, gathering speed, rushed into the hills on the opposite
side of the river. Five minutes later the car was quivering with its
increasing speed and McCarthy, looking at the gauge, saw that it
registered forty-seven miles, and was still sliding forward. Fourteen
miles across the rolling plateau the car raced with sustained speed,
the engine humming in perfect tune and only the heavier vibration of
the tires attesting the speed. At slower pace the car climbed among
the ridge of hills that had been rising ahead, and after five miles of
rougher going it turned into the old stage road.
"It's five minutes past nine," said the girl, "and we've done more than
forty miles already. The next forty is good and we'll try to gain
time."
"We ought to make it easily," he responded brightly. "You're a
heroine."
"I do not know what the roads are beyond Hedgeport," she interrupted
anxiously. "It is hill country. It rained two days ago."
She had steadily increased the speed again until the indicator kept
constantly around the forty-five mile mark. The speed was terrific and
made conversation almost impossible.
"Hadn't you better rest? You must be tired," he screamed above the
noise of the car.
"Arms are cramped," she replied, without lifting her eyes from the road
ahead. "We'll take gas at Hedgeport and walk around. We will lunch
somewhere near Hilton. We'll be over the worst of the road then."
"I wish I could help you," called McCarthy, after a long silence.
She shook her head, and, after the car had throbbed up the next incline
and was sailing, hawklike, down the opposite side, she said:
"You'll need your strength for the game. There's Hedgeport now."
Before them, set on the hillside, lay the little city. It seemed as if
the houses grew by magic as they rushed upon it. They flashed past a
few market wagons, passed another auto chugging along busily, and
slackened the pace as the car rolled upon the brick pavements and
toward the heart of the city.
"A hundred and thirty-one miles in a little over three hours," said
McCarthy, elated. "That leaves us one hundred and four miles and more
than four hours to make it in. We've won."
"The road has been perfect," Betty Tabor said. "For the next fifty
miles it is marked bad."
She turned quietly to ask questions of the mechanician, who was
overhauling and examining every part of the machine, and examining the
feed pipes. Another man was filling the tanks and using oil
plentifully.
"My hands and wrists are cramped and numb," she remarked, turning to
McCarthy.
"Let the man drive the rest of the way. He knows the road," he urged.
"And leave me--to miss the game?" she asked. "Not much. Rub my hands,
please."
She extended her strong, firm hand and McCarthy, bending over it,
massaged and slapped it vigorously.
"Don't break it, please," she said, laughing. "Take the other one."
"Both," he whispered, his voice full of meaning.
"All ready," announced the garage keeper. "I think she'll stand it
now."
"It's 11.10," said McCarthy. "If we get there by three."
"If we get there at all," she said, "even if you are late, you can get
into the game."
For five miles they sped along over perfect roads, then suddenly a long
stretch of new macadam loomed ahead. For three miles they lurched and
struggled, and were free again, but the road was heavy and slow. Up
hill and down they fought the road, at times slipping, lurching and
skidding while the girl coaxed the car onward. The road grew worse and
worse. The hills were steeper. The rain-guttered mud at times almost
stalled the car.
"Twenty miles in an hour and ten minutes," groaned McCarthy. "This
won't do."
The next hour was even worse. The girl was showing signs of weariness
and the strain of holding the machine in the rough going. Three miles
of good road across a hill-top plateau raised their courage, then they
encountered sand.
It was twenty minutes to two o'clock, when, mud splattered, they raced
into Hilton, with the car missing fire in one cylinder, the engine
smoking and gasoline almost exhausted.
McCarthy almost lifted Betty Tabor from the car as they stopped at the
garage and she gave rapid directions to the manager, explaining the
need of haste.
"I'm afraid the car won't get you through," he said, "but we'll try."
"Have it ready at two o'clock," she ordered quickly. "We must get
through somehow."
"It's thirty-four miles," he said. "But the roads are fair. If the
car was in shape it would be easy."
"We'll eat lunch while you overhaul it," she replied.
McCarthy secured the lunch from the car and they spread it upon the
grass in the yard and ate. The girl was too weary for conversation,
but as she ate she seemed to gain strength and courage.
"We'll get there before the game is over, anyhow," she said quietly.
"I want to see Williams's face when you come onto the field."
"I thought you and he"----
"I never have liked him," she interrupted quickly.
Three minutes before the town clock chimed the hour of two in Hilton,
the machine, again running smoothly, shot out from the garage. Its
occupants, refreshed and more cheerful, faced the final stretch of the
long race.
"Fourteen miles in twenty-one minutes," cried McCarthy, as the mile
posts flashed by. "We'll be there."
[Illustration: "FOURTEEN MILES IN TWENTY-ONE MINUTES"]
Ten minutes later the smoke haze that hangs eternally over the great
city of the Blues was visible. The country homes along the road over
which they sped were closer and closer together.
"Only ten more miles," McCarthy shouted triumphantly.
"We can cut across to the west here," she said as she swung the car
into an avenue. "This goes near the ball park and we'll save three
miles."
"Hurray," he shouted. "Then it's only seven miles."
The girl did not reply. She was weary and her fair face showed haggard
lines. Their progress became slower, although two or three times
policemen turned to watch them, as if to interfere.
The grandstand was close now. The steady roar of the huge crowd inside
pulsed and beat upon them. A bell rang.
"That's either game time or last fielding practice," screamed McCarthy.
"Hurry, please, hurry."
The car suddenly swung out of the line, sent a swarm of pedestrians
scurrying, and jarred to a stop at the entrance marked "Players."
"Betty," said McCarthy, as he started to lift her from the car----
"Hurry," she said, faint from weariness and the reaction. "You must
dress."
He ran stiffly toward the dressing room under the stand. Bill Tascott,
the umpire, was just starting toward the field.
"McCarthy!" he exclaimed at sight of the specter covered with mud and
with cut and bruised features.
"Bill, don't start the game yet," panted McCarthy beseechingly. "Wait
till I dress. Please tell Clancy I'm here."
"I'll tell him. I'll delay the game. Can you play?" said the umpire
rapidly.
"Yes--give me time to dress."
Jack, the trainer, quiet after his first outburst of surprise, was
preparing the hot shower and working like mad over the weary player and
when Clancy, summoned by a quiet word from the umpire, rushed into the
player's room, McCarthy was sighing luxuriously as the trainer soaked
his weary, cramped limbs with witch hazel.
"Hurry, Jack," ordered Clancy as he squeezed McCarthy's hands. "I knew
you'd come, Kohinoor."
"Am I in time?" asked the player. "Get my uniform out, please."
"Just in time. Good old Bill Tascott is delaying the game. You ought
to see him raising cain over his mask being lost. He hid it in our
bench and is accusing the Blues of stealing it. He won't start the
game until you are ready."
In five minutes they rushed him toward the little gate by which the
players enter the field from under the stands, just in time to hear
Bill Tascott announce:
"Batteries for to-day's game--Wiley and Kirkpatrick for the Blues;
Williams and Kennedy for the Bears." He glanced toward the group
emerging from under the stands and his voice rang with gladness as he
yelled, in louder tones:
"McCarthy will play third base."