_The Plotters Foiled_
The gasp of astonishment with which the crowd greeted the announcement
that Williams would pitch gave way quickly to a cry of surprise that
rose to a roar of applause when Bill Tascott announced that McCarthy
would play third base.
He walked slowly out toward third base, the huge arm of Swanson, who
with a bellow of gladness had raced to meet and embrace him, around his
shoulders, while the great crowd stood and howled with excitement and
hummed with curiosity as to the explanation of his reappearance. Had
Clancy tricked the Blues and produced his third baseman at the dramatic
instant, hoping to unnerve them? Had McCarthy been hurt? A thousand
conjectures and questions flashed around the field.
The announcement by Bill Tascott was a double shock to two persons
sitting in one of the front boxes near the Bears' bench. Barney
Baldwin brought his fat hand down with a thump upon the shoulders of
the rat-faced, cold-eyed man who sat next to him, and shouted, "I told
you so!"
Easy Ed Edwards, paler than usual, turned angrily toward the
politician, restrained himself, and resumed his steady scrutiny of the
field. When the umpire announced McCarthy playing third, Baldwin, in
his astonishment, half arose and Edwards started quickly.
"Sit down, you fool," he said sharply. "We're in enough trouble
without you giving us away. Clancy was watching us from the bench.
They're wise to you."
"To me!" ejaculated Baldwin. "I like your nerve"----
"You're the only one they can connect with McCarthy's--accident," he
said coldly. "There'll be h---- to pay at home."
McCarthy's head was bandaged afresh, strips of court-plaster decorated
his face, and even from the stands the black bruises around his eyes
were visible.
Nearly forty thousand persons were watching, unaware of the full
meaning of the complex drama they were witnessing. McCarthy was so
astonished at hearing that Williams was pitching that he turned to
Swanson.
"What does it mean, Silent?" he asked anxiously.
"Clancy made him pitch," whispered Swanson rapidly as they went toward
the bench. "He has had him locked in his room all day and Williams is
scared stiff. Look at him."
The pitcher was white to the mouth, and he licked his lips nervously as
if in a fever, as he sat during the first inning while his own team
endeavored to make a run. Clancy, his face hard, sat next to him,
terrible in his rigidity.
Three of the Bears retired in rapid order and the team raced for the
field. A roar of applause greeted them, and as McCarthy ran along in
front of the stands, the applause followed him like a wave. It was
clear some hint of the truth was spreading through the crowd. Williams
hung back when the team started for the field.
"I can't, Bill. Oh, God, I can't," he wailed. "Please"----
"Get out there and pitch! Pitch whatever Kennedy signals for, and if
you don't"----
"I'll try, Bill. But if"----
"There are no ifs," snarled the manager, half rising.
Williams walked to his position, a glare of terror in his eyes, as if
he contemplated flight. He was wild and erratic at the start. Two
balls sailed wide from the plate, and Swanson ran to him.
"Get that next one over or I'll signal Clancy," he said.
Williams put every ounce of power into his throwing arm, and the ball
cut the heart of the plate, jumping.
"The old hop on it!" yelled McCarthy. "That's pitching, Adonis; that's
pitching."
Williams stood staring toward him as if dumfounded. A grateful look
came into his eyes.
"Now the old hook, Adonis," yelled McCarthy. "Something on every one
to-day, remember!"
An outburst of cheering arose from the crowd. Those who had heard or
read the stories and rumors of the enmity between the two thought they
recognized the magnanimity of the third baseman and admired him.
Another strike whizzed over the plate, and a fast ball hopped while the
batter swung. The strike out was greeted with a howl of applause.
Williams glanced toward the stands. His eyes met those of Edwards
fixed upon him, and his nerve broke. He pitched without looking to see
what Kennedy signaled, and "Sacred" White, the center fielder of the
Blues, drove the ball to left center for three bases. Kennedy gave a
quick glance at Clancy, who sat staring straight ahead. Swanson rushed
upon Williams, who, trembling with fear, waved him back. He pitched
desperately, but Wertheim hit a long fly to center and "Sacred" White
scampered home.
"I didn't do it, Bill. Honestly, I didn't," pleaded Williams, as he
returned to the bench and resumed his seat next to the manager.
"Williams," said Clancy coldly, "you pitched without a signal. I've
got men in the stands to pass circulars telling exactly what you have
done. If that happens again I'll signal them, and when the crowd gets
you, may the Lord have mercy"----
"I'll pitch--I was trying," begged the pitcher. "Don't turn the crowd
loose on me. They'll kill me."
"Then win," ordered Clancy.
The fifth came with the score 1 to 0 and Wiley pitching at his best.
Williams had lost some of his nervousness. Either he had made up his
mind to betray Edwards, and strive to win, or he was pitching, as he
thought, for his life. His fast ball was cutting the plate, and even
when the Blues hit it they popped the ball into the air for easy outs.
The last half of the fifth started. Williams, glancing toward the
stand as he walked out to the slab, saw Edwards. Edwards made a quick
signal with his hand and turned his face away. Williams went to the
slab entirely unnerved. He was wild, and a base on balls gave the
Blues another opening. Instantly Swanson charged upon him and renewed
his threats, and Williams, after pitching two more balls wild, got one
over the plate, and Henderson sacrificed, putting Hickman on second.
Kirkpatrick drove a hard bounder at Norton, who fumbled, recovered,
threw wild and Malone scored.
McCarthy was feeling deadly weary. The racking ride in the automobile,
the injuries received at the hands of Edwards and his prize-fighter
employe, the loss of sleep and the anxiety, added to the strain of the
game, had sapped his youthful vitality. Williams, under the dire
threats of Clancy, Kennedy and Swanson, was pitching steadily. He was
inspired now by a new hope: That he might lose the game and not be
blamed for defeat and at the same time escape the vengeance of Edwards
by pretending he lost it purposely.
"We ought to get at him this time, boys," called Swanson, as the Bears
opened their eighth inning. "We've got to. Look out there--at the
score board--the Panthers are winning, 4 to 1, and it means the
pennant."
Suddenly Noisy Norton, the silent man, sprang to his feet and rushed to
the coaching lines.
"Wow! Little of the old pep, boys!" he yelled.
"Whoop! We've got it won now. Noisy is coaching. Come on, boys--get
at them!" yelled Swanson.
Out by first base, Norton, who had never been on the coaching lines in
the five years he had played with the Bears, was ranting and screaming
like a wild man. The spirit of the thing came over the Bears.
Kennedy, rushing to the bat, cracked the first ball that Wiley pitched
to center for a single. A moment later little McBeth, who had been
fretting his soul out on the bench for three months, leaped toward the
bat like a hound unleashed. He never had played in a major league game
before, and Wiley teased him into swinging at two slow twisters, then
attempted to waste a curve high and outside the plate. The boy, his
teeth set, waded into the ball, drove it over third for a base hit,
and, with runners on first and third, Swanson came rushing up and drove
a line single to left that scored Kennedy and sent the speedy little
McBeth scurrying around to third.
McCarthy was coming to bat. He swung two bats, testing their weight,
and walked toward the plate. The excitement of the rally had revived
his waning strength and stirred his jaded nerves. Swanson signaled his
intention to steal on the first ball pitched. McCarthy crouched, and
as the ball came he swung viciously at it, not intending to hit it, but
to give Swanson the advantage by hampering the catcher. The strike was
wasted, as the catcher, knowing the speed of McBeth, bluffed at
throwing, and held the ball, hoping to lure the substitute off third
base and let Swanson reach second without trouble.
The next ball McCarthy fouled against the stands for a second strike.
A great dread came over him as he heard the roar of the crowd. He
turned to watch the Blue's catcher recover the ball, and at that
instant he saw the face of Betty Tabor, strained, white, beseeching, as
the girl, still mud-splattered and stained from the long race, leaned
forward. Her face revealed all the hopes and fears that surged within
her. As McCarthy's heart leaped with grim resolve he saw another face
that caused him to step back out of the batter's box and, while
pretending to rub dirt upon his hands, to glance again.
James Lawrence, his uncle and guardian, was sitting in the box next to
that in which Betty Tabor was voicelessly beseeching him to win the
game.
"Hit it, Larry--hit it!"
The sound of the name called by the familiar voice, the sight of the
agony in the girl's face, spurred him to desperation. He delayed,
wiped his hands carefully, stepped into position and waited. Wiley
wound up. A fast curve flashed toward the plate. McCarthy took one
step forward, snapped his bat against the ball. The Blues' third
baseman leaped wildly, stuck up one hand, the ball went on, struck two
feet inside the foul line, and before it ceased rolling around the
stands two runs were across the plate. McCarthy was on third, and the
Bears were in the lead.
The inning ended with McCarthy still on third, and the score 3 to 2 in
favor of the Bears.
Wilcox, who had been kept warmed up during the entire game, ready to
rush to the slab if Williams weakened, went in to pitch and held the
Blues in the eighth, and in their ninth the Bears drew a blank.
McCarthy knew he was very weary. Only by his will power did he make
his tired, aching limbs obey his brain. He ached in every muscle, and
his brain seemed dulled. Gallagher hit a long fly to Pardridge.
Swanson was still shouting, urging Wilcox to cinch the victory,
encouraging, leading, fighting with every nerve for the victory.
Henderson drove a two-base hit to center field, and Swanson redoubled
his efforts to brace the team against a rally that might rob them of
their victory. Kirkpatrick, a dangerous hitter at any time, drove a
fast bounder at Norton. The little second baseman set himself for the
ball. It took a bad bounce, struck his wrist and rolled away only a
few feet. He was after it in an instant, but he knew that
Kirkpatrick's terrific speed would get him to first ahead of the ball.
As Norton's fingers gripped the ball he thought of another play.
Henderson would go to third on the fumble, turn the base, look to see
where the ball was, and if it had broken through the infield far
enough, he would try to score. For an instant, Norton knew, the runner
would halt, undecided, six feet from third, and if the ball was
there---- Without looking, Norton hurled the ball toward third.
McCarthy saw it coming. He realized the play that Norton had attempted
to make to save the day. He grabbed the ball and dived desperately
between the runner and the bag. Henderson, trapped, leaped back toward
the base, feet first. McCarthy felt the shock of the collision, felt
the spikes bite into his arm, and he held his ground, blocking the
runner away. He heard Bill Tascott's cry of "Out!" and, dazed, hurt
and dizzy, he arose slowly and tossed the ball back to Wilcox.
Trentman, the great pinch hitter of the Blues, was sent in to attempt
to snatch victory from defeat. Twice he drove fierce line fouls past
third base, then he lifted a high foul and, as the ball settled into
Kennedy's mitt, McCarthy swayed upon his feet.
"Help me, Silent; I'm all in."
Through the eddying, shouting, scrambling crowd that had swarmed
cheering upon the field, Swanson half led, half carried his exhausted
mate.
They had pressed close to the exit to the club dressing rooms, when
suddenly a great shout smote the air. A tremor of fresh excitement ran
through the crowd.
"What is it, Silent?" asked McCarthy anxiously.
"It's the Scoreboard!" yelled Swanson. "Look! The Jackrabbits scored
five in the eighth inning and beat the Panthers out, 6 to 4. Boy,
we're champions!"
McCarthy did an odd thing. He slid quietly to the ground in a faint,
and they carried him to the dressing rooms.