ON THE TRAIL
“You know, Mac, that I’m not easily fussed,” Joe went on, while the
manager listened with strained attention. “I’ve been up against a lot
of things since I’ve been in baseball, but so far have always managed
to come out ahead.”
“I know,” put in McRae. “They say that death loves a shining mark, and
I’ve noticed that crooks do too. Once let a man come into the limelight
as you have, and there’s always a bunch of rascals that begin figuring
how they can make something out of him. I know how they’ve tried to
dope you, cripple you, and even worse. For the love of Pete, don’t tell
me they’ve been at it again.”
“That’s just what has happened,” replied Joe, and then he went on to
tell of the building material that had been pushed off the scaffold and
from which he had so narrowly escaped with his life.
“The scoundrels!” exclaimed McRae, worked up to a white heat. “If I
could only get my hands on one of them there’d be one less rascal out
of prison. Have you any idea who it is that’s trying to put it over on
you? Give me a hint, and I’ll get the police after them in a hurry.”
“That’s just what we’d better be careful about doing, don’t you think?”
suggested Joe. “You know that baseball is on trial now with the public,
and if anything of this kind should come out it might queer the game
beyond recovery. It was a case of touch and go after that White Sox
scandal broke, and anything else just now might prove the straw too
much.”
McRae pondered for a moment, wrinkling his brows.
“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed reluctantly. “But does that mean
that we’re going to lie down and let those rascals carry out their
plans?”
“Not by a jugful!” answered Joe. “We’re going to have those fellows
tripped and hog-tied before they know where they’re at. But we’re going
to do it so quietly that the outside world won’t get on to it. Trust
me, Mac, to handle this matter myself.”
“There’s no one that could do it better; I’m sure of that,” admitted
the manager. “But you haven’t answered my question yet. Have you any
idea who’s doing this?”
“I have an idea,” affirmed Joe. “But I don’t want to do any one an
injustice, and I’m not going to mention names until I’m sure I have the
goods on them. Just leave them to my tender mercies, Mac, and trust
in my lucky star. You know I’m lucky,” he added, with a grin, “or I
wouldn’t be alive and whole to-day.”
“It isn’t luck. It’s brains and pluck,” corrected the manager. “You
weren’t behind the door when those things were handed out. I’ll leave
it to you, then, Joe. But, for the love of goodness, be careful. You
bet I’ll keep my own eyes peeled, too, from now on.”
Robson and some of the other players came along just then and the
conversation turned into other channels. But several times on the train
ride back to New York Joe caught McRae’s eyes turned on him with a
worried expression, and he knew what his manager was thinking about.
The next morning Joe was on his way downtown on a business errand when
he saw McCarney and Hupft get on the platform of a subway train as it
stopped at a station. For a moment they seemed about to enter the car
in which he was sitting, but they changed their minds and went into the
car ahead.
Joe was quite sure they had not seen him, and it occurred to him that
here was an opportunity to follow his renegade team mates and perhaps
discover something of the plot in which they were engaged.
He kept a sharp eye on them, moving up to the front of his own car to
note their movements better, and when he saw them rise as the train was
slowing up at a station he followed suit, taking care to keep in the
rear of the mass of passengers as they hurried out.
The two plotters turned westward and pursued their way, talking
earnestly, toward a disreputable section of the city near the river
front. At the door of a saloon they halted and looked around. Joe had
slipped behind an elevated road pillar and they did not see him.
Apparently satisfied that they were not observed they went into the
saloon.
Joe sauntered along slowly and reached a point abreast of the saloon
just as a rough looking character pushed open the swinging doors. As
they swung back Joe got a glimpse of the interior. There were two or
three men lounging in front of the bar, but McCarney and Hupft were not
in sight.
Joe had seen also that there was a row of stalls along a balcony at the
side of the saloon with dingy curtains over them to insure a certain
amount of privacy. He conjectured that the men he had been following
were probably in one of these. His resolution was taken on the instant.
He entered the place, which in addition to being a saloon was also
run as a cheap hotel and restaurant, and went up to the bar. There he
bought a cigar. While he lighted it, which he did deliberately, he
noted from the sound of voices that one of the stalls was occupied.
He ordered a meal to be brought to him and went up the stairs to the
balcony and into the adjoining stall.
There was a murmur of conversation from the stall next to him,
and although the voices were pitched low he had no difficulty in
identifying them as those of Hupft and McCarney. Hupft seemed to be in
a despondent mood, and McCarney was evidently trying to brace him up.
“I tell you, it’s no use,” Joe heard Hupft say. “That fellow has the
Indian sign on us. No matter how we try to down him, he wins.”
“He’ll break down soon,” McCarney said confidently. “His luck can’t
last forever. You can see he’s throwing his arm out. The harder we make
it for him to win games the sooner he’ll have to quit. And think of the
melon we’ll split between us when he does.”
“We’ll have to floor him before he quits,” muttered Hupft. “And that’s
no easy job either. The fellow has as many lives as a cat. Lemblow
thought he had him dead to rights in that timber tumble, but he got
away with scarcely a scratch.”
Joe was listening with all his ears when the curtain was pushed aside
and a waiter entered with a tray. He set it down on the table and as he
glanced at Joe let out an exclamation.
“Ain’t you Baseball Joe?” he asked. “Sure you are! I’ve seen your
picture many a time!”
Joe motioned him to be silent, but it was too late. There were muttered
exclamations and the scraping of chairs in the adjoining stall, and the
next moment Hupft and McCarney were blocking the door.
“So you were spying on us, were you?” snarled Reddy, whose flushed face
showed he had been drinking.
He lunged forward as he spoke, while McCarney also rushed at Joe.
The latter’s right fist shot out and caught Hupft a terrific blow
straight between the eyes, sending him staggering back against the
partition. The next moment Joe’s left had landed on McCarney’s jaw.
They were back at him a moment later, and they went at it hammer and
tongs. Joe could have handled either one of them easily, but the two
made a formidable combination. Still he was getting the better of it
when his foot slipped in the débris of the meal that had been dashed to
the floor and he went down heavily, striking the back of his head. He
was stunned, and the next instant McCarney and Hupft were both on top
of him.