REGGIE TO THE RESCUE
“Not yet!” snapped Jim, resolutely. “You’re going to give me a moment
more, or I’ll know the reason why.”
Just then McRae entered the room. He gazed upon the tableau in
surprise, then his eyes rested on Joe’s street clothes.
“Why the glad rags, Joe?” he asked, trying to mask his growing concern
by an air of easy good nature. “Not going to beat up the Bostons in
that rig, are you?”
“McRae,” said Joe in the tone of one whose patience is being pushed too
far, “I’m sorry this has happened. I can’t even stop to explain now. My
wife’s sick and I’ve got to go. Jim will give you all the details you
want. Good-by.”
“Just a minute, Joe,” Jim’s voice broke in crisply. “I think you owe
it to yourself――to say nothing of McRae and the team――to make one more
attempt to get in touch with Mabel.”
“How?” Joe demanded. “The ’phone――――”
“We can get Reggie. He’s staying within a short distance of Riverside
just now, you know.”
“All right, we’ll try to get Reggie,” Joe broke in impatiently. “Though
what he can tell us I’m sure I don’t know,” he added, as he picked up
the telephone again and called long distance.
Luckily the chums happened to know that Reggie was staying with some
friends in Ridersville, a little town not far from Riverside, while he
looked after some business for his father. Reggie had given them not
only the address of his friends but the telephone number as well, and
the latter had stuck in Joe’s head.
So now, more with the idea of pacifying McRae and Jim than from any
hope of help from Reggie, Joe called the number, raging inwardly at
the delay. Mabel, his little Mabel, was ill, perhaps seriously ill,
and these two stood in the way of his going to her! What was a game,
anyway, compared to the fact that his bride needed him? At that, it did
not follow that the game would be lost even if he, Joe, were unable to
pitch. What was the matter with Jim, with Bradley, with Markwith? But
in his heart he knew that it was his, Joe’s, mighty batting arm as much
as his prowess in the box that McRae was counting on to turn the tide
against the Bostons.
“It isn’t so much what Reggie can tell us as what he can find out for
us,” he heard Jim saying. “He’s only a stone’s throw from Riverside.”
Just then the telephone rang.
“Here’s your party,” came from the operator.
Joe’s tall form straightened and his expression became more tense. It
was not long before he had Reggie on the line.
“This you, Reggie? Joe speaking. Joe Matson――Joe――J-O-E――Baseball Joe,
get me? Yes, that’s right. Say, Reggie, how is Mabel? Have you heard
anything of her lately? What’s that? Speak a little louder, will you? I
can’t hear you.”
Both McRae and Jim leaned closer as Joe tried to make meaning of the
sentences that floated so faintly over the wire, yet unmistakably
uttered in Reggie’s familiar drawl.
“What’s that?” Joe cried. “Say that over again, Reggie, and say it
slow. You saw her? When? A week ago? Was she well then, perfectly
well?... Yes, I got a telegram saying she’s very ill, calling me to
Riverside.... Yes, it’s the big game with Boston to-day.... I can’t
help it. Mabel needs me.... What’s that you say?”
Reggie’s drawl was hardly noticeable. The urbane, bland Reggie was very
much agitated. He spoke so quickly that Joe had hard work to follow
him. McRae and Jim, of course, had to guess at the conversation from
Joe’s part in it.
“You’ll go right out there?” asked Joe in a relief that was mixed with
uncertainty. “That’s fine of you, Reggie, but I think I ought to come
back anyway.... What say?... Speak more slowly, old man.... You’ll let
us know as soon as you find out?... What’s that?... Provided I stay
around and play ball?... Say, what is this anyway, blackmail?... All
right, all right, I promise.... All right, I’ll stick around till I
hear from you, but make it swift, will you, old man? You know how I
feel.... All right.... Thanks.... So long.”
Joe hung up, took out his handkerchief, and wiped beads of perspiration
from his face.
“Well?” demanded Jim and McRae together.
“I don’t know that it is well,” groaned Joe. “Here I’ve promised Reggie
I’ll wait here till he calls up――a thing I’ll probably spend the rest
of my life regretting.”
“He said he would go right up there, didn’t he?” asked Jim, adding, as
Joe nodded miserably: “Well, you see, he’ll be there hours before you
could hope to. The chances are he’ll find Mabel as fit as a fiddle.”
“But if he doesn’t――――”
“Well, then,” said Jim reassuringly, “it will only mean the delay of an
hour or so, anyway. Or no delay at all. Through express trains don’t
run like trolleys. You can’t get away before to-night at best.”
“And meanwhile I might suggest,” said McRae dryly, “that the hour of
battle draws near and that Baseball Joe had better get into something
more nearly resembling a uniform. Buck up, Joe,” he added, giving the
latter a hearty thump on the shoulder. “You’re not going to turn the
Giants down now, are you, when the team needs the best that’s in you?”
Joe made no answer in words but rose and turned toward the locker room.
“Great Scott!” he said to himself, passing a shaking hand through his
hair. “How am I going to play ball?”
Now he was out on the field once more with the sun beating down
blindingly upon the newly marked diamond and the tremendous crowds in
the grandstand and bleachers voicing approval of the husky home team.
The bell had rung and McRae had been compelled to start the game with
Markwith in the box.
Joe wondered what had become of the confident mood he had felt so short
a time before when he had proclaimed that no one could beat him. As
he thought of the telegram which had so completely changed everything
for him, he spared a fleeting thought to the small messenger boy. He
was probably squeezed in somewhere among that tight-packed mass of
humanity, the freckles standing out on his snub nose and his shrill
voice joyfully murdering the English language in an attempt to make his
enthusiasm audible.
Joe smiled fleetingly, but instantly his face was grave again.
Mabel――Mabel lying sick and lonely, wanting him, and he was failing
her! He had been a fool to say that he would wait for Reggie to find
out what was wrong. He was the one who should be investigating, not
Reggie.
Of course there was the chance――his reason told him it was a good
chance――that the whole thing was a scheme to get him out of the way. At
the thought his fists clenched and his mouth shut in a straight line.
If it was a trick and he could find the identity of the player of it,
that trick would be the last that fellow would play!
Now as he sat on the bench, he remembered certain small signs and
tokens that up to that time had almost entirely escaped his memory.
He remembered having discovered a sort of triumphant hostility in
McCarney’s gaze as it was fixed upon him, a look which had surprised
and annoyed him only momentarily. He was used to the enmity of
McCarney, but it was only at this moment that he remembered that
triumph had outweighed hostility in the eyes of the man.
Was that triumph caused by the certainty in McCarney’s mind that he,
Joe, would not play in that day’s game? At the thought Joe experienced
a sharp thrill of gladness that he had not permitted himself to be
tricked into abandoning his team.
Then came back the tormenting uncertainty again. Was it a trick? How
could he be sure of that? What was wrong with Reggie? Why didn’t he let
him know? Fool that he had been to trust to Reggie! Then he awoke to
the unpleasant realization that the Bostons’ half of the first inning
was ended and that the visitors had scored two runs.
Markwith had started well by striking out the first man up. The
second, however, he had passed to first. The next man laid down a neat
sacrifice on which the man on first had got to second. Still there were
two out and the chances were against scoring.
But Bradbury, batting in the clean-up position, had caught a low ball
that came singing over the plate just where he wanted it and sent it
whistling into the bleachers for the prettiest kind of a homer.
The clout rather unnerved Markwith, and he sent the next one to first
on a free pass. But the next man hit a sharp grasser to Iredell that
the latter handled cleanly and got to first in plenty of time for the
out.
“Fine pitching――I don’t think,” grumbled McRae, as Markwith came
in rather sheepishly. “You poor boob,” he added to the discomfited
pitcher, “don’t you know better than to give Bradbury a low one in the
groove? Haven’t you seen often enough that he just eats up that kind?”
Markwith merely grunted.
“I’ll let you start the second in the hope you’ll settle down,”
continued McRae. “But at the least sign of faltering, it’s you for the
showers.”