A TERRIBLE ALTERNATIVE
The interest and speculation caused by the disappearance of the two
crack pitchers of the Giants was at fever pitch. The sporting pages of
all the papers were filled with special articles and the story in many
was featured on the first page. Fans collected on every street corner
and discussed the many strange features of the occurrence. Many were
the ingenious solutions proposed, and McRae’s mail in the morning was
flooded with advice from amateur sportsmen and detectives.
All this, however, was of little service to either Joe or Jim. After
the former had been finally overborne by sheer weight of numbers in the
dark hallway of the gamblers’ house, he was conveyed to a dark room in
the basement of the old building. The place was as dark as pitch, and
was infested with rats and other vermin. For several hours they were
his only company, and he had ample leisure for some bitter reflections
on the hard fate that had brought him to this pass. Too late he wished
that he had summoned aid before entering the house. He thought of the
team waiting for him and counting on him for the game the following
day, and a feeling of hot resentment and rage against his captors
welled up in him. Following this came a resolve to outwit his enemies
and escape, and with this idea in mind he made a careful exploration of
the place in which he was confined.
The walls were of stone or cement, and were clammy and dripping with
water. The air was cold and damp, and although in the world outside it
was a lovely summer evening, Joe shivered in the dark atmosphere of his
prison.
The hours dragged slowly by, for what seemed an interminable time, and
Joe was preparing to make a bed on the floor and get what sleep he
could under the circumstances, when he heard the sound of a key being
turned in a lock. The door of the place opened on complaining hinges,
and the big, flashily dressed man who had directed his capture in the
hallway entered, carrying a lantern. At his back came two rough looking
men, each carrying a club.
“Well, young feller, you seem to have got yourself into a nice mess
now, haven’t you?” inquired the fat man.
“You mean you’ve got me into it,” retorted Joe. “I’m not here because I
want to be here.”
“Well, don’t get gay, now, or maybe we can make you wish you hadn’t,”
threatened the other. “All you’ve got to do is to follow the directions
we give you, and you won’t get hurt.”
“If you didn’t have those ruffians with you, you might get hurt
yourself,” said Joe.
“I brought them along on purpose so that wouldn’t happen, young
feller,” said the other. “After watching you in action upstairs a while
back, I’m ready to admit that you know how to handle yourself, but I
don’t propose to have you make a punching bag of me.”
“What is it you want me to do?” asked Joe curtly. “I can probably tell
you in advance that I won’t do it, but it won’t hurt to listen to you.”
“I don’t see that you have much choice,” said his captor. “But I don’t
think I’ll tell you what I want you to do――not yet. Maybe a night in
this hole will make you readier to listen to reason. The rats are
rather thick down here, and I imagine by to-morrow you’ll be glad to
get out on any terms. I wouldn’t like it much here myself.”
The two fellows behind the speaker laughed hoarsely at this attempt at
humor.
“Better let us tap him a few wid de persuaders, boss,” said one. “The
feller is too fresh. I kin see that with half an eye. Let’s rough ’im
up a bit.”
The leader seemed undetermined, but finally decided against this.
“A night in this place will fix him, all right,” he said. “If it don’t,
there are lots of other ways to make him act nice. When my bunch wants
a man to do something, he does it, or he’s mighty sorry, that’s all.”
With this the fellow turned, followed by the two with him. For
an instant Joe had a mad impulse to attack the trio, but he was
weaponless, and he told himself that better opportunities of escape
were sure to offer. The door creaked on its rusty hinges, a lock
snapped, and he was left alone with his thoughts.
Needless to say, these were not of the pleasantest description. What
was it that the fellow wanted of him? Whatever it was, Joe felt sure
that it would be something with which he could not honorably comply,
and he was ready to face any hardship before doing a dishonorable thing.
That night stood out in his memory ever after like some horrible
nightmare. He was badly bruised from the effects of his fall and the
struggle that followed, and besides was cold and hungry. He craved
sleep, but sleep in that rat-ridden den was impossible. He could hear
the rats scurrying about in the darkness, and more than once he felt
the nip of small but sharp teeth as he flung some rodent away from
him. As the night wore on the rats became bolder in their attacks, and
it was all Joe could do to ward them off. Every hour seemed like an
eternity, and it was with boundless relief that he at last heard the
key turn in the lock.
This time there were three different men from those he had seen the
night before, but he recognized two of them as having been among his
assailants the previous day. The third man he had never seen before.
“The boss wants to see you upstairs,” said this individual. “He sent us
to take you up.”
“Lead the way,” said Joe. “Any place is better than this filthy den.”
The man eyed him curiously.
“Say, you’re Matson, the pitcher of the Giants, ain’t you?” he asked,
with a note of surprise in his voice.
“You’re right the first time,” Joe assured him. “Anything I can do for
you?”
The other made no reply to this, but merely motioned to Joe to follow
him. They passed through a long cellar and then up a flight of stairs
that let them into the rear of the hall where Joe had had the battle
the previous day. Then they climbed the main staircase, and Joe was
conducted into the room where the rascals had been congregated.
The leader of the gang was there, in company with another man whose
face seemed familiar to Joe from the first. He could not place the man,
however, and had little time to think of this before the ringleader
spoke.
“Well, young feller, how did you enjoy the night?” he asked, and there
was a cruel leer on his big, flabby face.
“You know well enough what that place is like without my telling you,”
said Joe. “Tell me what your game is and let’s get it over with. You
won’t gain anything by putting it off.”
The other regarded him searchingly for a few moments.
“Well, in your case, perhaps not,” he said at last. “What you have got
to do is to sign a paper saying that you won’t play baseball again this
season. You sign the paper, and you walk out the door a free man.”
“And what if I refuse?” asked Joe.
“Then you’re going toward the river. There’s too much of our money sunk
in this game now to let us hesitate about what happens to one baseball
player more or less.”
“You must have a lot of confidence in me,” said Joe. “Suppose I sign
this paper and then go right ahead and play ball anyway? What’s to
stop me from doing that?”
“Say, son, you must think we’re easy!” he said. “When you sign this
paper it will tie the can to your career as a ball player. In it
you’ll admit that you threw several games last season, and this
for pay. You’ll name the dates and the games, and we’ll have other
framed evidence to back it up. Oh, you won’t play any more games this
season――nor any other season, I guess. But if you _don’t_ sign this
paper, you won’t play any more games, either,” he added significantly.
For the first time the full measure of his extremity dawned on Joe.
On the one hand he was asked to sign a paper that would disgrace him
and make him an outcast in the eyes of the world――such a paper as no
decent man would care to sign and live after signing it. And if he did
not sign, there might be even death waiting for him, without the chance
of saying good-by to his young wife and to his parents and friends,
certainly such an injury as would forever put him out of baseball. Of
the two hard alternatives he quickly made his choice.
“I guess it will have to be the river for mine, then,” he said, in a
steady voice. “You can rest assured I won’t sign any such blackguard
paper as that.”
The ringleader gave an exclamation.
“Take him back to the cellar, men,” he ordered. “You can have until
to-night to change your mind, young feller. If you don’t do what I want
you to then, you――well, you’ll take the consequences, that’s all.”
The others closed in on Joe to take him away, but Joe wrenched himself
free and with a movement like that of a leaping panther he was at the
scoundrel. His fist shot out and caught the fellow squarely between the
eyes. A look of vacant surprise spread over the flabby features and the
man crumpled to the floor.
Before Joe could strike another blow his hands were pinned to
his sides, and he was hustled out of the room on the way to the
subterranean cell.
“You couldn’t have done a worse thing than that, Matson,” said the man
who had recognized him as being the Giants’ pitcher. “The boss will
have it in for you worse than ever now. It’ll be personal hate, as well
as money.”
“He’d probably do his worst, anyway, and that will give him something
to remember me by,” said Joe grimly.
“You’ve got nerve, kid. I’ve got to hand it to you,” said the other.
“I’m sorry they’ve got you slated for the river. I used to be a ball
player myself once, and I guess I’ve got some idea of how you feel
about it.”
Joe paid little attention to the man’s words, for his mind was busy
trying to place the man whom he had seen when he first entered the room
upstairs. He was sure he had seen him somewhere.
His captors conducted him to the room in the cellar, thrust him in, and
locked the door. Joe felt that he might perhaps go to his death when
that door opened in the evening. The men were desperate. They planned
injury, and a step too far―― A crowd of thoughts and memories came
thronging through his mind. A bitter end, this, to his work for fame
and fortune.
But was there, in fact, no chance of escape from that dark pit? He
paced to the wall and started to examine every square inch of it with
his fingers. Nothing but hard, smooth cement met his search, and after
an hour of fruitless effort he was about to give over the attempt when
he heard a stealthy, scratching sound from the direction of the door.