"Now kick his shins"

JIMMY KIRKLAND

AND THE

PLOT FOR A PENNANT

BY

HUGH S. FULLERTON

ILLUSTRATED BY

CHARLES PAXSON GRAY

PHILADELPHIA
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1915, by
JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
PRINTED IN U. S. A.

To
CHARLES A. COMISKEY
The man to whom, more than all others, the honesty
and high standard of professional baseball is
due, this little volume is dedicated with the sincere
regard of a student to his preceptor.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

[ "NOW KICK HIS SHINS" . . . . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece ]

[ BALDWIN STARED AT THE SLENDER YOUTH ]

[ THE MEN LEAPED OUT ]

[ "FOURTEEN MILES IN TWENTY-ONE MINUTES" ]

JIMMY KIRKLAND AND A PLOT FOR A PENNANT

CHAPTER I

Panthers or Bears?

The defeat in the opening game of the final series of the season between the Panthers and Bears had been a hard blow to the championship hopes of the Bears, and its effect was evident in the demeanor of the players and those associated with them. It was the second week in September. Since early in May the Blues, the Panthers and the Bears, conceded to be the three strongest teams in the league, had struggled day by day almost upon even terms, first one team leading by a narrow margin, then another, until the interest of the country was centered upon the battle for supremacy.

Then, with the Blues holding the lead by the narrowest of margins, Maloney, their premier pitcher, strained his arm, and the Blues, in despair, battled the harder only to overtax the strength of the remaining pitchers, so that the team dropped rapidly into third place, still hoping against hope to get their crippled pitching staff back into condition for the finish.

It seemed that the four-game series between the Bears and Panthers probably would prove the crisis of the year's efforts, and decide the question of supremacy. On the eve of the commencement of that series the Bear hopes had received a shock. Carson, the heaviest batter, the speediest base runner and one of the most brilliant outfielders in the league, had fractured a leg in sliding to a base, and was crippled so seriously that all hope of his recovery in time to play again that year was abandoned.

Until the day the news that Carson could not play again during the season became public, the Bears had been favorites, but with their hardest batter crippled, and Holleran, the substitute, known to be weak against curve pitching, their hope seemed destroyed. Manager William Clancy, of the Bears, his kindly, weather-beaten face wearing a troubled expression, in place of his customary cheerful grin, was investigating. The defeat of the Bears in the first game with the Panthers had revealed to all the vital weakness of the holders of the championship, and Clancy, as he sat nibbling the end of his penholder in the writing room of the hotel, faced a discouraging situation.

Across the table from him a slender girl, attired in a close-fitting street gown, was writing rapidly, covering many sheets of hotel stationery with tall, angular hieroglyphics as she detailed to her dearest friend at home the exciting events of the day.

"Betty," said Manager Clancy, looking up, "if you and Ellen are ever going to get ready you'll have to start."

"I'm ready now, Mr. Clancy," the girl responded brightly, lifting her head until she revealed the perfect curve of her firm chin, and smiled, "I left Mother Clancy in the rooms sewing on some buttons. She will be ready soon."

At that moment a slender youth, easy in movement, almost graceful in his confident carriage, entered the hotel lobby. Something in his bearing gave evidence that he was accustomed to association with persons of refinement. His closely cropped, curling hair, sandy to the point of redness, attracted attention to his well-formed head, set well upon a pair of shoulders so wide as to give him the appearance of strength, in spite of the slenderness of his waist and the lightness of his body. His face was freckled and the uplift of his nose added to the friendly impression created by his blue eyes. His clothes were almost threadbare and his shoes were worn, but his linen was clean and his appearance neat. The youth hesitated, glancing from group to group of the players, as if trying to decide which one to approach.

"Silent" Swanson, the giant shortstop, who had earned his nickname because he was the noisiest player on the field, was standing talking with "Noisy" Norton, the second baseman, so called because he seldom spoke either on or off the field, and Adonis Williams, the star left-handed pitcher of the team. The newcomer's eyes fell upon this group, and his face lighted as he observed that Williams's hair was only a shade darker than his own. As if deciding quickly, he walked toward the group.

"You are Williams, are you not?" he inquired easily, smiling in a friendly manner.

"That's my name, but most people add a mister to it," responded Williams sneeringly.

The red-headed youth flushed and the smile died out of his eyes.

"I beg pardon, Mister Williams," he said, quietly; "I was seeking Manager Clancy. Perhaps you can tell me where to find him?"

"It isn't very hard to find Clancy," responded Williams. "We can't lose him."

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to point him out to me. I never have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Clancy."

Neither of them had observed that Swanson and Norton had drawn aside to permit the girl who had been in the writing room to pass on her way to the elevator. Evidently she overheard the youth's inquiry, for she hesitated just as Williams laughed in an ugly manner and said:

"If you don't know him you'd better peddle yourself somewhere else. He won't be in a mood to talk to hoboes to-night."

Before the slender youth could speak, the girl stepped forward and said quietly:

"Pardon me, but I overheard you inquiring for Manager Clancy. He is in the writing room."

Her brown eyes flashed with anger, her lips were set tight and her sun-browned cheeks flushed as she passed quickly on toward the elevator, not waiting to respond to the thanks of the slender youth, who had removed his hat quickly to utter his gratitude. Then, turning toward Williams, who stood flushed and angry, his blue eyes narrowed and he said:

"Just for that, I'll kick you on the shins in the club house and dare you to fight."

"What? You will, huh?" spluttered the astounded pitcher.

He would have said more, but before he could recover, the newcomer, smiling oddly, turned and walked toward the writing room and held out his hand to the famous Clancy, for six years leader of the Bears.

The slender youth stood with extended hand while Manager Clancy gazed up from his writing.

"Mr. Clancy?" he asked, smiling.

"Yes. Sit down," responded Clancy, his intention of rebuffing the intruder changing as he saw the smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I read in the evening papers," replied the youth, still smiling easily, "that Carson broke a leg, and that, to win the pennant, you must find an outfielder who can hit."

"Perhaps you also read that I'd like to find a diamond about the size of my head," responded Clancy, sarcastically.

"The paper also said that you might switch Pardridge from third base to the outfield if you could find a hard-hitting infielder."

"Possibly the paper also said that if I found the diamond I'd move my gold mine to make room for it." Clancy restrained himself from further comment, feeling uncertain because of the quiet confidence of his visitor.

There was a pause, the veteran manager studying his caller and the slender youth sat smiling as if expecting Clancy to resume the conversation.

"Well?" said Clancy, glancing at his half-finished letter as if to hint that his time was entirely too valuable to be wasted discussing academic impossibilities with entire strangers.

"Well," replied the visitor, smiling, "I'm it."

"You're what?" asked the astonished manager.

"The third baseman who can hit."

"When shall I move the gold mine?" Clancy's voice was dangerously quiet.

"To-morrow, if you like."

Clancy sat gazing at his visitor as if undecided as to whether he should explode in wrath, laugh at some joke too deep for him, or believe the slender youth was in earnest.

"Say, kid," he said slowly after studying the youth for a moment, "I admire your nerve, anyhow. If you have half the confidence on a ball field that you have off it, you'll be a wonder. Where did you ever play ball?"

A troubled expression came over the boy's face.

"Mr. Clancy," he said, quietly, "if you take me you'll have to do it without asking questions. I can play ball, and it's up to me to make good at something. All I ask is a chance to prove to you I can play. It will not cost you a cent to find out."

"Done anything?" Clancy asked, sharply.

"Criminal? No," responded the boy, flushing.

"Ever signed a professional contract?"

"No."

Clancy studied him as if trying to decide what to do. Then, raising his voice, he called:

"Oh, Sec. Come here a minute."

A tall man, his hair gray, his face wearing a frown of perpetual worry, came from the hotel lobby.

"Mr. Tabor," said Clancy, without rising, "this is Mr. Jimmie McCarthy, who is to have a try-out with us at third base. Room him with the players. You aren't stopping anywhere else, are you?"

The last question was directed to the surprised youth.

"No—I'm broke," answered the youth, flushing quickly.

"I'll fix you up in a moment," said the secretary in friendly tones as he shook hands with the youth. "Wait until I finish settling up with the baggage man."

The secretary hastened from the room, and the boy turned impulsively to the manager.

"Mr. Clancy," he said in a tone of gratitude, "I want to thank you—I don't know how. I was broke—ball playing is about all I'm good at. How did you know I didn't want to use my own name?"

"I figured you might want to forget it for a time, anyhow," said Clancy. "McCarthy is a good name and it fits your eyes."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am," said the boy impetuously. "I'll make good for you. I've failed trying to make a living. Baseball is the only thing they taught me at college that I'm good at, and when I read that you needed a third baseman I"——

"College man, eh?" asked Clancy quickly. "Well, I won't hold that against you or tip it off. Don't thank me. If you make good I'll be the one to give thanks."

The youth turned to follow the secretary as if to hide a little mist that came into his eyes, and he left Manager Clancy gazing thoughtfully after him and nibbling the end of his penholder.

"It would be a miracle," said Clancy to himself. "But I've got a hunch it will come true. He's bred right—tell it from his looks. He's game, light on his feet; good shoulders, and—and—and a pair of eyes."

CHAPTER II

A Miracle Called McCarthy

Thirty thousand persons, banked in the great grandstands and massed upon the field seats, roared with increasing excitement as from every direction solid streams of humanity poured toward the park to witness the second game of the series between the Bears and the Panthers.

The batting practice of the teams had ended and the Bears trotted out upon the field.

"Who is that red-head practicing at third?" inquired "Chucky" Rice, the veteran reporter of the Panthers.

"Name is McCarthy, a busher Clancy picked up somewhere. He is to have a trial this fall—after the pennant fight is over," said Koerner, of the Globe, who traveled with the Bears.

"Looks sweet on ground balls," commented Rice, watching the slender, graceful athlete, who was occupying Pardridge's place at third base. "Where did Clancy find him, Tech?"

The question was addressed to "Technicalities" Feehan, the odd little reporter who had traveled with the Bears for twenty years.

"I have not been informed," responded Feehan, adjusting his glasses and watching McCarthy closely. "He came to the hotel last night and asked for a try-out. Did you see him hit?"

"Yes," replied Rice. "Hits right-handed and he cracked two on the nose. Will he play?"

"Clancy hardly will take a chance with him at this stage," replied Koerner.

McCarthy tossed his glove to the veteran third baseman and ran toward the plate to bat grounders to the infielders. He was not aware of the fact, but Clancy had been watching him keenly during the entire practice and had asked Kennedy, the star catcher, to keep an eye on the recruit and report how he liked his actions.

"Handles himself like a ball player," commented the catcher. "He hit a curve ball {22} with a snap swing that had a lot of drive in it and he gets the ball away like a flash when it hits his hands."

"He takes things easily," said the manager. "I haven't seen him fight a ball yet. Blocks it down and recovers in plenty of time. If this game didn't mean so much"——

The game went against the Bears from the start, the break of the luck seeming always to favor the Panthers. Twice, with runners perched on second and third, Holleran had hit feeble grounders to the infield, one resulting in a runner being caught at the home plate and one in an easy out at first that finished an inning in which the Bears had threatened to amass a half dozen runs.

The seventh inning started with the Panthers leading 3 to 1, and the Bears seemingly beaten beyond hope of recovery. An error, followed quickly by a base on balls and a successful sacrifice bunt put Bear runners on second and third bases with but one out and Holleran coming to the bat. Clancy signaled him, and an instant later Umpire Maxwell announced:

"McCarthy batting for Holleran. McCarthy will play third base, Pardridge in left field."

McCarthy came to the batter's box quickly, swinging a long, light bat. He let a fast ball cut across the plate just at his shoulders and only glanced inquiringly at the umpire when it was called a strike. The next one was a quick-breaking curve, seemingly coming straight at him. He stepped slightly forward, snapped the long bat against the ball and drove it down the left field foul line; two runners sprinted across the plate, and the score was tied.

"That auburn baby can hit them curves," commented Rice. "He certainly called the turn and waded into that one."

The game went into the ninth, then the tenth, the pitchers working harder and harder and the teams batting behind them without a break to bring the victory that meant so much to them.

Jimmy McCarthy was the first batter for the Bears. From an unknown recruit he had become the sensation of the game, and thousands were asking who he was. Twice he had hit Cooke's fast "hook curve," and hit it hard, and Cooke, remembering, shook his head as his catcher signaled for another curve. The recruit watched him, and, with a sudden jerk of his belt, he stepped into position. The first ball was fast and across his shoulders, as Cooke had placed it twice before. This time instead of taking the first strike McCarthy met the ball squarely and drove it on the line over the first baseman's head. He turned first base, going at top speed, although already McKeever, the Panther's right fielder, known as one of the greatest throwers in the league, was in position to field the ball.

The roar that arose from the crowd was chopped short as McCarthy sprinted for second base. An instant of tense uncertainty was followed by a swelling murmur of protest, disappointment and rage.

From the dust cloud just commencing to settle around second base two forms were emerging, and, as the dust drifted away, the crowd had a glimpse of a tableau. Tommy Meegher, second baseman of the Panthers, was disentangling his stocky form from the knot of arms and legs, and arising from the prostrate body of McCarthy, whose desperate slide had turned a base hit into a two-bagger. Stooping over them, his hands outspread, signifying that the runner had reached the base in safety, was Randy Ransom, crouching, in order better to see under the dust cloud raised by the hurtling bodies of the players.

A salvo of grudging applause greeted McCarthy as he arose and brushed the dust from his gray striped traveling uniform, an outburst that was followed by a frenzied spasm of enthusiasm from the Bear followers.

On the Bears' bench Manager Clancy grinned for the first time in three days.

"I believe that kid will do," he said to Kennedy. "He called the turn on that fast ball, just met it, and turned first on his stride. He slid under Meegher clean. Lay one down now," he added, addressing the order to Norton.

The skill of Noisy Norton as a sacrifice hitter was well known to the spectators in the stands, but better known to the tense, anxious infielders of the Panthers, who crouched, watching his every motion as he came to the batter's position. Norton stepped into position, shortened his hold upon the bat and glanced quickly around the infield as if noting the position of each man. Suddenly he started, as if in surprise, and glanced toward the Bears' bench. Manager Clancy nodded his head affirmatively and again Norton crouched, shortening his grip upon the bat still more, and slowly churned the inoffensive air with it. The Panther infielders, alert to detect the plan of attack to be tried by the Bears, had caught the rapid exchange of glances, and they crept a step or two closer to the batter, poising ready to leap forward to field any ball pushed toward them from Norton's bat.

The plan of assault to be tried seemed clear to the thousands of spectators. It appeared certain that a sacrifice bunt was to be attempted; that the third baseman of the Panthers was to pretend to field the ball, but that, instead, he would return to third base the moment Norton bunted, permitting Cooke, the pitcher, to try to reach the ball in time to throw to third to catch McCarthy there instead of throwing to first to retire Norton.

Cooke pitched fast and straight over the plate, intending to make Norton push the ball back to him, or into the air for a fly out. Norton, however, struck viciously, but without making an effort to hit the ball, swinging his bat in order to handicap the catcher in his effort to catch the ball and make a throw. McCarthy had started at full speed the instant Cooke had commenced to wind up to pitch the ball, and was in full flight toward third base. Before Nixon's throw, delayed and hampered by Norton's tactics in striking, reached third, McCarthy slid behind the base, his feet outstretched to hook the bag as he threw his body outward to prevent Randall, the third baseman, from exercising his deadly skill in blocking runners away from the base.

A moment later Norton drove a long fly to the outfield, and McCarthy, waiting until it was caught, sprinted across the plate with what proved to be the winning run.

"Crossed—and by a busher," lamented Kincaid, of the Panthers, as the teams started off the field after the finish of the game, walking slowly because of the press of humanity overflowing from the stands.

"What do you think of that kid, Slats?" inquired Manager Clancy, as they walked together toward the club house.

"He's a ball player, if he don't swell," responded Hartman, laconically. "He pulled that steal of third wise. He figured we wouldn't expect a busher to try to steal at that stage—and we didn't. He's a wise head for a kid."

"Looks good to me," replied Clancy. "He slipped Norton a signal not to hit, but to let him steal—and I almost fell off the bench when I saw it. I expected him to toss the game away."

"Where'd you get him?" demanded Hartman.

"He wished himself onto me," grinned Clancy. "He told me he could play ball and I believed him."

A swarm of reporters descended upon the headquarters of the visiting team, striving to discover something of the history of the slender, red-haired youngster whose coming had revived the waning pennant hopes of the Bears. McCarthy was not to be found. He had slipped away after dinner without telling anyone his plans. The reporters descended upon Manager Clancy, demanding information concerning his find.

"It's a secret, boys," responded Clancy to their insistent questions. "He is nom de plume and habeas corpus. The only place I ever heard of him playing ball was in Cognito."

"Suppress the comedy and ease us the legit," pleaded Riley, who wrote theatricals when he was not inventing English in the interest of baseball. "I can't find any record that will fit him."

"Boys," said the veteran manager, growing serious, "I don't know a thing more about him than you do. I don't know where he ever played; it never was in organized ball, or I would know where he comes from and who he is. He strolled in here last night, told me he could play ball and wanted a chance to show me that he could."

"That was considerable demonstration to-day," commented Rice. "How do you know he's square?"

"By looking at him," replied Clancy steadily. "If I needed any more evidence, he was offered $500 to sign a Panther contract after to-day's game and told them he'd stick to me—and we haven't even talked about salary."

"What'll we call him?" asked one reporter.

"Say," replied Clancy, enthusiastically, "I dreamed last night that I had found a pot of gold wrapped up in a million-dollar bill, with a diamond as big as my hand on top of it. Call him Kohinoor."

So Kohinoor McCarthy sprang into fame in a day as the mystery of the league.

CHAPTER III

Hope for the Bears

The Bears were joyous again. They scuffled, joked, laughed and romped joyously as the team gathered in the railway station to make a hurried departure for the city of the Pilgrims on the evening after the final game of the series with the Panthers. Three victories out of four games played with the Panthers instead of the dreaded three defeats had lifted the Bears back practically to even terms with their rivals. All they had hoped for after the injury of Carson was to divide the series with the Panthers, and it was due to the sudden appearance of Kohinoor McCarthy that the victories were made possible.

All the notoriety that suddenly was thrust upon McCarthy had failed to affect him, although Manager Clancy watched his "find" anxiously, and pleaded with the newspaper men not to spoil him. No trace of the dreaded affliction known as "swelled head" had revealed itself, and because McCarthy was able to laugh over the wild stories printed concerning him, Clancy breathed more easily.

During the celebration McCarthy, who had made it possible, stood apart from the others, feeling a little lonely. McCarthy stood watching them, smiling at their antics with a feeling that he was an intruder. The truth was that the Bears had welcomed him from the start. He had won their admiration on the field and the undying friendship of Silent Swanson by his conduct in the club house on the afternoon after the close of his first game. It was that incident that made for him a chum and an enemy, who were destined to play a big part in his career.

When the players raced off the field after that victory, striving to escape being engulfed in the torrent of humanity that poured from the stands, McCarthy was caught, with a few others, and delayed. When he reached the club house the substitutes and the reserve pitchers already were splashing and spluttering under the showers. McCarthy walked to where Adonis Williams, already stripped to the waist, was preparing to take his shower, and without a word he kicked the pitcher on the shins, a mere rap, but administered so as to leave no doubt as to its purpose.

"Here——. What did you do that for?" demanded Williams.

"I told you in the hotel, when you insulted me, that I'd do it. Will you fight?"

McCarthy's blue eyes had grown narrower, and a colder blue tint came into them.

"I'll break you in pieces, you —— —— —— you," Williams spluttered with rage.

"Drop that talk and fight," challenged McCarthy, stepping into a fighting attitude.

Just then McCarthy received help from an unexpected source. Swanson, the giant of the team, broke through the circle of players that had formed in expectation of seeing a fight.

"You're all right, Bo," he roared, throwing his huge arm around the shoulders of the recruit. "You're perfectly all right, but he won't fight you."

"I'll smash"——

"Naw, you won't, Adonis," said the giant, contemptuously. "I think he can lick you, anyhow, but you had it coming. Now kick his other shin, and after that Adonis will apologize."

The suggestion raised a laugh, and eased the situation. The battle light in McCarthy's face changed to a smile.

"I'll forego the kick," he said. "I had to make good after what I told you in the hotel. I'm perfectly willing to let it drop and be friends."

He extended his hand frankly, but Williams, still scowling, did not take it.

"Never mind the being friends part of it," he said. "But if you don't want trouble, just lay away from me after this."

"Here, young fellow," said Clancy, who had arrived at the club house in time to see the finish of the altercation; "I'll do all the fighting for this club. Understand?"

"Yes," replied McCarthy, slowly, without attempting to explain.

"What do you think of my gamecock, Bill?" asked Swanson, enthusiastically. "Adonis insulted him in the hotel last night and the kid promised to kick him on the shins. He was just making good. He offered to shake hands and call it all off, but Adonis wouldn't do it. He's my roommate from now on. I'll have to take him to keep him from fighting every one."

The giant's remark caused another laugh, as his record for fights during his earlier career as a ball player had given him a reputation which obviated all necessity of fighting.

The majority of the Bears had accepted McCarthy as one of their own kind after that, and Swanson adopted him. With Swanson he seemed at home, but the others found him a trifle shy and retiring. He was friendly with all excepting Williams and Pardridge, who resented his occupation of third base while pretending to be pleased. Yet with the exception of Swanson and Kennedy he made no close friends. The admiration of the rough, big-hearted Swede shortstop for the recruit approached adoration and he was loud and insistent in voicing his praises of McCarthy.

The train which was bearing the Bears away from the city of the Panthers drew slowly out of the great station, plunged through a series of tunnel-like arches under the streets, and rattled out into the suburbs, gathering speed for the long night run. Inside the cars the players were settling themselves for an evening of recreation. Card games were starting, the chess players were resuming their six-month-long contest, and McCarthy sought his berth and sat alone, striving to read. In the berth just ahead of his seat the quartette commenced to sing.

The Bears possessed a quartette with some musical merit and musical knowledge. Kennedy, the quiet, big catcher, had a good baritone voice and it showed training. Norton, who seldom spoke, but always was ready to sing, led, and Swanson was the bass, his voice deep and organ-like, making up in power and richness much that it lost in lack of training. Madden, the tenor, was weak and uncertain yet, as Swanson remarked, "He can't sing much, but he is a glutton for punishment."

When the quartette started to sing, McCarthy dropped his book and sat gazing out into the gathering twilight, listening to the strong, healthy voices. Lights commenced to flash out from the farm houses and the haze settled in waving curtains over the ponds and the lowlands. He was lonely, homesick at thought of other voices and other scenes and the joyousness of his new comrades seemed to depress rather than to lift his spirits.

Berths were being prepared for the night. Already in several the weary and the lame were reclining, reading. Others, worn by the strain of the day's game, were getting ready to draw their curtains. The trainer and his assistant were passing quietly from berth to berth, working upon aching arms and bruised muscles, striving to keep their valuable live stock in condition to continue the struggle.

The quartette sang on and on, regardless of the lack of an audience, for no one in the car appeared to be listening. They sang tawdry "popular" songs for the most part, breaking into a ribald ragtime ditty, followed by a sickly sentimental ballad.

Kennedy's voice, without warning, rose strong and clear almost before the final chord of the song over which the quartette had been in travail had died away. Kennedy had a habit, when he wearied of the songs they sang, of singing alone some song the others did not know; some quaint old ballad, or oftener a song of higher class. For a moment the others strove vainly to follow. Then silence fell over them as Kennedy's voice rose, clearer and stronger, as he sang the old words of Eileen Aroon.

"Dear were her charms to me."

His voice was pregnant with feeling.

"Dearer her laughter—free."

Kennedy was singing as if to himself, but as he sang a voice, strong and fresh, like a clear bell striking into the music of chimes, joined his and sang with him the words:

"Dearer her constancy."

The card players suddenly lost interest in their game, dropped their hands and turned to see who was singing. Players who had been reading and those who had been vainly striving to sleep poked their heads between curtains of the berths, the better to listen.

On and on through the haunting, half-pathetic minors of the old song the clear, sweet tenor and the strong, well-modulated voice of Kennedy carried the listeners. McCarthy, leaning toward the window and gazing out upon the moonlight as if under its spell, sang on in ignorance of the interest his voice had aroused in the car.

The song ended. For a moment the silence in the car was so complete that the clicking of the wheels upon the fish plates sounded sharply. Then Swanson, with a yell, broke the spell. Hurdling the back of the berth he descended upon the startled McCarthy, who seemed dazed and bewildered by the outburst and the pattering applause that it started.

"Yeh, Bo," yelled Swanson, giving his diamond war cry. "Yeh, Bo, you're a bear. Hey, you folks, throw Maddy out of the window and make room for this red-headed Caruso. Why didn't you tell me you could sing? The quartette is filled at last!"

Flushed and laughing in his embarrassment, McCarthy was borne up the aisle and deposited in the place of honor in the quartette.

Suddenly the scuffling and boisterous laughter ceased, and the players drew aside, apologetically, to make room for an eager, bright-eyed girl, whose face was flushed with pleasure, but who advanced toward McCarthy without a trace of embarrassment. McCarthy, glancing at her, recognized the girl who had directed him to Manager Clancy on the evening of his first appearance in the Bear camp.

"I was coming to say good-night to father," she said quickly, "and I heard you sing. I want to thank you."

She extended her hand and smiled. McCarthy stared at her in a bewilderment. Some memory of long ago stirred within him. He recalled in a flash where he had seen the face before; the face that had come into his boyhood at one of its unhappiest hours. He had dreamed of the face, and the memory of the kind brown eyes, filled with sympathetic tenderness, never had left him. She was the same girl. He realized suddenly that he was staring rudely and strove to stammer some reply to her impulsive thanks.

"Oh, I say," he protested. "It was nothing—I wasn't thinking"——

"You sang it beautifully," she interrupted.

"The song is one of my favorites. I did not know Mr. Kennedy knew it."

"Used to sing it at home," said Kennedy, as if indifferent.

"Thank you," McCarthy stammered, partly recovering his poise. "It is good of you to like it. I seldom sing at all. The song made me forget where I was."

"You must sing for us," she said simply. "The boys will make you. I am certain that after you feel more at home among us you will give us that pleasure. Good-night—and thank you again."

The girl smiled and McCarthy, stuttering in his effort to reply, managed to mutter good-night as she passed into the next car.

"It's a pink Kohinoor now," said the relentless Swanson, as he observed the flushed face of the recruit. "All fussed up, isn't he?"

"Oh, cut it out," retorted McCarthy, striving to cover his embarrassment by ball field conversational methods. "A fellow might be expected to be a little bit embarrassed with a lot of big stiffs like you standing around and never offering to introduce a fellow."

"I forgot it, Kohinoor," said Kennedy quickly. "I forgot you never had met her. She is Betty Tabor, Sec's daughter, and one of the best little women in the world. Even Silent is a gentleman when she is with the team."

"I'm always a gent, Bo," declared Swanson indignantly. "I took a night school course in etiquette once. Any one that ain't a gent when she is around I'll teach to be a gent—and this is the perfessor."

He exhibited a huge, red fist and smote the cushions of the berth with a convincing thud.

"I'll introduce you properly to-morrow," volunteered Kennedy. "Come on and get into the quartette. We'll try you out."

McCarthy surrendered more to conceal his agitation than because he felt like singing.

The quartette sang until the bridge players grew weary of the game and the tired athletes who preferred sleep to the melody howled imprecations upon the vocalists.

For a long time after McCarthy climbed into his berth he remained staring into the darkness, striving to recall the outlines of a face set with a pair of friendly brown eyes that lighted with a look of eager appreciation. He remembered the little dimples at the corners of the mouth, and the wealth of soft, brown hair that framed the oval of her face. He blushed hotly in the darkness at the thought of his own rather threadbare raiment, and he decided that he would evade an introduction until he could secure money from Manager Clancy and recover the clothes he had left in an express office.

He found himself striving to compare her face with that of another.

"She is not as pretty as Helen is," he told himself. "But it's different somehow. Helen never seemed to feel anything or to understand a fellow, and I'm sure Betty—Betty? I wonder if that is her real name—I'll sing for her as often as she will listen."

And, after a long reviewing of the past that was proving such a mystery and which the baseball reporters were striving in vain to explore, McCarthy muttered: "I've made a fool of myself," and turned over and slept.

CHAPTER IV

"Kohinoor" Meets Betty

The train was speeding along through the upper reaches of a beautiful valley when McCarthy awoke. As he splashed and scraped his face in the washroom he found himself torn between desire to hasten the introduction which Kennedy had promised and to avoid meeting the girl. He glanced down at his worn garments, wondering whether or not the girl had observed them. He went forward to the dining car with sudden determination to avoid the introduction. The dining car was crowded, and the table at which Swanson was eating was filled. McCarthy stopped, looked around for a vacant seat. There seemed to be only one—and at that table Miss Betty Tabor was breakfasting with Manager Clancy and his wife.

"Good morning," said the girl, smiling brightly. "There is a seat here. My father had to hurry away. Mr. Clancy will introduce us."

Clancy suspended his operations with his ham and eggs long enough to say:

"Miss Taber, Mr. McCarthy. Kohinoor, this is the old lady."

"I heard Mr. McCarthy sing last night," said the girl, acknowledging the informal presentation. "He sings well."

"So I should guess," remarked Clancy dryly. "Swanson has been bellowing his praise of it until everyone on the train thinks we have grabbed a grand opera star who can hit 400."

McCarthy found himself talking with Miss Taber and Mrs. Clancy and laughing at the quaint half brogue of the manager's buxom wife as if they had known each other all their lives. Clancy himself had little to say. The conversation had drifted to discussion of the country through which the train was running and McCarthy suddenly ceased talking.

"I always have loved this part of the valley," said Miss Taber. "When I was a little girl father brought me on a trip and I remember then picking out a spot on the hills across the river where, some day, I wanted to live. I never pass it without feeling the old desire. Have you been through this country before?"

The question was entirely natural, but McCarthy reddened as he admitted it was his first trip.

"And what part of the world do you come from?" asked Mrs. Clancy.

"I'm from the West," he responded. "Probably that is why I admire this green country so much."

"What is your home town?" persisted Mrs. Clancy.

Miss Taber, scenting an embarrassing situation, strove to change the subject, but Mrs. Clancy refused to be put off.

"Why is it you are ashamed of your home and play under another name, boy?" she demanded.

"Why do you think my name isn't McCarthy?" he parried.

"The McCarthys aren't a red-headed race," she said, her brogue broadening. "Ye have Irish in ye, but ye're not Irish. Is baseball such a disgraceful business ye are ashamed to use your name?"

"Of course not, Mrs. Clancy," he responded indignantly. "It is a good enough business—but—but—Oh, I can't explain."

"This mystery business is a big drawing card," remarked Manager Clancy, endeavoring to ease the situation. "They flock to see him because each one can make up his own story. Let him alone, mother. Don't spoil the gate receipts."

"Let him alone, is it?" she asked, turning upon her husband. "'Tis for his own sake I'm speaking. They'll be saying you've done something bad and wicked and are afraid to use your own name."

"What isn't true cannot hurt anyone," he replied quickly. "I have not committed any crimes."

"Mother is a good deal right about it," remarked Clancy quietly. "A baseball player is a public person. The fans are likely to say anything about a player, and the less they know the more they will invent."

"I believe Mother Clancy is right," said Miss Taber, seeing that her effort to turn the conversation had failed.

"But there really isn't anything to tell—anything any one would be interested in. It's a private matter," protested McCarthy.

"Listen, boy," said the manager's wife. "I've been with the boys these many years. They are all my boys, even the bad ones, and I don't want any of them talked about."

"There is nothing to talk about," he contended, irritated by the persistency of the manager's wife.

"They're already saying things," she responded, leaning forward. "They're a saying that you've done something crooked—that you've thrown ball games——"

"Oh," ejaculated Miss Taber. "They wouldn't dare!"

"I'd like to have someone say that to me," McCarthy said, flushing with anger.

"Hold on, mother," interrupted Clancy. "I'm managing this team——Let up on him. Where do you hear that kind of talk?"

"I heard it in the stands," she argued earnestly. "They were saying you knew all about it. If you deny it they'll tell another story and if you keep quiet they'll think its a confession. Tell them what you are and where you came from, boy."

Her voice was pleading and her interest in his welfare was too real not to affect him.

"I'm sorry, Mother Clancy," he said gratefully, unconsciously adopting the term he had heard Betty Tabor use. "There is nothing I can tell them—or anyone—now."

"It's sorry I am, Jimmy," she responded sadly. "If it's anything ye can tell me come to me."

"I see I have another adopted son," remarked Clancy teasingly as he winked at Miss Tabor. "Ellen mothers them all, as soon as she learns their first names—even the Swede."

"'Tis proud I'd be to have a son like Sven," she said, defendingly.

The breakfast ended rather quietly and McCarthy returned to his seat in the players' car dispirited. In his heart he knew that Mrs. Clancy had spoken the truth. He knew, too, that Betty Tabor held the same opinion and, somehow, her opinion of him counted more than that of all the others.

"If I only could explain," he kept thinking. "They have no right to ask," he argued with himself. "Why do they suspect a man just because he refuses to tell them all his private affairs?"

McCarthy was settling himself to resume reading when Adonis Williams came down the aisle and sat down in the other half of the seat. Williams looked at him patronizingly for an instant, and in a rather sneering tone said:

"Just a friendly little tip, young fellow. Keep off my preserves and you'll get along better with this club."

"I don't quite understand you," replied McCarthy, his eyes narrowing with the anger aroused by the air of superiority assumed by the pitcher.

"I was watching you during breakfast," said Williams. "Don't get it into your head that because you happened to play a couple of good games of ball you can run this club and do as you please."

"Hold on a minute," retorted McCarthy, flushing with anger. "If you have any grievance against me say so. Don't beat around the bush. I don't know what you are talking about."

"I wanted to tip you off to keep away from the young woman you ate breakfast with."

McCarthy's eyes flashed angrily, and he started to rise, but controlled himself with an effort.

"Only muckers discuss such things," he said, coldly.

"Well, we're going to discuss it," retorted Williams, who rapidly was working himself into a rage. "That young lady is going to be my wife, and I don't care to have her associating with every hobo ball player that joins the team."

McCarthy clenched his fists and started to his feet, but gritted his teeth and kept control of his temper. "You're to be congratulated—if it is true," he said slowly, his tone an insult. "Men cannot fight over a woman and not have her name dragged into it. Drop that part of it and to-night I'll insult you and give you a chance to fight."

"Any time you please," replied Williams, rather taken aback. "I think you're yellow and won't dare fight."

He swaggered down the aisle, leaving McCarthy angry, helpless and raging. He was boiling with inward anger when Swanson slid down into the seat with him as the train entered the suburbs of the Pilgrim City.

"Smatter, Bo?" asked Swanson, quickly observing that something was wrong. "I saw Williams talking with you. Has he been trying to bluff you? Don't mind him. He has been as sore as a Charley horse ever since you joined the team, and he won't overlook a chance to start trouble."

"He has started it all right," replied McCarthy, savagely. "We're going to fight to-night and I'll"——

"Steady, Bo, steady," warned Swanson, dropping his voice. "That's his game, is it? He won't fight any one. He heard Clancy warn you not to fight and he is trying to get you in bad. I know his way."

"I told him I'd fight," responded McCarthy, worriedly. "Now I'll have to. I don't know anything I'd enjoy better."

"I'd like to second you and make you do it," responded the giant. "But it would be playing into his hands if you punched him. Leave him to me. I'll fix his clock."

Swanson's methods were all his own. The repairing of Williams's timepiece took place in the big auto 'bus that carried the players from the train to their hotel. Swanson, wise with long experience in such matters, secured a seat across the 'bus from Williams, and when the vehicle rolled onto smoother streets he addressed the pitcher.

"Hey, Adonis," he said in tones Manager Clancy could not fail to hear, "trying to take out your grouch on Kohinoor, eh? You lay off him or count me in on anything that comes off."

"That sneak been tattling and crying for help, eh?" sneered Williams. "I wasn't going to hurt him."

"You're right, you're not," retorted Swanson. "He didn't tell me. I saw you trying to start something with him, and I've seen you do it to too many other kids not to know what you were up to."

"Who's talking fight?" demanded Clancy sharply, turning to scan the players until his eyes rested upon Williams's flushed and angry face.

"Nobody is going to fight," said Swanson easily. "Adonis has been trying to bully Kohinoor and stir him up. I guess he thought he could put over his bluff because you told Kohinoor not to fight."

"Adonis, you cut that stuff out or I'll take a hand in it myself," said Clancy, whose ability and willingness to fight had earned him a reputation during his playing days. "You've had a grouch for a week or more. As for you, Kohinoor, don't think you can fight your way through this league. The first thing you have to do is to learn to stand punishment and keep your temper."

"No fresh prison pup can swell up and try to cut into my affairs," muttered Williams, sullen under the rebuke.

McCarthy sprang up to avenge the fresh insult, but before he could act or speak he was forestalled.

"Oh," said Clancy sharply. "So you're the fellow who has been making that kind of talk? I've been trying to find out where it came from. One more bit of that kind of conversation will cost you a bunch of salary."

"I've heard it everywhere," muttered Williams, taken aback by the sudden defense of the recruit by the manager.

"Well, don't hear any more of it," snapped Clancy, and McCarthy, feeling he had emerged with the honors, discretely maintained silence.

"What started Adonis after you this morning?" asked Swanson, as he hurled garments around the room and wrought disaster to the order of his trunk as he hunted pajamas.

"Guess he was just trying to start something," responded McCarthy, still reading.

"Girl?" inquired Swanson.

"What makes you think that?"

"He was mad when he saw you at breakfast with Betty. He's jealous of everyone who talks to her."

"She's a dandy girl," said McCarthy, generously. "I don't much blame a fellow for being jealous when he is engaged to a girl like that."

"Engaged to Betty Tabor? That stiff?" ejaculated Swanson. "Say, did he spring a line of talk like that on you? Why, he has been crazy about her for three years, but she knows what he is, and she won't talk to him any more than to be polite."

"I thought it was odd," commented McCarthy, his heart becoming strangely lighter.

"Don't make any mistake, though," added Swanson earnestly, as he turned out the lights. "You've stirred up a bad enemy. He won't fight you openly; but keep an eye on him."

Swanson's warning fell upon deaf ears. McCarthy's attack of blues was cured, and he fell asleep to the music of street car wheels that seemed to say: "She isn't engaged, she isn't engaged," as they rolled past the hotel.

CHAPTER V

The Tempter

The Bears were coming into their hotel after the first game of the series with the Pilgrims. The throng in the lobby pressed forward, forming a lane through which they were compelled to run the gauntlet of curious and admiring eyes. Easy Ed Edwards was smiling sardonically as he noted the little display of hero-worship, and he watched the procession of battle-stained athletes until Adonis Williams entered. The handsome, arrogant pitcher was laughing as he strutted for the benefit of the onlookers, but, as his eyes met the cold, steady gaze of the gambler, his laugh gave way to a look of alarm. Edwards nodded coldly and motioned with his head for the player to come to him. Williams crossed the lobby to the cigar stand and held out his hand. Edwards did not seem to observe the extended hand, but turned coldly to the case and said:

"Have a cigar?"

"Thanks," said Williams, nervously. "What brings you out here, Ed?"

"Business," replied the gambler chillingly. "Business concerning you—and others. Come to my room to-night."

"Can't—I was going out. Had an engagement," Williams faltered, as he dropped his eyes to avoid meeting those of Edwards.

"I want you in my room to-night," said Edwards coldly, ignoring the refusal.

"You seem to think you have a mortgage on my life," said Williams, angered by the tone and manner of the gambler.

"Well—on your baseball life, I have," responded the gambler without changing a muscle of his face.

The pitcher started to flare into anger, then paled and his eyes dropped under the gambler's steady gaze.

"Well," he said, uncertainly, "I've got to dress, I'll see you later."

"Better drop in early. You'll probably pitch to-morrow and you must keep in condition." Edwards' tone was ironic as he added for the benefit of the clerk who was handing him his change: "The race is getting warm and you can't be too careful of your condition."

What happened in the gambler's room that evening was never known to any save the two who were present, but shortly after 11 o'clock Williams came downstairs white and shaking with passion, and went in to the bar. He emerged nearly an hour later, flushed and unsteady, just in time to encounter Manager Clancy, his wife, Miss Taber and McCarthy, chatting and laughing as the men bade the women good-night at the elevators. Clancy, catching sight of him, remarked:

"Hello, Adonis. Better hit the hay. You work to-morrow."

Williams turned away and said: "All right." But when the manager and McCarthy entered the elevator Williams returned to the barroom, and when, at 1 o'clock, the bar closed, he went unsteadily to his room, after informing the bartender that he was the best pitcher in the world.

The Bears faced the Pilgrims for the third game of the series before a huge Saturday crowd, attracted by the announcement that Puckett, the star pitcher of the Pilgrims would pitch against Adonis Williams. The teams battled brilliantly for three innings, although Williams was wild and unsteady. Twice sharp work by the infielders prevented the Pilgrims from scoring, and when the fourth inning commenced the crowd was cheering the Pilgrims wildly and encouraging them to drag down the Bears from their proud position at the head of the-league. Manager Clancy, crouching forward near the players' bench, was watching Williams closely, and every few moments his worried frown and quick gesture showed that he was not pleased with the manner in which his best left-hander was working. Between innings the manager talked in low tones with Kennedy, who was catching, seeking to discover why Williams seemed wild and what was the matter with his curve ball.

"Get out there and warm up a bit, Will," said Clancy to Wilcox, his reliable veteran. "They're likely to get after Adonis any minute."

To those in the stands it seemed as if Williams was pitching just as well as was his rival, but both teams knew that he was not in his best form, and that it was luck and fast fielding, rather than good pitching, that was saving him from being batted hard. The Pilgrims attacked him in each inning with confidence born of the certainty that sooner or later their hard drives would begin to fall in safe ground, while the Bears played the harder to prevent the start of a rally.

The break came in the sixth inning. A base on balls to the first batter gave the Pilgrims the opening for which they had been waiting and they rushed to the assault like soldiers upon a breached wall. Douglass, the next batter, hit a line single to right so hard that the runner going from first was compelled to stop at second. Instead of delaying and steadying himself while planning a system of defense, Williams commenced pitching as rapidly as he could get the ball away from his hand. Almost before the batter was in position he pitched a fast ball straight over the plate and the batter bunted down toward shortstop. McCarthy was racing upon the ball, ready to scoop it in perfect position for a throw. Williams attempted to field the ball which either McCarthy or Swanson could have handled. Williams touched the ball with his groping fingers just before McCarthy, stooping and going at full speed, scooped it and tried to snap it to second base. The ball left his hand just as he crashed with terrific force into Williams. Both men reeled and went down, stunned and dazed. The ball flew wild and rolled on into right field. One Pilgrim progressed to the plate. Douglass, who had been on first, dived safely to third, while only Swanson's fast recovery drove the batter back to first.

Williams arose, hurt and furious, and while McCarthy was striving to struggle to his feet the pitcher aimed a vicious blow at his head. Swanson's arm was interposed just in time to stop the blow, and before Williams could strike again players of both teams and the umpires rushed in and prevented further hostilities. The shaken and bruised players recovered and resumed play in a short time, and another safe hit and an out sent two more of the Pilgrims scurrying across the plate. Against the three run lead caused by the mix-up between the pitcher and third baseman the Bears fought desperately. Puckett was pitching one of his cleverest, most studious games and, although the Bears strove again and again to start a counter rally, he held them helpless and the Pilgrims won the game 3 to 1.

A sore and disappointed team crowded into the big auto 'bus after the game. They were depressed and silent, for the Panthers had won and the teams again practically were tied for the lead of the championship race. This knowledge that they had thrown away a game to a second division team which they expected to beat four times was bad enough, but that the Pilgrims should have won from Williams for the first time in two seasons made the dose more bitter. No word of blame for any one was uttered. But McCarthy, bruised and nursing a cut on his forehead, grieved and refused to be comforted.

"That was a great play you tried to make, Kohinoor," remarked Manager Clancy just before the 'bus reached the hotel. "I like to see a player try to get the runners nearest home. If you had forced that fellow at second, as you tried to do when Adonis cut into the play, the next hit never would have got through the infield, and the chances are we'd have had a double play and won the game."

These were the first words of praise Manager Clancy ever had said to him, and he felt better.

The players had been invited to attend a performance at a theater that evening. After dinner they were grouped around the lobby of the hotel, when Edwards strolled through, going toward the desk. Manager Clancy glanced at him in surprise and a worried look came over his face.

"I wonder what that crook is doing out here?" he remarked to a group of players. "You fellows keep away from him. It's worth a player's reputation for honesty to be seen with him."

As Edwards turned from the desk he glanced quickly at Williams, caught his eye and beckoned slightly with his head. Williams suddenly pleaded that he was too weary to attend the performance and remained in the hotel, declaring his intention of retiring early. As soon as Manager Clancy, escorting the women of the party, left the hotel, Williams ascended to Edwards' room.

"See here, Ed," he said, "you're putting me in a dickens of a hole. Clancy is sore on you. He said he would fine any player who talked to you. I was afraid he'd see you tip me to come up. If he gets on I'll lose a bunch of salary. I had to sneak to come up here."

"I wanted to talk to you," replied the gambler. "I told you last night that the Panthers must win this pennant. I stand to lose close to $80,000 if they don't. Of course they may beat you, but I want to make it a sure thing and clean up on it."

"You ought to be feeling better about it to-day," said the pitcher, in an aggrieved tone. "We lost to a dub club with me pitching. What more do you want?"

"It wasn't your fault that you lost," retorted the gambler coldly. "You tried hard to win it and you might have won if you had kept away from that bunted ball."

"I'd have thrown him out at first easily if that four-flush third baseman hadn't bumped me," snapped Williams, his pride hurt.

"Sure you would," sneered the gambler. "You'd have thrown me out of about $160,000 just to have a better average. You had a chance to lose that game without any trouble and you're sore because you did lose it."

"Why shouldn't I be?" demanded Williams. "If we win my part of the world's series money will be close to $4,000—enough to settle what I owe you and pay my bills."

"Now look here, Williams," said the gambler, laying aside his cigar and leaning forward across the table. "You stand to win just enough to pay your debts and you'll be broke all winter, without a sou to show for a year's work. If the Bears lose I'll cancel all you owe me and make you a present of as much as the winning players get out of the world's series. You get me?"

"Why, you d—d crook." Williams leaped from his seat threateningly. "You want me to throw the championship?"

"Sit down, you fool," snarled the gambler, viciously. "Do you want me to let Clancy know who tipped it off that Carson's leg was broken? Do you want me to tell him you got $500 for tipping it to that Panther bunch of gamblers?"

"Now listen to sense," continued Edwards, more quickly, "you saw to-day how easily you can lose a game and blame the other fellow. You can use your head and get rich instead of being in debt. If you don't like McCarthy, all you have to do is to make him lose games for you. The papers will yell, 'Hard luck,' you'll get money and I'll clean up a fortune."

"You can't make a crook of me," whined Williams. "Wanting me to throw down a bunch of good fellows"——

"Oh, shut up. You make me sick," sneered the gambler. "All you have to do is to make a sure thing out of a doubtful one. You'll be protecting yourself and getting even with a fellow you hate."

"I won't do it." Williams was at bay and defiant.

"All right," said Edwards sharply, "then to-morrow Clancy will get some news that will start something."

"Aw, say, Ed, you wouldn't cross a fellow like that?" whined Williams.

"Wouldn't I? Perhaps you think I'll let go of all that money and not fight? I'm starting home to-morrow. I won't see you any more. I am depending on you to deliver—or I'll protect myself."

"I won't do it." Williams was desperately defiant.

"Yes you will—when you think it over," Edwards replied easily. "Let's have a drink." He rang the bell and smoked in silence while Williams sat sullenly defiant.

"I tell you I wouldn't do it for all the money in the game," declared the pitcher.

"Here comes the boy," said the gambler. "I'll watch the score of the next game you pitch to see what you do."

CHAPTER VI

Adonis Makes a Deal

The after theater crowd was trooping into the lobby of the hotel in laughing, chattering groups and drifting steadily toward the café, in which already gay parties were gathered at the tables. Manager Clancy and his wife, with Secretary Taber and his daughter, came together and they stood undecided, the men urging that they go to the restaurant for a lunch before retiring, and Miss Taber, laughing, declaring that too much pleasure in one day was bad for them. At that moment Williams, a little flushed, swaggered across the lobby, and, lifting his hat, advanced toward the group. The girl smiled pleasantly in response to his greeting, but as he spoke again she stiffened indignantly and retired a step involuntarily, as she saw he had been drinking.

"So you prefer that red-headed prison bird to me?" he asked in sneering tones.

Betty Tabor flushed, then turned pale and facing the handsome, half drunken fellow, she gazed at him steadily until, in spite of his swaggering attitude, he grew uneasy and dropped his eyes. Then she spoke. She spoke just one word, vibrant with all the scorn and anger in her being.

"Yes."

Without a glance at him she turned and stepped into the waiting car, leaving Williams staring blankly in the elevator well. The cold scorn of the girl's single word had stung him more deeply than a volume of rebuke would have done. Half maddened by jealousy and drink he turned to cross the lobby, forgetting to replace his hat, and Clancy, whose attention had been attracted by the pitcher's pursuit of the girl, grasped him by the shoulder and said sternly:

"Williams, if you take another drink to-night it will cost you a month's pay."

The manager turned to rejoin his wife, and Williams, seething with what he considered a double dose of injustice, walked unsteadily across the lobby. He sat down and meditated over his wrongs. He thought of Edwards and his offer and rising quickly he walked to the telegraph office and wrote a message, for which he paid as he handed it to the night operator. Clancy, who had been talking with friends, was waiting for an elevator and saw his pitcher writing the message. His forehead knitted into a worried frown as he turned and slowly walked toward the elevator again, whistling, as was his habit when he was seriously disturbed. Clancy determined to watch his left-hander. He did not speak of the matter to anyone, having decided to await developments. He watched Williams closely during the remaining games against the Pilgrims, which the Bears won easily, and during the trip to the city of the Maroons, where Williams was to pitch the opening game of the series.

The Bears and Panthers were fighting upon an unchanged basis, only a fraction of a game separating them in the league standing. With but eighteen more games remaining on the schedule for the Bears, and nineteen for the Panthers, the race was becoming more desperate each day and the nervous strain was commencing to tell upon some of the men. Clancy was nursing his players, knowing that one disheartening defeat might mean a break that would lead to a succession of downfalls. The more he watched Williams the stronger his conviction that something was amiss. Williams was not acting naturally and his demeanor when with the other players was a puzzle to Clancy.

He selected Williams as the pitcher in the first game against the Maroons with the purpose, being determined to find whether or not the pitcher was in condition, and he sent Wilcox, his best right-handed pitcher, out to warm up so as to be ready to rescue Williams at the first sign of distress.

"What's the matter with Adonis?" inquired Manager Clancy, as his catcher and principal adviser returned to the bench after the second inning.

"His curve is breaking slow and low and on the inside corner of the plate to the right-handers," replied Kennedy. "I can't make him keep it high and out."

"Make him use his fast one or he'll get Kohinoor killed with one of those line smashes," ordered Clancy quietly. "Watch him closely, and if he is loafing, signal me."

The third inning and the fourth reeled away without a score, and in the first half of the fifth a base on balls, a steal by Norton and a crashing drive by Pardridge gave the Bears a score and the lead. Caton, one of the heaviest hitters of the Maroons, started their half of the inning, and as he stepped into position Kennedy crouched and signaled. Williams shook his head quickly and pitched a curve that broke on the inside corner of the plate. Caton drove the ball with terrific force straight at McCarthy, who managed to knock it down and hold the batter to one base. The next batter sacrificed, and Ellis, a right-handed slugger, came to bat. Again Kennedy signaled for a fast sidearm ball, pitched high, and again Williams shook his head and curved one over the plate. Ellis struck the ball with one hand and sent a carroming down to Swanson, who failed in a desperate effort to throw out the runner. With men on first and third the Bears' first and third baseman came close to the plate to cut off the runner, while the shortstop and second baseman remained in position to make a double play or to catch the runner stealing. Burley, the giant first baseman of the Maroons, was at bat, a man noted for his ability to hit any ball pitched close to him. Williams sent a strike whizzing over the plate. Again the catcher ordered a fast ball, and he pitched a curve that Burley fouled off for the second strike. Kennedy, perplexed and anxious, ran down to consult with the pitcher. Williams sullenly assented to the order to pitch high and out and waste two balls. Instead, he threw a curve, low, close to the batter's knees and barely twisting. Before Kennedy's cry of anger rose the bat crashed against the ball, which flashed down the third-base line, struck McCarthy on the arm, then on the jaw, and he went down like a poled ox, the ball carroming away toward the stand. Before it was recovered one Maroon had scored and the others were perched on second and third.

Time was called and players rushed to assist the injured third baseman. Kennedy threw off his mask and ran to the bench.

"I signaled him and told him to pitch fast and waste two," he said to Manager Clancy. "He nodded that he would and then crossed me and lobbed up an easy curve inside the plate."

"Don't say a word," cautioned Clancy, as McCarthy, still dazed, but recovering, was helped to his feet. "Keep ordering him to pitch fast and outside. Signal me if he disobeys again."

McCarthy got onto his feet unsteadily, while the trainer worked with his numb and aching arm. He winced with pain as he tried to throw to see how badly his arm was damaged. While he was walking slowly back to the bag, testing his arm anxiously, McCarthy had the second shock. The cheering in the stands drew his attention, and as he glanced toward the crowd he saw a girl. She was sitting in one of the field boxes between two men and she was staring straight at him. McCarthy lifted his cap, as if acknowledging the tribute to the crowd, but really in salutation to the girl, who flushed angrily. A wave of resentment stirred McCarthy. He strove to think that she had failed to recognize him, yet feeling that the cut was deliberate.

Play had been resumed, but McCarthy's mind was not upon it. A sharp yell from Swanson aroused him from his reverie just in time to see a slow, easy bounding ball coming toward him. He leaped forward, fumbled the ball an instant, recovered and threw wild. Two runners dashed home, the batter reached second. McCarthy was thoroughly unnerved. A few moments later he permitted an easy fly ball to fall safe in left field without touching it. His errors gave the Maroons two more scores, and, although the Bears rallied desperately late in the game, it was too late, and they were beaten 5 to 3.

A sullen crowd of players climbed into their 'bus under punishment of the jeers of the crowd that gathered to see them start back to their hotel. McCarthy, with his shoulder and head aching, but with his heart aching worse, sat with his chin drawn down into the upturned collar of his sweater, refusing to be comforted. The Bears were in second place, half a game behind the Panthers, and he, McCarthy, had lost the game. Williams was smiling as if pleased and McCarthy blazed with anger.

CHAPTER VII

McCarthy Meets Helen

"Come to the hotel parlor at eight this evening. I wish to see you."

The note, hastily scribbled on hotel letter paper, was awaiting him when Kohinoor McCarthy entered the hotel after the disastrous game. He recognized the angular scrawled writing at a glance. Since the moment his eyes had met those of Helen Baldwin during the game he had been thinking hard. Her behavior had hurt him and the thought that she deliberately had refused to recognize him stung his pride. The note proved she had recognized him on the field. Either she was ashamed of his profession or did not want the men with her to know that she knew him.

McCarthy ate a hurried dinner and paced the lobby of the hotel. He was anxious to meet the girl, yet he felt a dread of it, an uncertainty as to the grounds on which their acquaintanceship should be resumed. For nearly half an hour he waited, growing more impatient with every minute and wondering whether there had been a mistake. His mind was busy framing a form of greeting. When last they met it had been as affianced lovers. Now—— A rustle of soft garments brought him to his feet and he stepped forward with outstretched hand to meet the tall, slender girl who came leisurely from the hallway. Her mass of light, fair hair framed a face of perfect smoothness.

"Helen," he exclaimed quickly, "this is a pleasant surprise."

"I wish to talk with you, Larry," she replied without warmth, as she extended a limp hand, sparkling with jewels.

"It is good to see you, Helen," he exclaimed, a bit crestfallen because of her manner. "What brings you East? I was nearly bowled over when I saw you to-day. I thought you did not know me, but I see you did."

"Surely you did not expect me to bow to you there," she responded. "Did you desire all those people to know that I had acquaintances in that—that class?"

"Then you chose to cut me deliberately?" he asked.

"Don't be foolish, Larry," she replied. "A girl must think of herself and I did not choose to have my companions learn that I was acquainted with persons in that—profession, do you call it?"

"Well, if you are ashamed of my profession"—he said hotly.

"Nonsense," she interrupted him. "I simply did not desire to have people see me speak to a person who earns his living sliding around in the dirt on his face. That is what I wanted to see you about. What new prank is this? Are you seeking notoriety?"

"I am earning my living," he said. "Baseball is the only thing I could do well enough to make money."

"Earn your living?" The girl's surprise was sincere. "You haven't broken with your Uncle Jim, have you?"

The girl's eyes grew wider with surprise, and her tone indicated consternation.

"I have—or, rather, he has—cut me off," the boy explained rather sullenly. "I tried to find a job—thought it would be easy here in the East, but no one wanted my particular brand of ability, and I tried something I knew I could do."

"Then you—then your uncle"—the girl's consternation was real, and she hesitated. "Then our engagement"——

"I thought that was broken before I left," he replied. "You said you wouldn't marry me at all if I told Uncle Jim."

"I thought you would be sensible," she argued. "Everyone at home thinks you are sulking somewhere in Europe because of a quarrel with me. Why didn't you write to me?"

"After our last interview it did not seem necessary," he said.

"Oh, Larry," the girl said, pouting, "you've spoiled it for both of us. If you had done as I wanted you to do everything would have been happy, and now you humiliate me and all your friends by earning your living playing with a lot of roughs."

"They're a pretty decent lot of fellows," he responded indignantly.

"Why did you do it?" she demanded, on the verge of tears from disappointment and annoyance.

"I quarreled with Uncle Jim," he admitted. "I told him I wanted to marry you, and he told me that if I continued to see you he'd cut me off."

"And you lost your temper and left?" she concluded.

"Just about that," he confessed. "He told me I was dependent upon him, and said I'd starve if I had to make my own living. Of course, I could not stand that"——

"Of course," she interjected stormily. "I told you that he hated all our family, but that if we were married he would forgive you."

"I couldn't cheat him that way," he replied with some heat. "Besides you had broken with me. I knew he hated your uncle—but I thought if he knew you"——

"He would have," she said, "if you had given him a chance."

"I told him I could make my living—a living for both if you would have me," he confessed.

"Playing ball?" Her tone was bitter. "And you had an idea you would come East and make your fortune and come back and claim me?"

"I did have some such idea when I left," he confessed. "It wasn't until I was broke and unable to find work that I realized how hopeless it was to think of you."

"I couldn't bear being poor, Larry," the girl spoke with some feeling.

"We were poor once. Be sensible. Go back home and make up with Mr. Lawrence—and when I return"——

"I am making a good salary," he said steadily. "I can support two. If you care enough"——

"I couldn't marry a mere ball player," she said, shrugging with disdain.

"You used to like it when I played at the ranch and at college," he retorted angrily.

"That was different," she argued. "There you were a hero—but here you are a mere professional."

"But you attend games," he protested.

"I had to to-day. I am on my way to visit Uncle Barney for the summer, and his friend insisted upon taking us to the game."

"Oh, see here, Helen," he protested. "He's your uncle, but everyone knows he is crooked in politics and in business. Why do you accept his money?"

"He is very good to me—and I cannot bear to be poor again."

"Then you will not"——

"Be reasonable, Larry," she interrupted. '"You know I cannot marry a poor man."

"Then it was only the money you cared for," he said bitterly. "Uncle Jim said it was, and I quarreled with him for saying it—and it was true."

"You put it coarsely," she said coldly. "You cannot expect me to give up the luxuries Uncle Barney provides for me and marry a ball player. Unless you make it up with your uncle I shall consider myself free."

A stifled exclamation, like a gasp of surprise, startled them, and a rustle of retreating garments in the adjoining parlor caused McCarthy to step quickly to the doorway. He was just in time to recognize the gown. He realized that Betty Tabor had overheard part of the conversation, and he wondered how much.

"Some eavesdropper, I suppose," Miss Baldwin remarked carelessly.

"She came by accident, probably to read, and departed as soon as she realized it was a private conversation," he said warmly.

"Then you know her?" she asked quickly.

"Yes," he replied, realizing he had betrayed undue interest in the defense.

"Who is she?" the girl demanded.

"One of the women with the team, daughter of the secretary," he explained, striving to appear unconcerned.

"Is she pretty?"

"Why—yes—I don't know. She is very pleasant and nice looking."

"Rather odd, isn't it, a woman traveling with a lot of tough ball players?"

"You are unjust," he exclaimed indignantly. "She is with her father and Mrs. Clancy. Besides, the ball players are not tough—at least none of them is while she is with the club."

"You seem ready to rush to her defense," she remarked with jealous accents.

"Of course, I cannot let you think she is not a nice girl."

"Of course not"——her tone was sarcastic. "Traveling around the country with a crowd of men and eavesdropping in hotel parlors."

"She would not do such a thing. You must not speak of her in that way," he stormed indignantly.

"I congratulate her upon having captured so gallant a champion," she mocked.

They were verging upon a sharper clash of words when a big man, heavy of jaw and red of face, strolled into the parlor, not taking the trouble to remove his hat.

"Oh, here you are, Helen," he said. "I've been looking everywhere. Time to start or we'll be late to bridge."

"Uncle Barney," said the girl, rising, "this is Mr.—oh, I forget. What is it you call yourself now?—McCarthy. I knew him when he was at college. He plays on some baseball team—one of those we saw to-day. Mr. McCarthy, this is my uncle, Mr. Baldwin."

"I have heard of you often, Mr. Baldwin," said McCarthy coolly, although fearful that Baldwin might remember him.

"You're McCarthy, the new third baseman, eh?" asked Baldwin, without offering his hand and merely glancing at the boy. "Saw you play to-day. Too bad you threw that game away."

"I"——McCarthy started to offer defense.

"We must be going, Helen," said Baldwin.

The girl extended her hand carelessly.

"We hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again," she said.

Baldwin, with a curt nod to the player, turned to leave the parlor and McCarthy, seizing the opportunity, said:

"As a favor, Helen, do not reveal my identity. Your uncle did not recognize me as the boy he saw play on the Shasta View team."

"You need not fear," she responded rapidly. "And, Larry, please be sensible. Go home and make it up with Mr. Lawrence—and you may hope. And," she added in a low tone, "beware of that girl."

She hurried after her uncle, who had stopped and turned impatiently, leaving McCarthy staring after her and frowning. After all, he thought bitterly, his uncle was right. All she cared for was the money and not for him. He had quarreled with his uncle, his best friend, who had taken care of him since his childhood and who had made him his heir—on account of her. He was free. Yes, he was free.

He found himself wondering that he was happy instead of bitter over the loss of Helen Baldwin. He knew now he never had loved her. With a thrill of gladness came the thought of Betty Tabor. His jaw set, the fighting look came into his blue eyes and he saw his way clearly. He was not free. His duty was to the Bears.

CHAPTER VIII

In the Deeper Waters

Two defeats at the hands of the Maroons sent the Bears into the final game of the series desperately determined to win. Their pitching staff was exhausted from the effort to stop the team which they had expected to beat easily.

The game was a brilliant exhibition of defensive playing on the part of the Bears, who were driven back by the hard hitting of the Maroons. In spite of the fierce batting of the Maroons the magnificent defensive work of the Bears held their rivals to two runs, while by their brilliant and resourceful attack and skilful inside work they had scored three runs on five scattered hits, and at the start of the eighth inning were holding grimly to their lead of one run.

McCarthy, spurred by determination to redeem himself for the errors of the preceding games, was giving a wonderful exhibition of third-base play. The knowledge that Helen Baldwin, her uncle and a group of friends were sitting in one of the field boxes directly behind him urged him to greater efforts. It was his long hit in the sixth inning, followed by a clever steal of third, that had enabled the Bears to gain the lead which they were holding by their fast work on the infield.

The Bears failed to score in their half of the eighth, and the Maroons opened with a fierce assault upon Klinker that threatened to break down the Bears' inner wall of defense. Swanson's brilliant stop and throw of a vicious drive checked the bombardment, but a safe drive and a two-base hit went whizzing through beyond the finger tips of the diving infielders, and there were runners on second and third bases, one out and a hit needed to turn the tide in favor of the Maroons again.

The infield was drawn close in the hope of cutting off the runner from the home plate. It was desperate baseball, and, as the infielders advanced to the edge of the grass, each man knew that a line smash, a hard-driven bounder between them, or even a fumble, probably meant the destruction of their pennant hopes.

The ball was hit with terrific force straight at McCarthy, who threw up his hands and blocked desperately. The ball tore through his hands, struck his knee with numbing force and rolled a few feet away. He pounced upon it and like a flash hurled it to Kennedy at the plate, so far ahead of the runner who was trying to score that he turned back toward third, with Kennedy in pursuit. Swanson had come up to cover third, and the runner from second base stood at the third bag watching the play, ready to dash back if the runner, trapped between third and the plate, managed to elude the pursuers and regain third base. Kennedy passed the ball to Swanson, and as the runner turned back, Swanson threw to McCarthy, who had fallen in behind Kennedy, leaving the pitcher to cover the plate if the runner broke through in that direction. The runner started to dodge, but McCarthy, without an instant's hesitation, leaped after him and drove him hard back toward third base, so hard that the runner went on over the bag and ten feet beyond before he could stop. Like a flash McCarthy leaped sideways, touched the other runner who was starting back to second base, and, with a fierce dive, he threw his body between the base and the runner who had overslid it and tagged him.

Before he could scramble to his feet to claim the double play he heard Clancy, excited in spite of his long experience, shouting: "Good boy—nice work." As the umpire waved both runners out the crowd, bewildered for an instant by the rapidity with which McCarthy had executed the coup, commenced to understand and broke into a thundering round of applause as he limped toward the bench.

With that attack staved off, the Bears held the Maroons safe in the ninth and closed the final Western trip of the team with a hard-earned victory. They started homeward that evening with confidence renewed and the men hopeful.

The Bears were scheduled to stop en route to the home grounds to play a series of three games against the Travelers, a team low in the standing of the clubs, but one of the most dangerous of all. It was a slow but heavy-hitting aggregation, and at times more dreaded than were the stronger clubs. The series was a critical one for the Bears as, after that, they would return to the home grounds to play all the other games, with the exception of two against the Blues.

McCarthy was happier and more interested than he had been since he joined the Bears. Restlessly he awaited an opportunity to talk with Betty Tabor. Since his interview with Helen Baldwin he had been strangely jubilant for a young man who had just been discarded by the girl to whom he was engaged. He wondered how much of the conversation Betty Tabor had overheard, and worried about it. He wanted to explain to her who Miss Baldwin was and how he had happened to be talking with her, yet he knew it would seem presumptuous for him to broach the subject. Why should Betty Tabor think enough of him to be jealous? Yet, in spite of this, he decided that, at the first opportunity, he would mention meeting Helen Baldwin.

He went to bed annoyed and with an odd sense of being wronged. He determined to see the girl at breakfast and almost decided to confide in her the secret of his past life. But he did not see her at breakfast. After a restless night he was among the first in the dining car and he loitered, but the girl, usually one of the earliest risers, slept late, and when the train reached the city of the Travelers she went with Manager Clancy and his wife in a taxicab, while McCarthy was bundled with the other players into the big auto 'bus. He failed to catch a glimpse of her during luncheon and was in a bad humor when the team made an early start for the ball park.

The game was a runaway for the Bears. They piled up such a large score during the early innings that Manager Clancy was able to take out Morgan in the sixth and send Shelby, a second-string pitcher, to finish the game, saving up more strength and skill to use at the finish.

It was a jubilant crowd of players that returned to the hotel after the game. They sang and laughed and were happy again. They had won, and during the afternoon the Panthers, overconfident, had suffered two defeats by the Maroons, leaving the teams again practically tied for the lead.

McCarthy spent the evening loitering around the hotel lobbies, still hoping for an opportunity to see Miss Tabor, and she failed to appear at dinner and was not with Mr. and Mrs. Clancy when they started out for a car ride. He wandered aimlessly around until, abandoning his quest, he went to his room disconsolately. It was not yet eleven o'clock, but Swanson was preparing for sleep. As McCarthy came into the room he stopped to laugh. The giant shortstop was in his pajamas, on his back in the bed. With one bare foot he was holding a sheet of paper against the head board, and with a pencil grasped between the toes of the other foot he was laboriously striving to write.

"What was you trying to do, Silent?" asked McCarthy, laughing harder.

"Figuring my share of the World's Series receipts," responded Swanson, laboring harder. "Clancy said he'd fine any one of us caught with a pencil in his hand doping out these statistics," said Swanson, "and I just had to know."

They were ready to settle down for the night when the telephone rang in the connecting room. The door between the rooms was ajar, and Swanson sprang from bed to respond to the call.

"Hello!" he said. "Hello! Yes, this is Williams's room, but he isn't in just now. What? Oh, yes, I understand. I'll tell him. Hello—hold a minute, here he is now."

"Hey, Adonis," Swanson called to the pitcher, who was just entering the room from the hallway. "Someone wants you."

He handed the receiver to Williams carelessly and walked back into the room, where McCarthy was stretched upon the bed reading. His face was working rapidly as if trying to tell McCarthy something by lip signals.

"I'm tired," said Swanson in a loud tone; "let's sleep late in the morning." Then approaching McCarthy's bed he said in a whisper: "Listen. Try to catch what he says."

"Hello! Yes, this is Williams," said the pitcher brusquely. Then his voice changed suddenly. "Yes, Ed, I know you. To-night? Aw, say, Ed, I've got to have sleep! Can't it wait? I'll be there in a quarter of an hour."

He hurried out of the room, and before the door slammed behind him Swanson had leaped from bed and was dressing with great haste.

"Kohinoor, that was Easy Ed Edwards calling him."

"What are you going to do?" inquired McCarthy.

"Get a move on yourself," ordered the giant. "Something is up and I want to know what it is. Wait a minute," he added as if by sudden inspiration, and ran to the telephone.

"Hello," he said to the operator. "Can you tell me where that call for Mr. Williams came from just now? He has forgotten which hotel he is to meet his friend at. Thank you," he said after a moment's wait.

"Hurry. He's going to the Metropolis Hotel," he ordered. "We must catch up with him."

They dressed with the speed of men accustomed to changing clothing four or five times a day, and before Williams had been five minutes on his way they were racing for the elevator. Swanson, hastily leaping into a waiting taxicab, ordered the driver to make all possible speed to the corner nearest the Metropolis Hotel.

"What is up?" asked McCarthy, as they settled back in the cushions of the taxi as it lurched over the pavement.

"There is something funny going on in this ball club," said Swanson. "And I am going to find out what it is. Whatever it is, Williams is mixed up in it. I want to find out why he is meeting Edwards to-night and what is up."

"What do you think?" asked McCarthy.

"I haven't got it figured out," said Swanson, scratching his head. "There has been something wrong for two weeks. Ever since you joined the club Williams hasn't been natural. He acts mysterious off the field and worse than that on it. He has only won one of his last three games, and ought to have lost them all the way he pitched."

The taxi jerked to a stop at the corner opposite the hotel, and Swanson, after reconnoitering carefully, led the way across the street and into the café.

"I used to know this place like a book when I was hitting the booze," he said. "They'll be in here—or I don't know Williams. Let's take the corner booth so we can see who comes in and goes out."

Five minutes later two men came through the swinging doors from the hotel lobby. Swanson could see them, but McCarthy was out of the range of vision. Swanson drew back deeper into the booth.

"Who is it?" inquired McCarthy in a whisper.

"Sh—h! It's Williams and Edwards. They're going into the booth next to us. Put your ear close to the partition. I'd give a farm to hear them."

The players sipped their soft drinks, while in turn they strove to hear what was passing in the next booth. Occasionally they could distinguish a voice, but the words were unintelligible. Ten minutes of vain listening ensued. Then a heavy man in evening clothes hurried into the café, and after a hasty glance into the booths entered the one in which Edwards and Williams were waiting.

"I wonder who that fat man is?" whispered Swanson.

"It's a lucky thing he didn't recognize me," replied McCarthy in low tones. "That's Barney Baldwin, the broker and politician, one of the big men of this part of the country—and a crook."

"Whew," whistled Swanson. "Let's sneak. We can't hear anything—and the water is getting deep."

CHAPTER IX

Baldwin Gets into the Plot

The events that led up to the midnight conference between Barney Baldwin, Ed Edwards and Adonis Williams in the booth at the Metropolis Hotel that night would have been of vast interest to several millions of baseball enthusiasts had they known of them.

They started with the arrival of Easy Ed Edwards in the city of the Travelers. He had run down to watch the game between the Bears and the Travelers in rather a pleasant frame of mind. His plans for a huge gambling coup seemed to be working out well, and, with the Panthers holding a lead of a game and a half, with but eleven more games to be played, he was adding to his line of wagers. The double defeat of the Panthers and the easy victory of the Bears had placed a new aspect on the league race, with the Bears again favorites. Edwards had left the baseball park in the middle of the game in a frenzy of anger. It was too late now for him to attempt to lay off his bets, and he stood to lose more than $100,000 if his plans to have the Panthers win the pennant from the Bears went astray. It was in this mood that he returned to the hotel and commenced to make drastic plans. In the lobby of the hotel he encountered Barney Baldwin.

"Hello, Barney," he said, shaking hands with the broker. "What brings you down?"

"Hello, Ed," replied the big man cordially. "Let's have a drink. I've been away a month out West visiting the family. Brought my niece on East with me. Just got home and heard that things are going wrong, so I ran over here last night to see what sort of cattle have been breaking up my political fences while I've been gone. What brings you over here?"

"Baseball—ran down to see the game to-day. Rotten game."

"Didn't know you were interested in baseball," said the politician. "I'm pretty well satisfied with the situation—both my clubs up there fighting for the lead, and I'm getting it coming and going."

"Both your clubs?" ejaculated the gambler. "I knew you had some stock in some club. How much of the Bears and Panthers do you own?"

"Well, I can control both in a pinch. I don't pay much attention to them. I let the fellows I hire as presidents of the clubs do the worrying."

"If you own both these clubs you and I can do a little business," said the gambler, lowering his voice. "Come on up to my rooms and we'll have our drinks sent up there where we can talk."

"I haven't much time, Ed," protested Baldwin. "I want to meet some of the boys down here and learn how the political situation is stacking up."

They ascended to Edwards's rooms and when they were seated the gambler rang for wine, and, leaning forward, said:

"You want your man, Hoskins, to go to the Senate when the Legislature meets this winter?"

"Why—not exactly—my political plans are rather indefinite. Hoskins is an acceptable man"——

"Oh, chop it," said the gambler sharply. "There's no use for us to try to fool each other. You want to put Hoskins over and you know you're going to have a deuce of a time crowding him through."

"Admitting that to be the case, what then?"

"I think I can push it over for you," the gambler said easily. "Up home I've got four members of the Legislature where they will do what I say—and perhaps can handle two others. With those four your man would go over—if you've lined up as many members as the papers say you have."

"Rather early to count noses," Baldwin started to protest. "We may line up several others"——

"Nothing doing!" exclaimed Edwards sharply. "You've got all you can—the others are lined up either with the high brows or against you under Mullins. I can deliver four, possibly six, of Mullin's votes that he counts as sure."

"What do you want out of it?" The politician was interested at last.

"Does it make any difference to you whether the Bears or the Panthers win?" Edwards put the question as if casually.

"It don't make any difference to me," Baldwin retorted curtly. "I'm not a bit interested in baseball—except to make money out of the teams. I bought the stock as part of a political deal—to help someone out—and it turned out a good investment. What has that to do with it?"

"Baldwin," said the gambler, leaning forward again and speaking in low tones, "you see to it that the Panthers beat the Bears out in that pennant race, and I'll deliver you at least five votes for your man."

"That's easy," remarked Baldwin. "I can turn that quickly enough, but I don't see where you get off."

"You make it a sure thing and I'll tend to my own part of it," said the gambler. "I'll get mine, but I'm not so certain you can do it as easily as you think."

"Why not—don't both clubs belong to me?"

"Sure they do," said the gambler, "but baseball is a hard thing to monkey with. You've got to handle it carefully, for if the fact came out we'd be in such hot water we'd both scald."

"Nonsense," said Baldwin testily. "I'll call the presidents in, explain what I want and let them do it."

"Keep off that stuff," warned the gambler. "You don't seem to know much about this game. If you tried to tell Clancy to lose this pennant he'd run straight to some reporter, and the whole country would be up in arms. I shouldn't wonder if they'd lynch you."

"Then how do you propose having it done?" asked the political boss, for once willing to listen to advice. He had no qualms of conscience. To him baseball meant a game, and the fact that hundreds of thousands of persons in all parts of the country were vitally interested either in the Bears or the Panthers did not count with him. He only sought the easiest and safest way to accomplish his ends without arousing suspicion.

"I have one of the Bears fixed," said Edwards. "But I'm afraid of him. He is crooked and willing to deliver, but he is yellow—lacks courage—and he is likely to fail to deliver just when I need him most. The first thing I want you to do is to help stiffen this fellow's backbone. After that we'll try to get at someone else. If you say it's all right and promise to protect them we will find it easier."

"This must be a big thing for you, Edwards," suggested Baldwin as another drink was served and the waiter departed.

"I don't mind telling you that if the Bears win I'll almost be smashed," replied the gambler angrily. "I was fool enough to play the game myself. I picked the Panthers to win and made a lot of scattering bets all summer. Then Carson, the Bears' third baseman, broke a leg. They tried to keep it quiet as long as possible. I had a friend in the club who tipped off to me an hour after it happened that Carson's leg was smashed in two places. I jumped right in and plunged, thinking that without Carson the Bears hadn't a chance. Then along comes this blanked red-head and turns it all upside down."

"What red-head?"

"McCarthy—that kid third baseman. He's been winning games right along that they ought to have lost, and it looks as if the Bears will win out anyhow—unless you can stop them."

"McCarthy, eh?" Baldwin smiled patronizingly for the first time. "My boy, don't worry. You may know baseball better than I do—but you've hit something I know about. I think I can handle this McCarthy. I believe you can get ready to deliver those votes. I must be going now."

"I'm going to send for that pitcher I've got fixed, to-night," said Edwards.

"Have him down about ten, or a little later," suggested Baldwin genially as he arose to leave.

It was the arrival of Baldwin in the barroom to attend the meeting with Adonis Williams and Easy Ed Edwards that Silent Swanson and Kohinoor McCarthy saw—and it was well for McCarthy's peace of mind that he did not hear what transpired at that meeting.

CHAPTER X

Williams Caught in the Net

Baldwin, by nature, was pompous and patronizing. In his capacity as political boss, representing certain more or less questionable financial interests, he distributed political patronage with an air of one bestowing great favors personally.

Baldwin's rise to riches and to a certain degree of power had been a strange one. He had been a bartender, and had by a certain selfish economy and "touching the till" acquired sufficient money to purchase the saloon in which he was employed from the honest German who had trusted him almost to the verge of bankruptcy. Certain wealthy men and some others interested in public utilities had seen in Baldwin a proper catspaw, and, in a small way, had used him in politics. From that he had developed quickly into an official collector of graft money from disorderly houses, saloons, and gamblers.

Baldwin had become more and more independent financially and more powerful politically as he learned the game. He was shrewd and quick to learn. His share of the collections became larger and larger until in time he was admitted to the higher circle of graft, and, having served his apprenticeship, he had others to collect for him and take the greater risk of going to prison. Eventually, by cunning catering to big interests, he became the political boss of his city, stockholder in several public utilities, and head of a brokerage firm, which he maintained more to account for his possession of wealth than to do business, although favored in many instances in bond deals. His purchase of stock in baseball clubs had been incidental. He knew little of the game and cared less. He was satisfied with the large returns on the stock and avoided publicity in advertising himself as owner of either team through fear of causing an increase in the demand, "Where did you get it?"

Easy Ed Edwards, while waiting in the booth of the Metropolis Café, had told Adonis Williams the name of the man for whom they were waiting.

"Now get wise, Adonis," he advised, in friendly tones. "I'll tip you to something no one outside a few is on to. Baldwin owns this club you're pitching for, and he owns the Panthers. I had it from him to-night that he wants the Panthers to win the pennant this season. You toss off a game or two to help him and you'll be strong with him for life. You know he holds this State in his vest pocket."

"Ain't I trying my best?" said Williams. "Clancy won't let me work often now. He was working me to death until a couple of weeks ago and now he's always saving me for some other team. I asked him to get in to-morrow. Maybe I'll work. If I do I'll make good and lose it."

"Here he comes now," said Edwards in a low tone as Baldwin came pompously into the barroom in search of them. "I'll talk and let you hear what he wants."

"Ah, here we are," said Baldwin pompously, as he discovered them. "Order a bottle of wine, Ed, and introduce me to your friend."

He already was well warmed with drink and looser and less cautious in his conversation than customary.

"Glad to meet you, Williams," he said as Edwards went through the formalities of introduction. "I've seen you pitch. Had a good season?"

"Fair," said Williams, striving to appear modest. "I've won twenty-six and lost eleven—some of them tough ones, especially lately."

"Sorry to spoil your record, my boy," said Baldwin patronizingly, "but you must lose a few more for the interests of all concerned."

"Not so loud, Baldwin," warned Edwards.

"All right, all right," assented Baldwin unvexed. "Let's have another bottle.

"Now, young fellow," he continued in a low tone when the drink was served, "you know who I am. I don't forget my friends. That's my motto. Anyone who does anything that helps me, or helps a friend of mine"——

He paused to wave his hand indicating that Edwards was the friend.

The man was half drunk and too loose with his talk to please the more cautious gambler.

"Adonis here is all right," said the gambler suavely. "I don't blame him for being a little bit cautious. You see, Barney, Adonis wasn't sure the big men behind the game wanted it to go that way and I don't blame him. I wanted him to understand how the owners feel."

"I'm wise, I guess," said Williams, warming with the wine. "All I need is the chance, and I'll make the Panthers win it."

"You understand," Baldwin said pompously, "it won't do at all for owners to have anything to do with the games; that's the reason I don't care to have my name mentioned in connection with the Bears or the Panthers, but in this case it is to all our interests to have the Panthers win. My boy, I'll take care of you well, if you deliver the goods."

"You may count on me. We have ten more games to play, and I ought to work three, maybe four. I can lose two or three and make it a cinch."

"That's the talk," said Baldwin genially. "You know which side your bread is buttered on."

"Yes," remarked Edwards, "he does—but he wants it on both sides. He's had chances already to end this race, and won instead of losing."

"I couldn't help it," retorted Williams. "You know, Ed, I tried to lose, but that red-headed four-flush was lucky enough to keep me from it. You know I don't dare to make it too raw. Clancy might get suspicious."

"This McCarthy seems to be the trouble maker all 'round," suggested Baldwin. "With him eliminated it ought to be easy, hadn't it?"

"Him a good ball player!" ejaculated Williams angrily. "Say, he's a bum. He's just lucky."

"I don't want any more such luck," sneered Edwards. "The next time you're in there you lose the game right—you hear? Let them get a big bunch of runs right quick so no one can save the game."

"Maybe Clancy won't let me pitch," objected the star whiningly. "I can't make him let me pitch."

"I'll see to that," said Baldwin casually. "I'll see the president in the morning and have him tell this Clancy to let you pitch. Then he'll put you in."

"Don't be too certain of that," said Edwards. "Clancy usually runs the team to suit himself—and he plays to win."

"You leave that to me," replied Baldwin complacently. "I usually get what I want. Meantime, I think I can fix this young fellow Mac. I'll have a little talk with him in the morning."

"Don't let him find out that you know either of us," warned Edwards. "He's a pretty cagey young fellow from what I hear."

"Trust me for that," said the big man. "I've handled wise fish before now, and landed them without using a net."

"You know anything about him?" inquired Williams.

"Yes—and no. Anyhow I am pretty close to someone—a woman—who knows him and knows all about him."

"I wish I did," snarled Williams, now growling mean from the effects of drink. "Who's the woman?"

"She's someone whose name won't appear in this matter," replied the politician reprovingly. "She's a relative of mine. I think he is in love with her and she turned him down cold. Let's have another bottle and break up the party."

"He was in love with her?" asked Williams eagerly, as a plan for revenge flashed through his mind.

"I believe so," said Baldwin carelessly. "Family affair. Never heard the details. Of course she couldn't marry a fellow of that class."

The three men emerged from the booth, Williams and Baldwin flushed and unsteady from the drink, Edwards cold and revealing not a trace of the wine.

"Williams, you'd better go out the front door," he said quietly. "It wouldn't do for you to be seen around the lobby with us at this hour."

Fifteen minutes later Swanson and McCarthy, in their beds, heard Williams enter the adjoining room unsteadily and hastily prepare for bed.

CHAPTER XI

McCarthy in Disgrace

Events crowded upon each other rapidly the following day. The first was a telephone call soon after breakfast that summoned Manager Clancy to the Metropolis Café.

"Hello, Mac," said Clancy gladly. "How you hittin' em? Haven't seen you in an age. How's tricks?"

"Pretty good, Bill. You're looking fine," replied McMahon, manager of the café, who in his youth had played ball on the team with the now famous Clancy. "I was worried about something I heard this morning and thought I'd send for you. I couldn't come up."

"What is it? Let's have a drink—make mine grape juice."

"When I came down this morning Johnny, the night man, told me one of your players was in here until after midnight last night," said the old ball player.

"Which one?" demanded the manager angrily.

"He didn't know him, except that he was a ball player. He was a sandy-haired fellow, rather slender and wiry looking."

"McCarthy—maybe," said the manager thoughtfully and worried. "I didn't think that bird would do it. Something funny."

He had leaped at the identification.

"That isn't the worst of it, Bill," continued McMahon, "that fellow was with Easy Ed Edwards and a big fat guy in a dress suit."

"What?" demanded Clancy, starting indignantly. "Sure of that?"

"Johnny knows Ed Edwards. They sat in the booth over there and had four quarts of wine, and the player was pretty well lighted up when they got out."

"Thanks, Mac," said Clancy worriedly. "This is tough news at this stage of the game. I'll have to take a look into it."

Clancy, his weather-beaten face furrowed with a heavy frown, walked slowly back to the hotel.

President Bannard, of the Bears, was waiting for him in the lobby.

"Good morning, Bill," he said. "You're out early. I wanted to see you."

"Had some business downtown and went out an hour or so ago," replied the manager. "What's the woe?"

"Who's going to pitch to-day?" asked the president.

"I don't know. I never decide in advance," responded the manager carelessly. "Guess it will be either Wilcox or Williams—whichever one looks best warming up."

"If it's all the same to you," said the president diplomatically, "I wish you'd let Williams work."

"Why?" demanded Clancy, on the defensive in an instant.

"It's this way, Bill," explained the president. "You know I don't own this club. I've got most of my money in it, but another fellow has control of the stock. He is going to the game and he asked me to let Williams pitch, as he never has seen him work."

"Williams hasn't been very steady in his last three games," remarked the manager thoughtfully. "I don't want to risk this pennant to please anyone, no matter if he owns the whole league."

"Well, you said yourself that your choice was between Williams and Wilcox, so I can't see it makes any difference."

"You know I don't like to announce pitchers ahead of time," said the manager.

"It seems to me the owner ought to have a right"——

"Now look here, Bannard," said Clancy sharply, "when I signed this contract it was with the agreement that I was to run the business on the ball field and let your end of it alone. I'm perfectly willing to oblige a stockholder, but I'm going to win this pennant, and I'll do what I please with the playing end of the game. If Adonis looks good warming up he'll go in, if he don't I'll send someone else to the slab—and that goes."

"Well—have it your own way"; the president had surrendered entirely to the aggressive manager. "Put him in if you can, and if you can't I'll explain that he wasn't right—twisted himself or something."

Clancy went to his room puzzled and annoyed and, as usual, he sought advice and enlightenment by consulting Mrs. Clancy, whose abundant good nature and portliness formed a striking contrast with his seriousness and slenderness.

"Willie," she said, laying down her sewing after Clancy had stood at the window, whistling and gazing out for ten minutes without saying a word. "Well, Willie—who has broken a leg or sprung a Charlie horse now?"

"Nothing much, mother," said the big manager quietly. "Nothing much—just worrying a little over the way things are going."

"Bill Clancy," she ejaculated indignantly. "Do you think you can fool anyone with that talk? Do you think I could live with you eighteen years, come next Martinmas, and not know when you're in trouble? Tell your old lady what it is."

"Sure, mother," he said fondly, coming to put his arm around her waist. "Haven't you enough troubles of your own?"

"Me have troubles?" She was indignant. "Nothing troubles me but worrying over those pesky boys of yours. What's wrong now, Willie?"

"One of the boys out skylarking last night—and drinking."

"Saints forgive him," she said piously, but with a note of relief. "Sure you'll not be fining the poor boy? Perhaps he needed a drink or two to keep up his courage."

"Nothing like that, mother," he replied seriously. "This was one of the young fellows out with some gamblers drinking wine till past midnight. It looks serious."

"Now, Bill Clancy, you just send for that boy to come right up here and talk it over. Tell him he must behave and explain what it means to all the boys. Then you'll shame him and he'll be a good boy. They're all good boys," she protested earnestly, "only they do try a poor woman."

"I guess that's the best plan, mother," he said. "You trot over into the other room and I'll have him up."

"Which one is it this time, Willie?"

"McCarthy!"

"McCarthy—why, Willie, he wouldn't—there's some mistake. That poor boy wouldn't do such a thing. And him grieving his heart out because Betty Tabor won't treat him well any more. That's what's the trouble, Willie."

"We'll see what it is," said the manager, checking her flow of defense curtly. "I'll have him up. You run into the other room with the sewing and—don't listen."

His telephone call found McCarthy in his room, and the young third baseman promptly ascended to the manager's apartment and entered innocently.

"Good morning, Boss," he said, following the burlesque style of greeting used by the Bears to their manager.

"Good morning," said Clancy curtly, as he scrutinized the face of the player for signs of a debauch and found the blue eyes clear and fresh.

"You wanted to see me?" inquired McCarthy, thrown a little off his easy bearing.

"Yes—where were you last night?"

"I—in my room"—he suddenly remembered the excursion with Swanson. "I was out for a while," he concluded lamely.

"Were you in the café of the Metropolis Hotel late?"

"Yes," confessed McCarthy, bridling at the tone employed by the manager. "I was in there."

"Drinking?"

"Yes—lemonade."

"Nothing stronger?"

"No."

"No wine?"

"No—I'm not in the wine class."

"Who were you with?"

"You're the manager," said McCarthy quietly, although he was rebellious inwardly. "You may ask me anything you want to about myself or my actions—but you surely don't expect me to tell on anyone else?"

"I don't want you to tell on any ball player—but who were you with?"

"I'm not at liberty to tell."

"You needn't tell me—I know," said the manager angrily. "You got up out of bed to go there to meet Easy Ed Edwards—and you were with him while three of you drank four quarts of wine."

For an instant McCarthy clenched his hands until the nails bit into the palms, and a flood of angry color flashed into his face. With an effort he controlled himself.

"You've got everything backwards," he said at last, gazing straight at the angry manager. "I can't explain just now—but you'll find out some day—and apologize."

He turned without another word and left the room. Clancy, who had expected angry denials, threats, perhaps a personal encounter, sat gazing at the closed door, and then to himself he said:

"It looks bad, but hanged if I don't believe him. No fellow could lie and look like that."

CHAPTER XII

McCarthy Defies Barney Baldwin

"Pardridge, playing third base in place of McCarthy, Holleran in left. Morton and Kennedy, battery for the Bears."

This announcement, bawled by a battery of megaphone men in front of the crowded stands that afternoon was the first intimation that McCarthy had of the contemplated action of Manager Clancy in taking him out of the game. He sprang from the end of the bench, where he was tying his shoes, toward the manager, an angry exclamation on his lips, and his blue eyes flashing as they narrowed to the battle slit. Swanson, who was sitting next him, fondling a bat, seized McCarthy with his tremendous grip and jerked him back to his seat.

"Steady, boy, steady," the big Swede cautioned. "Take your medicine. Show your gameness."

"I'm laid off," said McCarthy as if astonished. "It isn't right. He's laying me off for something he thinks I did"——

"Don't quit—be game," cautioned Swanson. "Tell me about it to-night."

McCarthy was miserable, and his face revealed it. Swanson, hardened by years of facing such little tragedies, of seeing the hearts of young players broken under such punishment, sympathized, but preserved a cheerful demeanor as he selected his bats and prepared for the battle.

"Buck up, Jimmy boy," said Swanson, sitting down beside him and pretending to be retying his shoe laces. "We'll win this one anyhow, and to-night we'll have a talk with Clancy after he cools down. I can square things with him."

The comforting words of the kindly, big shortstop helped McCarthy. Clancy did not look toward the youngster, who sat huddled in his heavy sweaters on the opposite end of the bench watching the game and going over and over in his mind the circumstances that had led to his punishment and banishment from the team.

The game proceeded rapidly. The Bears scored a run in the second inning on Swanson's long drive against the left field fence for three bases, and a fly to the outfield, on which Swanson came by sliding under the catcher. In the fourth the Travelers evened up the score on an error by Pardridge, who, off his balance by his sudden change of position, threw wild and allowed a runner to score from second base. The score remained tied until the fifth, neither team being able to hit the opposing pitcher's delivery hard enough to send home a run. Then Pardridge misplayed an easy bounder and, recovering, hurled wildly toward second base, striving to force out a runner coming down from first. His throw went on high and far into right field, one runner scored, the batter was perched on second and the crowd was in a tumult, thinking that the inevitable break had come. A crashing base-hit sent home another runner, and with the score 3 to 1 against them the Bears faced one of the supreme tests of nerve of the season.

Gamely they rallied in the fifth and again in the sixth inning, but failed to reach even terms again as Carver, the best pitcher of the Travelers, was holding them by clever work. Each time they forced men to within reaching distance of the plate he settled, and using more speed, checked the attacks and made the game one sequence of disappointments for the Bears.

The seventh inning proved uneventful, although the crowd arose and stood to urge the Travelers to make certain the victory and "rooted" with the unholy glee that all crowds show over the downfall of a champion.

The eighth commenced. A base on balls paved the way and gave the Bears a chance to exhibit their resourceful style of attack which had overthrown so many opposing teams. The Travelers played deep, believing that with two runs needed to tie the score the Bears would not attempt to sacrifice, and Noisy Norton hooked his bat around quickly, dropped a bunt down the third-base line, and beat the ball to first base before Pickett, the third baseman of the Travelers, who had been caught asleep, could reach the ball.

McCarthy glanced toward the seat where Edwards, the gambler, sat. Easy Ed's face was hard and set. He gripped the front of the box. The gambler's iron nerve was shaken. Swanson rushed to the plate, swinging two bats, and crouching, he pushed his bat back and forth as if determined to lay down a sacrifice bunt. The Traveler infield crept closer to stop the bunt. One ball was pitched wide. Again Swanson crouched, and as the second pitched ball came whizzing up he made a sharp, quick lunge; the ball went like a flash across first base, as Davis dived vainly toward it, rolled onto foul ground, and before the right fielder could retrieve the ball as it glanced along the front of the stands, two runs were across the plate and the score was tied.

McCarthy looked again. Edwards's usually stony face was writhing with fury and disappointment as he leaned forward. The panic had seized the Travelers. The infield was pulled close to intercept the runner at the plate, and the shortstop, over anxious to make the play, fumbled the easy grounder. Before the inning closed five runs were across the plate; the Bears had snatched victory from defeat, and they clung to their lead and won 6 to 3.

As the last batter for the Travelers went out on a long fly to the Bears' center fielder, McCarthy saw Edwards rise and hurl his cigar viciously against the floor of the box, then turn to gaze long and earnestly toward the Bear bench. Suddenly he gave a nod of his head and McCarthy, following the line of the gambler's gaze, saw Williams flush and then pale, as he turned to help the bat-boy pack the clubs.

McCarthy had intended to follow Swanson's suggestion and to plan with Swanson what course to adopt in explaining to Manager Clancy how matters stood, but he did not have the opportunity. Waiting in the lobby of the hotel when he returned, he found Barney Baldwin, who accosted him.

"You're McCarthy, the fellow my niece, Miss Baldwin, introduced me to, aren't you?" he asked pompously, pretending to be uncertain of the identity.

"Yes."

"Well, young fellow, I want to have a quiet little talk with you. Come up to my room at the Metropolis as soon as you get dressed. It's important."

They talked for a few minutes and McCarthy promised to come to the Metropolis after dinner. He hastened to his room, and to his disappointment found that Swanson had dressed hastily and already was gone. Nor did the big Swede come to dinner, and McCarthy was compelled to leave the hotel without seeing him in order to keep his engagement with Baldwin.

He was ushered into a pretentious apartment in the Metropolis, where Baldwin was awaiting him, with a bottle of wine in the cooler at the side of the table and a box of choice cigars at hand.

"Sit down, my boy, sit down," urged Baldwin cordially. "Have a drink and a cigar."

"Thanks—I'll smoke. I'm not drinking," said McCarthy quietly. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. You see I called Helen up over the long distance to-day and had quite a talk with her about you. She dropped a few hints before she left and I wanted to hear more of you."

"Then she told you who I am?"

"She told me you were a young man of good family and that you were playing under an assumed name—but, of course, having promised, she wouldn't tell more."

"Now, I know how it is. You're in some trouble at home and just bull-headed enough to refuse to give in. I admire you for it, my boy—but it is youthful folly. Helen tells me she was engaged to you, but broke off the engagement because you wouldn't go back home and quit baseball. Now I want to see the thing in the right light. You come and run down to my summer place with me to-morrow, spend a week or two there with Helen, get things straightened out, and meanwhile I'll act as peacemaker and fix things up so you can go home and eat the fatted calf."

"You've tackled a tough job," said McCarthy, grinning in spite of himself at the mental picture of his uncle receiving overtures in his behalf from Barney Baldwin, his bitterest enemy.

"I'm certain it is a mere trifle when looked at in the right light," urged Baldwin. "I can explain things. I'll wire your people that you are visiting with us, and we'll forget all about this baseball foolishness. Better come along."

"I thank you for your good intentions, Mr. Baldwin," replied McCarthy quietly, "but it is impossible. In the first place, the plan you suggest would be about the worst possible—and more important than that, I can't quit the team until it wins the pennant."

"Now we're getting down to cases, my boy," said Baldwin, smoking easily. "I want you to go, for your own sake, but I also want you to go because I don't want the Bears to win that pennant. They haven't treated you right, and they can't blame you if you quit."

"You want me to throw the pennant race?" demanded McCarthy angrily. "That's why you want me to leave the team, is it? I'll see you in h—— first—I'm in bad with the manager—but I won't quit the team."

"Now, now, my boy," interrupted Baldwin soothingly. "Take a sensible view of it. It's for the best interests of all concerned. It don't mean anything to you if you run back home, square yourself with the family—and quit interfering with our plans."

"You're a crook, Baldwin," said the third baseman threateningly. "My uncle, James Lawrence, always said you were a crook and a thief, and now I know it. I wouldn't quit now for all his money and all yours together. I'll stick to the team and we'll win this pennant in spite of you and your rotten gang."

The effect of his words caused him to stop in surprise and alarm. The big man, who had been sipping his wine, suddenly grew apoplectic and sat staring at him. Baldwin stared at the slender youth as if at a ghost. Suddenly he lurched forward as if to arise, and emitted a torrent of oaths.

Baldwin stared at the slender youth

"You Jim Lawrence's nephew?" he half screamed. "You his boy? Well, by ——, I'll break you. I'll fix you—I'll"——

He pitched forward as if in a fit, and McCarthy, after ringing for assistance, waited until the house physician had revived the big man, then hurried back to his hotel, puzzled and excited and vaguely alarmed over the developments of the evening.

Swanson was not yet in the room.

CHAPTER XIII

McCarthy Balks the Plotters

It was past two o'clock when McCarthy was awakened from his troubled sleep by the entrance of Swanson.

"Hello, Silent," said McCarthy sleepily. "What time is it?"

"Past two," said the shortstop, for once seeming unwilling to talk. "Better get to sleep—you'll be in again to-day."

"Where have you been?" asked McCarthy, wide awake in an instant and interested.

"Trailing," replied Swanson. "I've found out a few things. Meanwhile I had a talk with Clancy. You little squarehead, why didn't you tell him I was with you? Do you want to get yourself in bad by some fool notion of protecting me? I couldn't tell him what we were doing—but I told him you were with me, that you weren't drinking, and that you weren't with Edwards."

"What have you been doing all night?" asked McCarthy, restored to happiness by the tidings.

"Finding out things. I trailed Williams downtown right after the game. He had dinner with Edwards in a private room. I couldn't find out what happened, but Williams came out looking as if he had been jerked through a knot hole. Then Edwards met that fat party that had you in his room."

"Is he in it, too?" asked McCarthy.

"Yes—who and what is he?"

"His name is Baldwin. He's a big politician and broker here in the East and I knew him out West, where he owns a ranch."

"What did he want with you?"

"He wanted me to quit the team and run back home. I told him where he got off. The idea of asking me to quit the boys now, when they may need me!"

"I can imagine what you said," laughed Swanson. "Did you kick him on the shins and try to make him fight?"

"I wanted to," replied McCarthy savagely. "I can't see where he gets into this affair at all. There's something queer all round."

"Listen, Kohinoor," said Swanson. "Someone wants to beat the Bears out of this pennant, and whoever it is is turning every trick possible to beat us. I suspect they've got to Williams and that he is trying to throw games, and I've been working all night trying to get the goods on him. We can't run to Clancy with a yarn like that unless we're ready to prove it. Now go to sleep and get ready to win to-morrow's game—to-day's, rather."

McCarthy lay staring, sleepless, into the darkness, his brain whirling as he strove to penetrate the maze of intrigue and plotting of which he seemed the center. Half an hour passed, then, as he turned in bed, a sleepy voice from the next bed asked:

"Asleep, Kohinoor?"

"No."

"Then quit worrying. I had a talk with Betty Tabor to-night, and you needn't worry. She don't believe all she hears."

"What did she say, Silent?" asked McCarthy, sitting up in bed suddenly.

"Aw, go to sleep," responded Swanson, as he rolled over, chuckling at the manner in which McCarthy had betrayed his interest.

It was nearly noon when Swanson and McCarthy descended to the hotel lobby in better frames of mind.

Manager Clancy, serious and worried, was talking with a gray-haired man and a younger man. McCarthy observed them and grew uncomfortable under their close scrutiny as the three turned toward him and focussed their eyes upon him. He felt relieved when the smaller man shook his head positively and was not surprised a moment later when Clancy came forward toward him and said frankly:

"Forget it, Kohinoor. Case of mistaken identity." He grasped McCarthy's hand and gave it a crunching grip as he added: "When you get ready to tell me what you know I want to hear it."

The manager did not attempt any further apology, but McCarthy felt as if a load had been lifted from his mind.

"I can't make any charges until I have proof," he replied steadily. "If ever I can back up what I suspect, I'll tell you—first."

"Swanson explained partly," said the manager. "I understand. Get in there to-day and hustle."

It was the final game of the trip and the Bears, with confidence renewed, went into it determined to rush the attack and win quickly. When the batting practice started McCarthy was surprised to find Lefty Williams pitching to batters. He faced Williams and hit the first ball hard and straight over second base. Williams was lobbing the ball easily, as if warming up. Twice Clancy called to him to quit pitching to batters, and he shouted back that his shoulder felt a little stiff and he wanted to limber it up easily. McCarthy stepped to the plate again. Up to that time Williams had not pitched a fast ball, but he wound up quickly and flashed a fast-breaking ball straight at McCarthy's head. The third baseman dropped flat and the ball, just grazing the top of his head, carried away his cap. He knew Williams had tried to hit him. He remembered his part in the deeper game he and Swanson were playing, and he decided not to reveal the fact that he was aware of Williams's intent. He leaped back into batters' position and yelled:

"Keep that bean ball for the game. You'll need it."

He saw that Williams was white and shaken, and the next ball came floating over the plate without speed. McCarthy swung at it, without attempting to hit it. Another slow one floated over the plate and again McCarthy made a burlesque swing, missing the ball a foot. Williams flushed scarlet and stepping quickly back into position he drove a straight fast ball at the batter. McCarthy was on his guard. Drawing back slightly he allowed the ball to touch his shirt, and when Williams, angrier than ever, hurled another fast one at him he stepped back and drove it to left field for a clean hit.

As he hit the ball he heard Clancy call angrily to Williams to come off the slab, and the pitcher, white with anger at the contempt the recruit had shown for his pitching, sullenly obeyed.

"That fellow tried three times to bean you," said Swanson in low tones as they walked to their positions after retiring runless in the first inning.

"I know it," said McCarthy. "I coaxed him along. I think we can make him pitch to-day by telling him that we don't think he can."

The plan was adopted. For two innings the shortstop and third baseman harassed the pitcher.

Under the running fire of taunts, criticisms and sarcasm Williams pitched harder and harder, furious at his teammates, and venting his anger upon opposing batsmen.

"Say, you guys," remarked Kennedy on the bench after the fourth inning. "Have some pity on me. You've got Adonis so mad he's smashing my mitt with his speed. Better ease off on him or you'll have him in the air."

The Bears had accumulated two runs and seemed winning easily in the fifth, when, before a runner was out, McCarthy, cutting across in front of Swanson to scoop an easy-bounding ball, played it too carelessly, fumbled and allowed the first batter to reach first base. The error was common enough, but allowing the first batter to reach a base on an easy chance was serious at that stage of the game. Williams turned upon McCarthy and gave him a violent rebuke. McCarthy was not in a position to respond. He saw that, in spite of his angry words, Williams seemed pleased by the error. An instant later a drive whizzed past him and then another screamed by him en route to left field. A run was across the plate, runners on first and third and no one out.

"Trying to toss off this one?" demanded Swanson angrily. "You big stiff, pitch ball."

The next batter sacrificed, and again Williams broke the ball low and inside the plate to a right-handed hitter. The ball came like a shot at McCarthy, who dived at it. It rolled away toward Swanson, who recovered just in time to throw out the runner at first, but another run had counted and the score was tied. Another hit screeched past McCarthy, another run counted and the Travelers were one run ahead before the attack could be stopped.

The Travelers held their advantage to the eighth, when, rallying desperately, the Bears drove home two runs by sheer force of hitting and the ninth found them hanging to a one-run lead. They failed to increase their advantage in the first half of the inning and took the field determined to hold their lead. McCarthy was puzzled. He thought Clancy knew what was happening on the field and had expected each inning that the manager would rebuke Williams when they returned to the bench. Instead Clancy had remained strangely silent.

Tuttle, the first batter for the Travelers in the ninth inning, hit a fierce bounder down the third-base line. McCarthy, knowing Tuttle to be a right field hitter, was swung a little wide from the base. He threw himself out toward the line, his hands extended to the full limit, and the ball stuck in one outstretched hand. Scrambling to his feet he threw hard and fast to first, retiring the speedy runner by a step. The next batter hit fiercely between third and short and Swanson, by a great play, retrieved the ball back on the edge of the grass, but could not throw the runner out. The next batter, a right-hander, hit a vicious single past McCarthy and there were runners on second and first.

McCarthy felt the next drive would be toward him. He believed Williams was striving to lose the game, and that he was pitching so as to compel the batters to hit in the direction of third base so that the baseman and not he would be held responsible for the defeat. He gritted his teeth and crouched, waiting, as Watson, the heaviest-hitting right-handed batter in the league, faced Williams. Crouching, he saw Kennedy signal for a fast ball high and outside the plate, and then saw a straight easy ball sail toward the batter, low and inside. Watson swung. McCarthy saw a flash of light and threw up his hands just in time to keep the ball from hitting him. The ball broke through his hands and rolled a few feet away. His hands were numb to the wrists from the terrific shock. He stood still one trice. Then he saw the runners were stopped, bewildered. They had lost sight of the ball, so rapidly had it traveled and had stopped, thinking he had caught it. He leaped after the ball, framing the play as he touched the spinning sphere. He could have run back to third base and forced out one, but instead, as his numbed fingers gripped the sphere, he saw the possibility of a double play and threw fast and straight to Swanson, on second base, forcing out the runner coming from first. Swanson, catching the idea of the play in an instant, hurled the ball back to McCarthy, who grabbed it and touched out the runner coming from second, completing a double play that brought the crowd to its feet in applause and saved the game.

McCarthy heard the cheers, but he was cold with suppressed anger as he walked to where Williams was standing, and said:

"Williams, you're a d——d crook."

CHAPTER XIV

"Technicalities" on the Job

The Bears were going home holding grimly to their claim upon first place in the league race. With but seven games remaining to be played all were against clubs already beaten, and five of the seven were against clubs considerably weaker in every department. Two games were to be played off the home grounds.

The statisticians were busy calculating that the Bears had a decided advantage in the race, yet they were not happy in the homecoming. The ride home was only a few hours long, and they had caught the train immediately after the sensational finish of the final game with the Travelers in order to reach home and get settled by midnight.

Swanson and McCarthy sat together as the train pulled out, talking in low tones.

"I think Clancy is onto him," said Swanson. "Just sit tight. It isn't our move yet. The Boss acted queerly on the bench to-day and has been watching Williams all the time, while pretending not to. I'm going to mingle and see if any of the other fellows are wise to him."

Hardly had Swanson left the seat than McCarthy was surprised by "Technicalities" Feehan, who sat down in the seat vacated by the shortstop.

Feehan was one of the odd characters developed by the national game, a reporter who had traveled with the Bear teams for so many years the players regarded him as a sort of venerable pest who hadn't seen a ball player since Williamson's day, and never such a catcher as Mike Kelly, a first baseman like Comisky or a fielder like Tip O'Neil. He sometimes was called "Four Eyes," from the fact that he wore large, steel-rimmed glasses of great thickness, and his other name was "Technicalities."

He was not at all interested in baseball, excepting as a business. His chief interest was in the Children's Crusades, and he had spent eight years of his spare time in libraries all over America digging out data for his history of those remarkable pilgrimages which he had written and rewritten half a dozen times. Not being a baseball fan he was eminently fair and unprejudiced, and the players thought more of the quiet, studious fellow than they did of the excitable and the partisan reporters who joined their sports and their woes.

"Mr. McCarthy," he said seriously, "did you observe anything strange in to-day's game?"

"Several strange things," assented McCarthy. "Among them that error I made early in the game."

"I mean things of an unusual nature," persisted Technicalities. "I was struck by an odd phenomenon and thought perhaps you noticed it. I find it more perplexing as I study my score books."

"What was it?" inquired McCarthy, cautious not to betray any interest.

"Did you, for instance, observe anything strange about the hits in your direction?"

"I noticed that those that didn't have cayenne pepper on them were white hot and came like greased lightning," laughed McCarthy. "I expected to find my right leg playing left field any minute."

"I was speaking numerically, although, of course, the speed of the hits enters into the phenomenon."

"They did seem to be coming my way rapidly," agreed the third baseman.

"In to-day's game I find," continued the statistician, "that there were eighteen batted balls hit in the direction of third base. You had five assists and one error and caught two line drives. I do not include foul balls, of which six line drives went near third base. Of these eighteen batted balls, fourteen were hit by right-handed batters and four by left-handers. The fourteen right-handed batters hit balls pitched inside the plate, the four left-handers hit balls outside the plate, that is, outside to them, so that practically every ball batted toward you was pitched to the inside of the plate, that is, the catcher's left. I have checked these statistics and find them correct."

"Well, what of it?" asked McCarthy.

"In the preceding games—in which you played third and in which Williams has pitched—I find that an average of twelve and a fraction batted balls per game have been hit toward third base, exclusive of fouls. In the games in which you have played and in which Williams has not pitched the average is six and a trifling fraction. You have averaged seven and one-fourth chances per game—legitimate chances—with Williams pitching, and a trifle under three chances per game when he was not pitching. Does it not seem remarkable?"

"Perhaps so," assented McCarthy. "I never studied such statistics."

"The phenomenon is the more remarkable," added the strange little man, "because the average chances per game of the third basemen of five leagues, two majors and three Class AA for the last five years has been 2 and 877-998. It is impossible to construe the figures to mean but one of two things."

"What are they?" asked McCarthy, curiously interested.

"Either it is mere coincidence or Williams is deliberately trying to lose this pennant and to make you shoulder the blame."

"That's a pretty stiff charge," remarked McCarthy, amazed at the deductions of the reporter, which fitted so well the suspicion, gradually becoming a certainty to his mind.

"Either he is pitching purposely to make the opposing batters hit balls at you," insisted Feehan, "or it just happened—and things do not just happen in baseball with that regularity."

"Possibly he is wild and can't get the ball over the plate."

"On the contrary," persisted Feehan, "he has perfect control. If he did not possess control he could not pitch so many balls to the same place."

"I'm immensely grateful," said McCarthy, touched by the kindness of the odd reporter. "It's good of you and I shan't forget it."

"I deserve no thanks," insisted Feehan. "It's merely in the line of square dealing and justice—and, speaking of justice, McCarthy, did you ever take interest in the Children's Crusades? Let me show you some of the data I dug up recently"——

He delved into his little bag, which was his constant companion, and, drawing forth a mass of scattered, disordered notes, he went into raptures of enthusiasm while describing to the player some new features of the disappearance of the French children and of the sojourn of hundreds of them as slaves in African harems.

A great throng of admirers was waiting in the station to welcome the Bears back from their successful trip. Swanson and McCarthy finally escaped from the crowd, and, jumping into a taxicab, were whirled to the hotel, where Swanson had secured rooms for both.

The hour was growing late, but after they had deposited their baggage in their rooms, Swanson proposed a walk and a late supper. It was McCarthy's first visit to the city which he represented upon the ball field and its magnificence and greatness made him forget the worries and troubles of which he seemed the center. He even forgot to detail to his chum his strange interview with the reporter until they were seated in a quiet nook of one of the great restaurants. Then, in response to some jesting allusion to the Children's Crusades by Swanson, he told the big shortstop of the array of statistics Feehan had presented.

"He's a square little guy," said Swanson. "And he's got more brains in that funny-looking little head of his than this whole bunch has. He dopes things out pretty nearly right, and when he is convinced that he is right he goes the limit. Between us there is a certain left-handed pitcher who is in hot water right now and don't know it. Speaking of the devil," he added quickly, "there's his wings flapping, and look who he is with—across the far corner there, at the little table."

McCarthy's eyes followed the route indicated and suddenly he lost interest in his food. At a small table were Williams, Secretary Tabor—and Betty Tabor.

McCarthy was silent and moody during the walk back to the hotel and seemed to have lost interest in the great glaring city, which was just commencing to dim its illumination for the night. They were in bed with the lights out when Swanson said:

"Cut out the worrying, kid. I wouldn't have a girl no one else wanted. Besides, either her father has been told by Clancy to watch that crook or else Betty Tabor is stringing him along to learn something. She despises Williams, and she wouldn't laugh at him or eat with him unless she had a purpose in it."

McCarthy could have blessed him for the words, but he assumed a dignity he did not feel and said:

"I don't see why I should be especially interested."

"Cut out the con stuff, Bo," laughed Swanson, relapsing into his old careless baseball phraseology. "You dope around like a chicken with the pip and look at her like a seasick guy seeing the Statue of Liberty and then think no one is onto you."

Reply seemed inadvisable, so McCarthy grunted and rolled over. There was a silence and then Swanson added:

"And say, Bo, this Williams is in trouble. There's me and you on his track. Clancy is wise and watching him. Old Technicalities has him doped crooked in the figures, and now Betty Tabor is smiling at him to get the facts—he hasn't a chance. It's darn hard to fix a baseball game."

CHAPTER XV

Baldwin Baits a Trap

"Willie says that one petticoat will ruin the best ball club that ever lived, but lands knows that if some of us women don't get busy right away there's one ball club that's goin' to be ruined without any rustlin' skirts to be blamed."

Mrs. William Clancy, her ample form loosely enveloped in a huge, flowered kimono, dropped her fancy work into her lap and fanned herself with a folded newspaper.

"Why, Mother Clancy," ejaculated Betty Tabor, sitting on a stool by the window of the Clancy apartment, "one would think to hear you talk that we had lost the pennant already."

"Now, there's Willie," continued Mrs. Clancy, ignoring the protest, "goin' round with a grouch on all the time like he could bite nails in two. There's that nice McCarthy boy frettin' his heart out because you haven't treated him nicely, and Swanson worryin' about something. And there's Williams sneakin' round like he'd been caught robbin' a hen roost."

"Mother Clancy," protested the girl, reddening, "you have no right to say I haven't been treating Mr. McCarthy well. A girl cannot throw herself at a man—especially an engaged man."

"How do you know he's engaged?" demanded Mrs. Clancy. "Lands sakes, I haven't heard him announcing his engagement, and he looks at you across the dining room as sad as a calf chewing a dish rag."

"I overheard—I saw the girl," admitted Betty Tabor, blushing as she bowed her pretty head over her work. "She was telling him she wouldn't marry him if he continued to play ball—besides, Mr. Williams met her uncle, and he said they were engaged."

"Is she pretty?" demanded Mrs. Clancy.

"Beautiful," admitted Miss Tabor. "She's tall and fair and graceful, and she had on such a wonderful gown all trimmed"——

"It looks to me," interrupted Mrs. Clancy, cutting off the description of the dressmaking details heartlessly, "as if someone was just jealous."

"Why, Mother Clancy," said the girl, shocked and red, "you must think me perfectly frightful to believe I'd act that way."

"Oh, girls your age are all fools," said Mrs. Clancy complacently. "I reckon I was myself at your age. Why, if Willie even spoke to another girl I'd go out and hunt up two beaux just to show him I didn't care. You went out with Williams when we came in last night, didn't you?"

"Yes; he asked papa and me to late supper," the girl admitted. "But it really wasn't what you think. I wanted to find out something from him—something that's been worrying me."

"Did you find out?" asked the older woman skeptically.

"I don't know, Mother Clancy." The girl's face grew troubled. "I'm worried. I know Mr. Williams hasn't any money. Papa says he is so reckless he always is in debt, and lately, whenever he talks to me, he talks about the big sums he's going to have. I asked papa what it was, and he only grunted."

"He'd better pitch a lot better than he has been if he's counting on any of that world's series money," remarked Mrs. Clancy savagely. "McCarthy saved yesterday's game twice."

"You think Mr. Williams didn't want to win the game?" The girl's voice was tense with anxiety.

"I hate to say it—but it looked that way."

"Oh, Mother Clancy, I haven't dared to say a word to anyone about it," said the girl hesitatingly, "but I've been afraid for days. He said something to me that almost frightened me. He hinted that Mr. McCarthy was losing games on purpose. I didn't believe it—and somehow I got the idea Mr. Williams was betting on the Panthers."

"Now, you just keep your mouth shut about this," replied Mrs. Clancy, pressing her lips together determinedly. "I've had that same idea, and I think that's what's worryin' Willie. You just lead that fellow on to talk and I'll put a bug in Willie's ear. Only," she added, "Willie is likely to snap my head off for buttin' into his business. He's got to know, though."

Clancy came into the apartment soon afterward and Betty Tabor, making a hasty excuse, gathered up her fancy work.

"It's going to rain," remarked Clancy resignedly. "I think the game will be called off. If the game's off, I've got tickets to a theatre, and you and mother and I can go. Which one of the boys shall I ask to go with us?"

"If you don't mind," replied Betty Tabor steadily, "ask Mr. Williams."

The rain came down steadily and before one o'clock the contest was called off. The postponement was believed to lessen slightly the chances of the Bears to win the pennant, and they lounged dismally around the hotel, watching the bulletin board record the fact that the Panthers were winning easily, giving them the lead in the race by a small fraction in percentage.

Manager Clancy, his wife and Betty Tabor, with Williams rode away in a taxicab to the theatre. McCarthy declined Swanson's proposal to play billiards, and, going to their rooms, he commenced to read. Presently five of the players trooped in, led by Swanson, to play poker, and, shoving McCarthy's bed aside, ignoring his protests, they dragged out chairs and tables and started the game. Scarcely had they started when the telephone bell rang and Swanson answered:

"No, he's not up here," he said. "No. Who wants him? All right, put them on. Hello! Who is this? Oh, all right. No, Williams isn't here. Yes, I'm sure. He went out with the manager an hour ago—to a theatre, I think. All right. I'll tell him."

"Fellows," he said, as he hung up the receiver, "some friends want Williams to meet them as soon as he can. He'll know where. Fellow says it's important."

He glanced meaningly at McCarthy, who nodded to show that he understood, and as he sat down he remarked:

"Kohinoor, I guess it's up to us to go to a show or something to-night."

"All right," replied McCarthy, striving vainly to continue his reading, while puzzling over the fresh development.

At that same instant there was an acrimonious conversation in progress in the room from which the telephone summons for Williams had just come. Easy Ed Edwards hung up after his brief talk with the player at the other end of the line, an ugly gleam in his cold eyes.

"He isn't there," he reported to Barney Baldwin, who was sitting by the table, jangling the ice in a high-ball glass. "Either he's trying to cross us or he's playing wise and keeping his stand-in with the manager."

"Sure he isn't trying to cross us?" asked Baldwin. "He won yesterday's game instead of losing as he agreed to do."

"He tried hard enough to lose it," sneered the gambler. "He tossed up the ball and those dubs couldn't beat him. I tell you you've got to handle that red-headed kid at third base as you promised you would. He saved that game twice. We've got to get rid of him."

"He's stubborn," snarled Baldwin. "I tried to get him to quit the team and go back home. He's as bull-headed as his uncle, and that's the limit."

"You know who he is?" queried the gambler in surprise. "Why don't you tell the newspaper boys and show him up. That would finish him. He's under cover with his identity, and if we can prove he hasn't any right to play with the Bears they'll have to throw out the games he's won."

"That's just the trouble," replied Baldwin bitterly. "He's straight as a string. He never played ball except at college. We can't tell who he is because that would prove he's all right and make him stronger than ever."

"Who is he?" inquired the gambler.

"He's the nephew of old Jim Lawrence, of Oregon, one of the richest men out there. Lawrence is his guardian. They had some sort of a run-in and the boy left."

"How do you know these things?" demanded the gambler.

"The boy and my niece were sweethearts at home. I coaxed her to tell me when I discovered she knew him. They were engaged once, I understand, but it was broken off."

"Then," said Edwards determinedly, "get your niece on the job. If anyone can handle that fellow a woman can."

"Oh, I say," protested Baldwin, with a show of indignation, "I can't ask her to get into anything like this."

"She probably was willing enough to get into it until she thought the boy didn't have any money," replied Edwards coldly. "I don't want the girl to do anything wrong. Just get her to make up with this McCarthy, or whatever his name is, and get him away from this ball team for a week. Baldwin, this is getting to be a serious matter with me, and with you, too, if you want to hold your political power."

"All right, all right," said Baldwin hastily. "Maybe I can persuade the girl to help us out. I'll try."

"You'd better succeed—if you want to send your man to the Senate," said Edwards threateningly.

"I'll go right away," assented the politician.

Baldwin arose leisurely, went down to his limousine that was waiting and ordered the man to drive home, although it was his custom to remain downtown until late. At home he sent at once for his niece, and, after a brief talk, during which he was careful to hint that McCarthy had made overtures toward reconciliation with his uncle, the girl went to the telephone.

McCarthy, summoned to the telephone, talked for a few moments and, as the poker game broke up, he called Swanson aside and said:

"You'll have to go alone to-night. I've got to make a call."

"Who is she?" asked Swanson insinuatingly.

"Barney Baldwin's niece—and at his house."

"Run on, Kohinoor," said the big shortstop. "I'll take Kennedy with me and if I'm not mistaken you'll find out more than I will."

CHAPTER XVI

McCarthy Makes a Call

It was a little past seven o'clock, when McCarthy, arrayed in what Swanson referred to as his "joy rags," which had been rescued from impound in an express office after his first renewal of prosperity, came out of the hotel. He was undecided, wavering as to whether or not it was wise for him to keep the appointment to call on Helen Baldwin.

They had met during his college career, and, after a courtship that was a whirlwind of impetuosity on his side, she had agreed to marry him. He recalled now, with rather bitter recollections of his own blindness, her seemingly careless curiosity regarding the extent of the Lawrence wealth and his own expectations. He had told her how, when his father had died, Jim Lawrence had taken him to rear as his own child and heir.

The boy had grown older and broadened with his short experience in the world outside the protecting circle that had been round him in preparatory school and in college, and he determined to write that night to his guardian the letter he had so long delayed and to apologize and admit that he had been headstrong and foolish.

During the long ride uptown to the city residence of the Baldwins he had time to think clearly. He knew that Barney Baldwin was wealthy, but he was unprepared for the magnificence of the garish house, set down amid wide lawns in the most exclusive part of the River Drive section.

Helen Baldwin entered the room in a few moments, and McCarthy gazed at her in admiring surprise.

She came forward with both hands outstretched, smiling, a strangely transformed girl from the cold, half-scornful one with whom he had parted only a short time before.

"I wanted to see you so much, Larry," she said. "I have been so blue and depressed since I—since we—since we last met. Why didn't you call?"

"I only reached the city last night," he replied as he took a seat beside her on a divan. "And—well, Helen, I hardly thought you would wish to see me."

"You foolish boy," she chided. "Don't you know yet that you must never take a girl at her word? Of course, I was annoyed to find you playing baseball with a professional team, but I didn't mean we never were to meet again."

"I thought your ultimatum settled all that," he answered, ill at ease. "It was rather a shock to find that you cared more for what I was than for what I am."

"You know, Larry, that you placed me in a painful position. It isn't as if I were a rich girl, able to share with the man I love. My father and mother are not rich, and Uncle Barney has supplied me with everything. He has spoiled me—and I would make a wretched wife for a poor man."

"I would not have proposed marriage," said McCarthy quietly, "unless I had thought I would be able to provide for you as well as your uncle could. When circumstances were changed I could not ask you to sacrifice yourself unless you were willing—unless you cared enough for me to adapt yourself to the circumstances."

"But, Larry, aren't you going to quit all this foolishness and go back? Haven't you been reconciled with Mr. Lawrence?" she asked in surprise.

"I expect to go back after the season is over and tell him how sorry I am that I caused him trouble."

"Please go, Larry. You'll go to please me, won't you?" she said appealingly.

"I cannot see why it would please you to have me quit now, when I'm most needed," he replied stiffly. "Surely you cannot know what you are asking."

"It is such a little thing I ask," she pouted, "I'm sure you would if you loved me."

The girl's eyes were filling. She had found him easy to handle by that appeal only a few short months before, but now, as he saw her, he was seized with a desire to laugh, as he realized that she was acting. The words of Swanson: "You'll find out more than we will," flashed into his mind, and he determined to meet acting with acting.

"Perhaps, Helen," he said softly, "if you could explain just why you want me to quit playing I could see my way to do it."

"That is being a sensible boy," she said, bathing her eyes with a bit of lace. "I don't like to see you making an exhibition of yourself before a crowd—for money." She shrugged her beautiful shoulders disdainfully.

"Is that all?" he asked quietly.

"All? Isn't it enough? And then there's Mr. Lawrence. I know he is worrying about you."

"Any other reasons?" he inquired.

"Then there's Uncle Barney"——

"What has Barney Baldwin to do with it?" His voice was sharp, and the girl hesitated under his steady scrutiny.

"You mustn't speak that way of my uncle," she said reprovingly. "I'm sure he's only interested in you because of me. He says it is imperative that you do not play any more with the Bears."

"Then Barney Baldwin ordered you to telephone for me to come here?" he asked harshly.

"He merely wanted me to persuade you to quit that ridiculous game and go back to Mr. Lawrence right away. He was only trying to save you."

For an instant he sat staring at the girl steadily. Then he said slowly:

"What a fool I've been."

"Oh, Larry, Larry!" she exclaimed, frightened by his manner. "What's the matter—is anything wrong?"

"Nothing wrong," he said, laughing mirthlessly. "Nothing wrong. You may tell your uncle, with my compliments, that I will continue to play with the Bears to the end of the season, and that, in spite of him and his dirty work we will win that pennant."

He arose and passed into the hall without a backward glance, ignoring the sobs of the girl, who buried her face in her handkerchief and wept gracefully, telling him between sobs that he was cruel. He took his hat from the servant and strode rapidly down the steps, his mind a turmoil of emotions.

How far did the plot to beat the Bears out of the pennant extend? How many were in it? Gradually he commenced to draw connected thoughts from the chaos of his brain. He realized that he was the storm center of a plot and that he was dealing with dangerous enemies.

The girl he had left so abruptly continued her stifled, stagey sobs until she heard the front door close. Then she sat up quickly, glanced at her features in a wall mirror, brushed back a lock of ruffled hair and rubbed her eyes lightly with her kerchief.

"How he has changed," she said to herself. "He is getting masterful, and three months ago one pout was enough. I could almost love him—even without old Jim Lawrence's money.

"At any rate," she said, looking at the handsome solitaire on her finger, "I can keep the ring. He never mentioned it. I must go tell Uncle Barney."

She ran lightly up the stairs to the den where Baldwin, smoking impatiently, was waiting for her.

"Well?" he inquired. "Did you land him?"

"Don't speak so vulgarly, Uncle Barney," the girl replied. "No, I did not. He has grown stubborn. He told me to tell you he intended to keep on playing to the end of the season, and that they would win—I've forgotten what he said they would win. Does it make much difference, just these few more games?"

"Does it make any difference?" he stormed. "Any difference—why, you fool, my whole political future may be ruined by that red-headed idiot. Get out of here. I'm going to telephone."

The girl, weeping in earnest now, hurried from the room as Barney Baldwin seized the telephone. A moment later he was saying:

"Hello, Ed. She fell down. He's stubborn and says he'll keep on playing. You'd better see your man and break that story in the newspaper. What? They got him? Where? Well, then, they've got the wrong man. McCarthy left my house not five minutes ago."

CHAPTER XVII.

The Fight in the Café

Swanson left the hotel intending to pursue his volunteer detective work only a few moments after McCarthy started uptown to respond to the invitation of Miss Baldwin. He had remained lounging around the lobby talking with Kennedy, the big catcher, until he saw Williams leave the hotel by a side entrance and enter a street car. Then he signaled Kennedy and they strolled out together and caught the next car.

"It's Williams we're going to trail," was the only hint Swanson would give at the start.

"Williams?" snorted Kennedy. "You told me there was a chance for a scrap. That guy won't fight."

"Maybe those he's going to see will," replied Swanson encouragingly.

Swanson did not know then that, only a short time before he made his arrangement with Kennedy, Williams had pleaded over the telephone to Edwards that he was afraid to meet him that evening, as requested, because he thought Clancy might discover the fact and that Clancy was already suspicious. Williams pretended alarm and convinced Edwards that there was danger of someone following the pitcher, and on his way to keep the appointment to meet the athlete he had drawn into the toils of the conspiracy, he stopped at his gambling room and ordered Jack, a big ex-prizefighter, to follow him to the meeting place and to keep watch during the conference.

It was growing dark when Edwards strolled slowly across town toward the rendezvous. Williams's fear of being upbraided when he met the gambler on that evening was unfounded. The gambler was convinced that the pitcher had made every effort to lose the game and that he had been balked only by luck and the fielding of McCarthy. He wanted to learn from Williams whether or not there was any other player on the team who could be bribed into assisting in the plot.

Swanson and Kennedy trailing cautiously saw Williams jump off the car and walk along the sidewalk, and, after riding past him, they descended and walked along the opposite side of the street, keeping close in the shadows of the tall buildings. A block further downtown they saw Williams stop, look around suspiciously as if to see whether or not anyone was following him, then turn up the side street and enter a café. Swanson quickly led the way. They passed the saloon on the opposite side of the street, and after walking half a block they retraced their steps and stopped in a doorway opposite the entrance.

"Let's wait here and see who goes in," suggested Swanson.

"Whom do you expect him to meet?" inquired Kennedy.

"Edwards," vouchsafed Swanson grudgingly. "He has been meeting that crook for ten days now, and I want to find out what they're up to."

"Why didn't you tell me before?" demanded Kennedy. "I'd kick his head off"——

"We hadn't the goods on him," explained Swanson. "That's what I want you for. If we can prove he's up to some crooked work"——

The big Swede menacingly folded his ponderous paw into a fist and flexed his biceps.

"Do you think he's trying to throw games? He's been pitching funny ball lately," asked Kennedy. "I've had to fight him in every game to get him to pitch fast."

"What I think and what I can prove are different things," growled the shortstop. "I've got my suspicions. Now we're after proof. Come on. If he was to meet anyone there the one he was to meet is in ahead of him."

The players walked to the corner, crossed the street and went into the saloon without an effort at concealment. The place appeared empty, save for a bartender who was washing glasses behind the bar, and a heavy, coarse-featured man lounging near the end of the bar with a half-consumed high ball before him.

"Gimme a beer," ordered Swanson, throwing a coin onto the bar; "what you have, Ben?"

"Make it two," replied Kennedy.

There was no sign of Williams, and only a narrow doorway, leading somewhere toward the rear, gave a clue as to his probable egress from the barroom.

The bartender, having rung up the amount of the sale on the cash register, exchanged a few words in a low tone with the man at the end. Then he strolled back and stood near where Swanson and Kennedy were wasting time over their drinks.

"We were expecting to meet a friend here to-night," remarked Swanson, deciding to take a new tack with the bartender. "Rather tall, slender young fellow. Has anyone been in?"

"Young fellow came in a while ago something like that," replied the bartender. "Seemed to be expecting someone, but turned around and went out. Maybe that was him."

They knew he was lying, and Swanson, without changing expression, said:

"Must have thought he was in the wrong place, or too early. Maybe he'll come back. We'll stick around awhile."

Had they known what was transpiring in the private room just beyond the doorway their interest would have been greater. The big man who had stood at the end of the bar had gone at the first opportunity and was reporting to Easy Ed Edwards, who grew venomous with hate, while Williams sat shaking with fright.

"I knew they'd get on. If they report to Clancy I'm done for," he said.

"Shut up," ordered the gambler angrily. "They haven't seen you and they don't know I'm here. Who are they, Jack?"

"I don't know dem," said the ex-fighter. "Dey's a big, husky lookin' guy, a Dutchman, I guess, wid a blue suit"——

"It's Swanson," said Williams. "He's been looking at me as if he knew something for two or three days. He has followed me here."

"De oder one is a smaller, wiry sort o' guy. Got on a light suit"——

"It must be McCarthy," whined Williams. "He's always with Swanson. They're looking for me. I wish I had kept out of this."

"Listen," ordered Edwards coldly. "This fellow McCarthy is the one we want. If we can get him out of the way it'll be easy and I can get even with that big, fat lobster, Baldwin, for trying to double cross me. Jack, you go out there and get in a mix-up with them and take a poke at the little fellow that'll keep him from playing ball for a week. Is the bartender a friend of yours?"

"One of me best pals," replied the ex-fighter. "Leaf it to me. I'll land de punch dat'll fix dat fresh, young guy."

The fighter strolled back to the barroom and resumed his stand at the end of the bar, eyeing the two ball players. As he tapped the bar the bartender walked to him.

"I'm goin' to start somethin'," said Jack in a low tone. "Ed wants me to punch de head offen dat youngest one."

"That big guy looks hard to handle," commented the bartender. "Make it quick. I don't like no rough house here. The license ain't any too safe now."

"I'm going back to see what's there," whispered Kennedy to Swanson. "You stick here. I'll bluff it through."

He walked toward the door leading back from the bar and started to pass through it.

"Here, young feller," said the bartender, "where you goin'?"

"Washroom," replied Kennedy, keeping on through the door.

"Naw you don't. Come back outen there," ordered the fighter angrily.

"Who appointed you boss?" asked Kennedy belligerently.

"Well, I'm boss anywhere I goes," declared the big fellow. "Youse stay outen there. D'ye hear?"

He grabbed the ball player by the arm—and at that instant Kennedy swung. His fist caught the bruiser squarely on the mouth and he reeled back, then, with a bellow of rage, he sprang at Kennedy.

With a roar of anger Swanson hurled himself into the fray. Kennedy's fist had caught the ex-fighter and cut his cheek open and blood spurted upon both as they fought, the frail partition swaying under their weight. Swanson leaped with his arm drawn for a knock-out blow, just as Jack's right caught Kennedy upon the jaw and dropped him to the floor helpless. The blow the Swede had aimed at the fighter hit him upon the shoulder and slid over his head, and Jack, whirling, faced his new adversary. Swanson sprang to close quarters with the giant and his fist thudded home. Jack, groggy and already half spent from his exertions, clinched and hung on. The Swede, now a man gone mad with the lust of battle, shook him off, hurled the giant backward against the partition, and, crouching, he prepared to swing his right, waiting for the opening to the jaw, while Jack, groggy and half dazed, covered his head with his arms and swayed. The blow never landed. Suddenly it seemed to Swanson as if the worlds were crashing around his head. Bright stars danced before his eyes, his knees gave way beneath him, and with a foolish laugh he sank to the floor and rolled, helpless, beside his fallen comrade. His last recollection was of hearing a telephone bell jangling somewhere.

The ringing of the telephone bell that Swanson heard as he lapsed into unconsciousness was the call of Barney Baldwin for Ed Edwards. The gambler, who, with his frightened companion, had heard the sounds of the terrific struggle in the barroom sink into silence, spoke rapidly for an instant, then, as Baldwin said: "They've got the wrong man," he hung up the receiver with an oath and leaped toward the doorway. He emerged upon a tableau showing his slugger, half dazed and hanging to the partition for support, two figures inert upon the floor and the bartender coolly walking back toward the bar, carrying a heavy bung-starter in his hand, that explained the sudden ending of the fight.

CHAPTER XVIII

Two Missing Men

The disappearance of Silent Swanson and Ben Kennedy brought consternation to the ranks of the Bears, consternation that increased as the hour for starting the first game of the series against the Jackrabbits drew near. McCarthy, returning to the rooms after his surprising interview with Helen Baldwin, was determined to tell his chum all that had taken place and to explain as well as was possible the position in which he found himself. He planned to urge Swanson to go with him to Clancy, and for that reason he postponed taking the manager into his confidence.

He hastened downstairs to breakfast, half expecting to find his chum waiting for him in the dining room with an account of the night's events. He finished breakfast in a troubled state of mind, and, after wandering around the lobby for nearly an hour in the vain hope that Swanson would appear, he encountered Noisy Norton, who appeared disturbed and distressed.

"Say," said Norton, "seen Kennedy?"

"No—seen Swanson?"

"They went out together," said Norton, with an unusual burst of conversation.

"Didn't Kennedy come home either?" asked McCarthy in fresh alarm.

"No."

They sat silent for some time, then Noisy said:

"Something wrong."

"What'll we do?" asked McCarthy anxiously.

"Tell Clancy," said Norton, with an effort.

They ascended the elevator together and rapped at Clancy's door.

"Mr. Clancy," said McCarthy, when the manager had bade them enter, "I ought to have come to you before. Swanson and Kennedy are missing. They didn't come in last night—and we're worried."

"Where were they?" demanded the manager quickly.

"I was going with Swanson on an errand last night," said McCarthy. "We were working on that matter that caused trouble the other day. Then I had a telephone call and went to see a—a friend of mine. Swanson said he'd take Kennedy with him. They left the hotel together, Norton tells me, and they haven't come home."

"Either of them drinking?" asked Clancy sharply.

"Beer—sometimes—not often," said Norton.

"Swanson hasn't been drinking at all," declared McCarthy. "Neither of them would go off on a tear at this stage of the game."

"You're right, Kohinoor," said Clancy worriedly. "It's something else. They'll show up, all right. Thank you for telling me, boys, and don't say anything about it."

In spite of their silence, however, the rumor that the star catcher and the shortstop were missing spread through the team. By noon the players were openly discussing the whereabouts of the two players. Clancy showed his anxiety.

"Can't you tell me where they were going, Kohinoor?" he asked. "I don't want to press you to reveal anything you don't want to, but I'm afraid those boys are in trouble."

"I haven't any idea where they were going," replied McCarthy. "I know that they were watching a certain fellow, and that a gambler named Edwards was mixed up in it."

"You've told me plenty," said the manager in low tones. "I have suspected it all along. I'm afraid they're run afoul of Edwards and that he has managed to get them into trouble."

"If he has he has his nerve," said McCarthy. "Look over there. He just came in with a party of friends. I know the big man."

"Who is he?" inquired the manager, watching the party just entering one of the field boxes.

"That's Barney Baldwin, the political boss," explained McCarthy.

"Is he in this thing, too?" inquired Clancy, starting with surprise.

"Yes, at least I think so. You see, I know his niece. It was at his house I went to call last night. I discovered that he ordered his niece to call me and had her try to persuade me to quit the team right away."

"Look here, Kohinoor," said the manager, drawing him aside so the other players could not hear, "I'm sorry you didn't tell me this before. It looks worse and worse all the time. He wanted you to quit—and now two of my men disappear. You'll have to play short to-day, and we'll send Pardridge to third. Get in there and hustle."

Smith, the big spitball pitcher of the Bears, who had been held in reserve, was chosen to pitch, and for three innings the teams fought for the opening without a real chance to score. The cunning of Clancy was shown in his choice of the big pitcher, whose speed and spitball kept the Jackrabbit batters hitting toward right field or sending slow, easy bounders down toward the pitcher. He had chosen Smith in order to protect the weakened third base side of the infield, and his plan worked well until the fourth inning, when Egbert, one of the speediest of the Jackrabbit sprinters, hit a spitball on top and sent a slow, weak roller toward third base. Pardridge made a desperate effort to field the ball, but fell short, and the Jackrabbits discovered the weak place in the defense. Two bunts rolled down the third-base line in succession, and, although Pardridge, playing close in a desperate effort to stop that style of attack, managed to throw out the second bunter, runners were on second and third with but one out when "Buckthorne" Black smashed a long hit over center for three bases and scored an instant later on a sharp, slashing hit through Noisy Norton. The three runs seemed to spell the doom of the Bears, and they came in from the field angry, hot and desperate. The roar of the crowd grew stronger when the score board showed the Panthers were winning their game—5 to 1—from the Blues.

McCarthy was first at bat in that inning. As he selected his bat he glanced toward the stand and grew hot with rage at seeing Baldwin laughing until red in the face and slapping Ed Edwards on the back. The gambler's usually stony face wore a smile of relief. McCarthy walked to the plate, pushed the first ball pitched down the third-base line and outsprinted the ball to first. Norton strove to bring him home, but his long-line drive went straight to the left fielder, and when Holleran struck out it seemed as if the chance to score was lost for that inning. McCarthy stood still, a few feet off first base, and, as Randall wound up to pitch, he started at top speed for second base. Jackson, catching for the Jackrabbits, saw him, grabbed the ball and leaped into position to throw. Like a flash McCarthy stopped and danced a step or two back toward first base, as if daring the catcher to throw the ball. Jackson pretended to throw to first, and, as McCarthy edged a step closer the base the catcher saw there was no chance to catch him, and slowly relaxing from throwing position, he took a step forward and started to toss the ball back to his pitcher. In that instant McCarthy acted. He leaped forward, and, before Jackson could recover and spring back into throwing position, the fleet Bear was nearing second base, making a beautifully executed delayed steal. Jackson threw, although it was too late. The ball, hurled over hastily, broke through the second baseman's hands and rolled twenty feet toward center field. McCarthy turned second at full speed and raced for third, while Reilly tore after the ball, and, picking it up, made a fast, low throw toward third. Again the ball escaped the baseman, and McCarthy, without the loss of a stride, turned third base and raced home, sliding under Jackson as he reached for the high-thrown ball.

The game had settled down to a desperate series of attacks by the Bears, and a stubborn defense on the part of the Jackrabbits. In the sixth and again in the seventh the Bears forced the attack, but each time they fell short of scoring, and the eighth inning came with the score 3 to 1 against them. Lucas, who was catching in Kennedy's place, opened that inning, and the Bears' hope arose when he, the weakest hitter on the team, was hit by a pitched ball. Smith drove a hard bounder toward first, but O'Meara knocked down the ball and reached the base in time to retire the big, lumbering pitcher, letting Lucas reach second. Jacobsen struck out, and McCarthy, gritting his teeth, came to bat. One strike and one ball had been called when, looking toward the bench for a signal from Clancy, he saw a sight that made his heart jump. In that fleeting glance he had seen Swanson, in uniform, coming onto the bench through the little doorway under the stands.

Swanson's eye was black and a strip of plaster extended from under his cap onto his forehead. His face was swollen and discolored and a bandage covered his head, showing under his cap.

If he only could get on first base, McCarthy told himself, there was hope, and, as the ball sped toward him he poked out his bat, dropped another bunt toward third base, and, by a terrific burst of speed he beat it to first base, sending Lucas to third.

"Swanson batting for Holleran. Swanson will play shortstop, McCarthy third base, Pardridge in left field."

McCarthy had determined to steal second base, but the chance never presented. The first ball that came whizzing toward the plate Swanson hit. It went like a rocket far out to left center field. Two speedy outfielders glanced at the flying ball, then turned and sprinted for the outer barriers. The ball soared on and on, and with a crash struck against the sign over the left field seats and fell back into the throng in the bleachers, and while the crowd cheered and groaned three Bears trotted around the bases to the plate.

Swanson, running slowly and painfully, crossed the plate, with the score that put the Bears in the lead. He did not stop. Straight toward the box where Edwards and Baldwin sat, he went. His face was terrible. They saw him coming, and Baldwin, apologetic with fear, half arose, as if to cry for help. The gambler, white but still keeping his nerve, shrank back a trifle, but held his seat. Swanson walked straight to them. For an instant he towered over them threateningly, then he said:

"Good afternoon, gentlemen, I hope you're glad to see me."

CHAPTER XIX

Swanson to the Rescue

When Silent Swanson aroused himself from the effects of the blow on the head from the beer mallet in the hands of the treacherous bartender, he sat up feebly and found himself in semi-darkness.

"Someone crowned me with a crowbar," he muttered to himself as his brain gradually began to work normally. "They must have kicked me after I went down."

A faint groan from the heavy shadows near him startled him into a realization of what had happened. He felt around for a moment and his fingers touched the body of a man huddled against a wall.

"It must be Ken—and he's hurt," he muttered, and crept toward his companion. Swanson worked over him, shaking and speaking to him and presently Kennedy stirred and sat up against the wall.

"Where are we? What happened?" he inquired in a bewildered manner.

"Search me," replied Swanson mournfully. "I was just getting ready to swing the haymaker on that big fellow when the house fell. I think someone beaned me from behind with a brick and then kicked us around. Ouch—my ribs feel stoved in."

"I'm sore all over," moaned Kennedy. "That fellow didn't do it all by himself, did he?"

"I have a dim recollection of hearing someone tell him to fix us right," replied Swanson. "I may have dreamed it."

"Let's get out of here," urged Swanson suddenly. "If some watchman finds us here we'll be pinched, and it will make a nice story for the reporters."

"Where do you think we are?" asked Kennedy, striving to get to his feet and groaning with every move.

"In the alley back of the joint we were in," replied Swanson. "They must have dragged us to the back door and dumped us."

He had managed to get upon his feet, assisted Kennedy to arise, and slowly and with many groans they went toward the mouth of the alley.

"Let's go around to the front door and clean out that place," urged Swanson, growing angry.

Both men were commencing to recover from the effects of the cruel treatment they had endured, and, as their injured muscles loosened their anger arose. They made their way painfully around the block and to the entrance of the saloon. It was locked and the place was in total darkness. Swanson shook the barred doors without result, then stood gazing blankly against the glass.

"Say, Ken, we must have been knocked out for quite a while," he remarked thoughtfully. "No one is here. They probably closed up as soon as they threw us out—and we haven't a bit of proof against anyone."

"Wonder what time it is?" groaned Kennedy. "We've got to get to bed if we want to play."

"Holy Mackerel," exclaimed Swanson, using his favorite form of swearing. "I forgot! That's it! Ken, after we were knocked out they beat us to keep us from playing. Come on. We've got to forget about fighting and get ready to play. I'll get even with someone for this."

Swanson was thinking rapidly as they limped slowly along the darkened streets in search of a night prowling cabman or taxi-cab, keeping a sharp lookout for policemen, fearing they might be arrested because of their battered condition.

"We've got to get to somewhere we can be patched up and get some sleep," he repeated, urging Kennedy, whose sufferings made their progress slow. "We've got to keep those crooks from finding out where we are. Let them think they've finished us and then show up in time to play."

"I don't think I can play, Silent," moaned Kennedy. "I can't drag myself much farther."

He was making a brave effort to keep on, and for another block Swanson half supported him. Then he gave up and sat down upon the curbing.

"Sit here," said Swanson quickly. "There is an all-night drug store a couple of blocks down; I'll find a cab there."

He limped away as rapidly as possible, and, almost before Kennedy realized it, he returned in a taxicab.

"Caught him just starting home," explained Swanson, as he half lifted Kennedy into the tonneau. "He says there is a hospital less than a mile from here where we can get treatment."

The bruised and battered players groaned and swore under their breath, while the cab made a rapid trip to the hospital, and half an hour later they were resting easily in a private room, their wounds were being washed and dressed and a young doctor was working hard to relieve their sufferings.

"We've got to play ball this afternoon, Doc," said Swanson, watching the surgeon cut and wash the hair from the wound on his scalp. "Fix us up right."

"You'll not play ball this week," said the surgeon cheerfully. "Your friend over there will be all right in a couple of days. He's badly bruised and his hand is sprained, but not seriously. He's sorer than you are, but by morning you'll be a cripple."

"But, Doc, we've got to play," pleaded Swanson. "You've got to fix us up."

"I'll do all I can," remarked the surgeon. "But your right arm is badly wrenched and bruised. The cuts won't hurt, but one of your eyes will be out of commission for three or four days. Whose mule kicked you?"

Swanson, pledging the doctor to secrecy, revealed part of the truth.

"You won't be able to play," he advised his patients, "and Kennedy must take two days off at least."

"I've got to play, Doc," responded Swanson, "if it's on one leg; I've got to."

It was a few minutes past noon when Swanson awoke with a start. The nurse was in the room, moving about quietly, and Kennedy still slept, moving and muttering in his sleep, as if dreaming of the battle. He remained quiet for a few moments, and then said:

"Nurse, please bring me my clothes."

"You must wait until after breakfast," she said, coming to the bedside. "Dr. Anderson was here a short time ago, and said I was to give you your breakfast when you awoke, then call him."

"But I'm in a hurry," protested the player. "I can't wait. They'll be anxious about us."

"The doctor said he would give you treatment and massage, so that you could get out more quickly," she responded. "I'll bring breakfast and then call him."

Kennedy, feeling much refreshed, but too sore and stiff to move without suffering, was awakened for breakfast, and he and Swanson discussed the situation in low tones as they ate.

It was past one o'clock before Swanson commenced to worry about the failure of the doctor to come. After fuming and fretting for more than half an hour he rang for the nurse and sent her in quest of Dr. Anderson. She returned soon and reported that he had been summoned suddenly to assist in performing an important operation, but that he probably would return soon. Not until two o'clock had passed did Swanson commence to become seriously disturbed at the failure of the doctor to appear. A short nap had refreshed him somewhat, and when Kennedy announced that it was past two o'clock he waited a few moments, then commenced ringing the call bell by his bedside to summon the nurse. There was no response, and growing angry and impatient, he rang again and again.

"If I only had a pair of pants," wailed the helpless giant, "I'd break out."

He climbed out of bed and searched the room. In his impatience he bumped his wounded head, and blood flowed afresh from under the bandages, and with a movement of his arm he smeared it over his face. The giant Swede was working himself into a fury. Every few moments he rang the bell, and a few moments before three o'clock the nurse, calm and appearing as if nothing unusual was happening, came in.

"Did you ring?" she inquired.

Swanson started to explode, but stood looking at her in helpless fury.

"Get me my clothes," he ordered in tones that frightened the girl, trained as she was to the outbursts of patients.

"Get me my clothes," he repeated.

"It is against orders," she said hesitatingly. "You cannot go until the doctor"——

"Get me my clothes," he half screamed. "If my clothes aren't here in five minutes I'm going this way."

The nurse, thoroughly alarmed by the fury of the big man, ran from the room, and, within five minutes she returned with another nurse to support her.

"Where are my clothes?" he demanded in an awful voice.

"It's against orders," said the older nurse firmly. "You cannot leave without permission from the doctor in charge."