Jimmy Kirkland and the Plot for a Pennant

"You've a frightful nerve, Edwards," snarled the angry politician. "Understand, I do not take orders from cheap gamblers."

"You needn't try storming at me," said the gambler quietly. "I'm onto you. You may ring over such a bluff as that in politics, but not with me. You don't seem to understand."

"I don't think you can deliver any votes anyhow," said Baldwin sullenly. "I've nothing but your word for it."

"That's all the security I ever needed," said the gambler superciliously. "But never mind about the votes – you're going to help me."

"I've done all I can" —

"No, you haven't. I want you to go to-morrow morning and join the Bears and I want you to see to it that Williams pitches one of those games against the Blues. He'll lose it this time. I've thrown a scare into him and he'll do it, even if he gives himself away."

"I tell you I can't," snarled Baldwin. "President Bannard is the only one who knows I own the club" —

"Take your stock with you. That proves you own it."

"And Bannard is out of town. Clancy wouldn't pay any attention to me" —

"You own this club," said Edwards. "You can do what you please with it, and you're going to do it."

"You talk as if you owned me!" Baldwin was purple with anger.

"I do," said the gambler coldly. "It would look good in print to have the people know that Barney Baldwin, the crooked politician, owns both the Bears and the Panthers, wouldn't it?"

"You have no proof" —

"Haven't I? I saved both your notes. You're a fool, Baldwin. You write letters. I have two mentioning McCarthy and Williams. I wouldn't have any trouble getting them printed. Any sporting editor in the city would give a thousand dollars for such proof."

"Look here, Ed," expostulated Baldwin, "there isn't any use for us to quarrel. We're both in this thing" —

"Now you're talking sense," said the gambler. "We haven't any time to lose. The club leaves town at 11.30 to-night."

"What do you want me to do?" gasped Baldwin helplessly.

"You're pretty strong with Captain Raferty, of the North Nineteenth Street police, aren't you?"

"Yes – I've done him some favors."

"Well, I want you to fix it with him that when I bring a prisoner in to-night some time he's to be locked downstairs and kept until you telephone to let him loose."

"What are you going to do?" asked Baldwin, alarmed.

"I'm going to do something myself," replied the gambler sharply. "I've tried a lot of you fellows and you've all fallen down. Now I'm going to get this McCarthy and put him out of the way."

"You're taking an awful risk" —

"It's a sure thing the other way, and I'm desperate," the gambler cut him short. "When you get that fixed you catch the first train and follow the team. You get Clancy in the morning and force him to let Williams pitch one of the games down there. Wilcox is worked out now, and if we can make sure Williams will pitch one game, that will force Clancy to pitch Wilcox again, and he'll be beaten sure. With McCarthy out of the game, as he will be, the Bears haven't a chance. They're half a game ahead, but if they lose two out of three and the Panthers win one out of their remaining two games, the Panthers beat them out on percentage, and the Panthers ought to win both games."

"You haven't cornered McCarthy yet?" asked the politician.

"No," admitted Edwards. "He left the hotel nearly two hours ago and said he'd be back before ten o'clock. I have two men watching him, and they're to let me know where he is and what he is doing. I ought to have heard from them before now."

The telephone rang at that instant.

"This is it now," said Edwards in low tones. "Hello!" he said, taking up the receiver. "Yes – you, Jack? All right. You have? Where? All right. I'll join you as fast as I can get there. Don't let him reach the hotel if I'm late – you understand?"

"What do you think of that?" he asked, turning to Baldwin. "Of all the gall – where do you think that fellow McCarthy was?"

"I don't know."

"No wonder Jack had such a hard time locating him. He was at your house."

"I have a taxi waiting downstairs," said Edwards quickly. "Come on, I'll drop you at the police station. We'll bring in the prisoner before you've been there very long."

"How are you going to get him?" inquired Baldwin, as the taxi dodged in and out among traffic.

"I've got Big Jack, the fighter, trailing McCarthy," said the gambler, laughing mirthlessly. "He's sore on ball players since that scrap with Swanson and Kennedy the other night, and he'll welcome a chance to get his hands on one."

"He won't hurt him, will he?" asked Baldwin nervously.

"No, he won't hurt him," replied the gambler with scornful sarcasm. "Not a bit. He'll probably take him in his lap and sing him to sleep."

"This is dangerous business," objected Baldwin nervously. "We might all get into trouble."

"We're all in trouble now," snapped Edwards. "You leave the trouble end of it to me."

The taxi slackened its pace as it approached the police station and Baldwin climbed out under the lights that marked it as the home of the paid guardians of the people's rights and liberties.

"Don't fall down this time," warned the gambler. "If this don't go through, the newspapers will have some fine information to print in the next few days."

"I'll fix it, Ed, I'll frame it all right," replied Baldwin nervously.

The mention of his name and the imposing manner he had assumed won for him immediate entrance to the captain's private room, and after ten minutes of earnest conversation, Baldwin emerged, the gray-haired official with the gilt stars and chevrons escorting him and shaking hands with him at the street door.

"Don't forget, Raferty," said Baldwin importantly. "I want him kept close until I can get the proof we need. Don't let any lawyers or reporters get near him and keep your cops from gossiping. You won't lose anything by it, Raferty. Drop down and see me sometime. I'd like to talk the political situation over with you. You understand?"

Meantime the taxicab, with Edwards inside, had raced across the upper portion of the city to the place where Big Jack was pacing the shadowy part of the sidewalk half a block from Baldwin's home.

"He hasn't come out yet," Jack reported, stepping into the light as the taxi slowed down and crept along near the gutter.

"Jump in," said Edwards. "Run over across the street, and step in the shadow there," he ordered the chauffeur.

"There he comes now, out the gate. Follow him."

Five minutes later McCarthy stepped into the trap laid by the gambler and, ten minutes after he lurched out of the machine, he was carried half unconscious, into the basement door of the police station and deposited roughly upon the bench in the "cozy corner."

CHAPTER XXV

McCarthy Disappears

Silent Swanson was jabbing billiard balls around the table as if venting his irritability upon the innocent spheres of ivory.

"Why so cruel to the relics of departed generations of ball players?" inquired Kennedy, who was cuddled up in cushioned settee watching.

"Waiting for Kohinoor."

"Where has he gone?" inquired Kennedy carelessly.

"Skirting again," explained Swanson. "He ought to be back before long," added Swanson, jabbing the balls harder and stopping to look at his watch. "It's five past ten now, and he said he'd cut the call short."

"Think any sane guy would quit a pretty girl to spend an evening with you?" inquired Kennedy insultingly, having decided to wile away the time by ragging his big teammate.

"I've a hunch something is wrong with Kohinoor," said Swanson. "He told me he'd break away early and shoot me some billiards before train time. He didn't say just when, but I expected him back by ten."

"Why don't you sue him for divorce if he neglects you?" suggested Kennedy, again seeking to start an argument.

Swanson consulted his watch with gloomy foreboding and declined to engage in repartee.

"Better come drag along down to the train," suggested Kennedy. "I'll buy the gas wagon to haul us. Your little playmate is safe enough."

"I'll hang around here," replied Swanson without spirit.

"All right," Kennedy remarked, rising and stretching himself. "I'm going to dig along and get into the hay before that old rattler starts. I want some sleep. Most of the fellows already have gone."

Swanson resumed his gloomy pastime of making fancy shots on the billiard table. When he looked at his watch again it marked ten-thirty.

He strolled upstairs to the lobby, scanned the writing room and smoking rooms for a sign of McCarthy and then, with a sudden anxiety, he hurried to the telephone and called the Baldwin residence number.

"Is this Miss Baldwin speaking?" he inquired, using his off-the-field manner.

"Is my friend, Mr. McCarthy, there?" he inquired when she responded in the affirmative. "I was to meet him, and he has not appeared."

"Hasn't he arrived at the hotel?" he girl inquired in quick alarm. "He left here more than three-quarters of an hour ago. Has something happened to him?"

"I don't know, miss," said Swanson. "I got anxious waiting for him – You're sure he left your house that long ago?"

"About that – I'm not certain," she said. "He was only here a short time."

"I expect he had to wait for a car, or else went straight to the station without stopping here," said Swanson, striving to quiet the evident alarm of the girl, although his own misgivings were growing. "He left the house alone, did he?"

"Who are you? Are you a friend of his?" asked the girl anxiously.

"Yes, I'm Swanson, his chum," replied the shortstop. "You needn't worry, miss, he'll be all right. I'm sorry I worried you about it."

He hung up the receiver and made a hasty tour of the hotel, descended to the billiard room, peeped into the bar and hurried through the writing and lounging rooms.

"Five after eleven," he muttered to himself, as he turned from the desk. "Kohinoor has found he was late and stayed on the car to the station. I'll grab a taxi and hurry down."

"If he comes in tell him I've gone," he called to the clerk as he hurried out.

A quarter of an hour later Swanson hurried into the great train shed where the train was waiting to bear the Bears on their final trip of the season. Most of the athletes already had sought their berths to attempt to get to sleep before the train started, as the ride was a short one and the hours of sleep too few.

"Kohinoor down yet?" asked Swanson in a low tone, as he came near the trainer.

"Haven't seen him," replied the trainer. "I put his baggage in his berth. There's a card game in the smoking room, maybe he's in there."

"I'll watch for him at the gate," said Swanson, "he may turn up yet."

Worried and alarmed, Swanson swung back along the train and took his stand where he could watch the entrances to the station and the great clock at the same time. Three minutes remained before time for the train to start. There was a flurry in the crowd at the gates, and a man broke through to race for the train. Swanson's heart leaped. He started to meet the newcomer, then, with a sickening feeling, he saw that it was not McCarthy, but Williams.

"Seen Kohinoor?" inquired Swanson, as Williams hurried past.

"Not since dinner. Isn't he here?" inquired Williams, stopping and dropping his grip.

"Haven't seen him," replied Swanson, watching Williams closely for symptoms of guilt, and finding none.

"I expected it," said Williams nastily. "Maybe that story about him trying to throw games is straight after all."

"That's what a lot of them will say if he don't show up to-morrow," reflected Swanson.

The warning cry of all aboard sounded. The big shortstop hesitated an instant, and gave a despairing glance toward the gates, just being closed.

"It won't do for both of us to miss this game," he muttered as he turned and ran along the platform. The porter was just closing the vestibule doors and the train was gathering speed as the big shortstop swung aboard, went into the now deserted smoking room and sank down, staring blankly out of the window at the rushing lights.

Before the train reached the city of the Blues the news that McCarthy was missing had spread through the car of the Bears. The consternation that followed the rumor grew as the berths were made up and it became a certainty that the third baseman was not with the team. Swanson had informed Manager Clancy early in the morning of the events of the preceding evening so far as he knew them. They had not told anyone, but every member of the team knew, and they gathered in little groups. Williams was circulating around the car, talking with different players.

"Look at him," said Swanson to Clancy. "He hates McCarthy and he was the one who told them first that Kohinoor was not with us. He guessed it when I asked him last night if he had seen him."

"It's queer," the voice of Pardridge came from the berth behind them. "It's a funny thing that all this sort of trouble in the team started when that red-headed tramp joined us."

"They'll all be talking that way," said Swanson gloomily. "They wait for a chance to knock."

"Something may have happened to delay him," said the manager in tones that showed he did not believe his own hopeful words. "Maybe he went to the wrong station, or had an accident. Have you looked at the papers?"

"Yes. Nothing in them about any accident. I'm still hoping he'll be in at noon, catching that early morning train."

"I hope for a telegram from him anyway, when we get to the hotel," replied the manager.

But McCarthy did not show up, nor was there any telegram from him awaiting when the team reached their hotel.

CHAPTER XXVI

Baldwin Shows His Hand

"There's a swarm of reporters down in the lobby all excited over McCarthy," announced Swanson as, in obedience to orders, he, with Kennedy, Norton and Technicalities Feehan, gathered in Clancy's room soon after breakfast.

"Let them wait," replied Clancy. "They've been calling up here every five minutes."

Briefly each of the players recounted the little they had seen or heard during the preceding evening, Swanson giving his account of his engagement with McCarthy, his telephone conversation with Miss Baldwin, of her evident sincerity when she informed him as to McCarthy's departure from the house and of his vain wait.

"But what could have happened?" asked Kennedy. "You're sure he got out of the house? It's only two blocks to the street car line and three to the elevated on lighted streets, you say. If he was hit by an automobile or held up by robbers it would have been in the newspapers."

"Manager Clancy," said Feehan softly from his perch upon a trunk, which gave him the aspect of a huge owl, "I have been giving consideration to a plan. Unless Mr. McCarthy should arrive on the 11.45 train I shall catch the noonday express for home, arriving there shortly after five, to put my plan into effect."

"But you cannot neglect your work, Feehan," protested the manager. "It's fine of you to offer it, but you've got yourself to think of."

"I have a premonition," responded the reporter solemnly, "or what Mr. Swanson so graphically expresses as a 'hunch,' that the story at the other end is bigger than the story of the contest. Besides, Mr. Hardner has kindly consented to report the game of to-day for my paper as well as his own."

"What's your theory, Technicalities?" asked Clancy gratefully.

"Only one of two things are probable," explained Feehan. "Either McCarthy left of his own accord or because of threats made to him or else he has been kidnapped by certain – ah – interests, let us say, desirous of preventing the Bears from winning the championship emblem."

"Ah, Kohinoor wouldn't quit, and they couldn't scare him," growled Swanson.

"Precisely, Mr. Swanson. The statistics prove beyond doubt that he is not concerned in the losing of games, putting aside the fact that the young man undoubtedly is honest and sincere. That leaves us only one premise, the other having been found untenable. Mr. McCarthy has been kidnapped."

"I can't figure how they could take him in a public street or from a street car," interposed Clancy.

"I have calculated that," said the reporter. "Either he is in the Baldwin home and Miss Baldwin ah – er – falsified or he was attacked between her uncle's home and the street car line two and one-half blocks distant."

"How do you propose finding him?" asked Clancy.

"I shall arrive at 5.11," replied the peculiar little man of news quietly. "Before six o'clock I shall have one of the best detective agencies in the world scouring the city."

The train came steaming into the station on time and the shortstop and the reporter crowded closer to the gates, watching the stream of hurrying passengers rushing through the narrow gates and spreading, fan-like, across the great floor. Suddenly Swanson's elbow jarred against the reporter's body, causing the frail statistician to wince.

"Look there!" said Swanson in excited whispers.

"Where – who?" inquired Feehan, striving to focus his heavy glasses upon the position indicated by his companion.

"It's Baldwin – the big fellow with the cane and the small satchel. See him?"

"I see a big man. I never saw Baldwin," responded the reporter. "Now, what can he be doing over here?"

"I'm going to find out," replied Swanson, his jaw setting pugnaciously. "McCarthy isn't on that train or he'd have been out among the first, and they're almost all out now. Good luck to you, Feehan, and wire me the minute you locate Kohinoor."

"I will," promised the reporter. "What you've got to do is to win that game to-day without him. I'll have him here to-morrow if he hasn't broken a leg."

Swanson leaped into the taxi immediately behind that into which he had seen Baldwin climb, and ordered the driver to follow the other vehicle. His surprise hardly could have been greater than when the short pursuit of Baldwin ended at the hotel from which he had come, unless it was that which came over him when, upon following the big man to the desk, he heard Baldwin order the clerk to send his card to Manager Clancy.

Swanson's surprise, however, was little more than that experienced by Manager Clancy when the bell boy delivered Baldwin's card.

"Send him right up," he said, and as the boy turned he said to himself: "Now, what the dickens does that fellow want with me?"

Baldwin entered the room pompously, and walked toward the Bears' manager with his pudgy hand extended.

"Ah, Clancy," he said patronizingly. "I'm Mr. Baldwin. I've seen you often on the field, but never had the occasion to meet you before."

"Yes," replied Clancy, ignoring the hand, "I've heard of you often, Baldwin, in various connections. You wanted to see me?"

"Yes; matter of business," said the big man. "Fact is, Clancy, I ran over from home purposely to have a little confidential talk with you."

"Depends upon what it is whether it's confidential or not," said Clancy; "I can't pledge myself not to tell the newspaper boys, especially if you've come to give me a third baseman."

"Hasn't McCarthy shown up?" inquired the politician quickly.

"No," responded Clancy coldly. "Didn't happen to see him over in town, did you?"

"No, no. Fact is, Clancy, I never have paid much attention to my ball players."

"Your ball players?" It was Clancy's turn to be astonished.

"Yes, yes; Clancy, I supposed you knew. I've owned the controlling interest in the Bears for a number of years. That's what I came to see you about."

"You own the Bears?" Clancy's tone was between surprise and disbelief.

"Certainly, certainly. Now, I haven't taken any active interest in them for several reasons until lately. Truth is things aren't going to suit me, and I have decided to take a hand myself."

"You have?" asked Clancy. "Well, you may own this club, but I'm d – d if you can run it while I'm manager."

"I'm not trying to run it, Clancy," replied the big man, unruffled. "Don't fly off that way. I just decided to use the owner's prerogative of consulting the manager."

"All right, Mr. Baldwin," replied Clancy, puzzled and mollified. "I did not know – you see it's a new idea – I didn't even know you owned stock."

Clancy was sparring for time in which to collect his thoughts, which were sadly scattered by the unexpected developments.

"Thought you might not be convinced," said Baldwin easily, "so I brought the documents along. Look over them and be convinced I own the club. They cost me a pretty neat pile, but I'm satisfied. You've made 'em pay me."

He tossed over the book of stock certificates, and Clancy, who owned a few shares of stock himself, realized their genuineness as he looked through them while planning his next move.

"I congratulate you," he said, handing back the forms. "I own a couple myself, so I know what they pay. Well, what have you to suggest, Mr. Baldwin? We're having a hard time winning this race, and if I seemed curt, blame it on worries. I have plenty."

"Naturally we all want to win," said Baldwin pompously. "Now, as to behavior, I'm told Swanson and Kennedy aren't behaving themselves."

"They're all right," argued Clancy, feeling from Baldwin's tone that he had not yet reached the point.

"I heard they had a fight in a barroom." Baldwin spoke with an effort of sternness. "That won't do, Clancy. And now McCarthy is missing. Then there's another thing."

Baldwin hesitated as if thinking how best to state his case, and Clancy eyed him closely, feeling that the real object of the interview was coming, "I'm not at all pleased with the way you are working your pitchers."

"A fellow makes blunders sometimes," replied Clancy, with a meekness astounding in him.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," went on Baldwin blandly. "Who do you propose pitching to-day and to-morrow?"

In a flash Clancy understood. It was Baldwin who had been urging Bannard to have Williams pitch. He saw through Baldwin's motives and planned quickly how to meet them.

"Well," he said, frowning as if worried, "it's a tough game. You see, the fans never forgive a fellow if he guesses wrong at this time in a race. I planned to use Williams in one game and Morgan the other. You see the Blues hit right-handers harder than they do left-handers."

"So I understand," a gleam of cunning and triumph came into the eyes of the politician. "Morgan and Williams ought to beat them, I think."

"Yes, they ought – I'm a little afraid of Morgan." Clancy was drawing the owner out. "He hasn't shown speed in his last two games."

"Then Williams is in fine form?" The triumph and satisfaction in the big man's voice were unmistakable.

"He's good," replied Clancy. "He ought to best them sure."

"Will you pitch him to-day or to-morrow?" asked Baldwin, completely thrown off his guard. "I'm anxious to make certain he will pitch."

"Of course he'll pitch, Mr. Baldwin," replied the manager. "I've got to pitch him and he's my best man."

"All right, Clancy, all right," said the owner genially. "I'm glad I had this conference with you. I was afraid you were angry with Williams or something and would not let him work. Glad to see you have good judgment."

He went out and as the door closed he removed his hat, and, wiping his brow, smiled a smile of great relief over the fact that his purpose had been accomplished without trouble. Had he been able to see through the door he would have seen Clancy, the veins of his neck standing out purple, his face convulsed with rage, standing, shaking his fist toward the door and muttering:

"Yes, I'll pitch Williams. I'll pitch Williams, and by – he'll win."

CHAPTER XXVII

Searching

Betty Tabor had remained at the hotel in the home town with Mrs. Clancy when the Bears went to play their two-game series with the Blues.

Mrs. Clancy had refused positively to engage in any baseball conversation or to debate with Miss Tabor the chances of the Bears winning the championship.

"Heavens knows it's hard enough to be married to a baseball man," she said as she bit a thread, "him makin' base hits in his sleep and worrying the little hair he has left off his head, without havin' a girl that ought to be thinkin' of dresses and hats wantin' to din baseball into my ears all day. My dear, never marry a ball player."