Jimmy Kirkland and the Plot for a Pennant

There was no time for questionings.

"Hurry, McCarthy," said Cramer. "There is an automobile outside waiting to take you to the station. You have about a quarter of an hour to catch the train."

McCarthy, with a word of thanks, hastened through the station, leaped down the steps with an agility that proved his injuries did not affect his speed, and sprang to the car.

The morning sun was just commencing to reach down into the cavern of the street into which the car leaped, and it shone directly in their eyes. The car lurched around a corner and swung into the avenue for the race to the station. At that instant the girl's veil flapped back, revealing her face.

"Betty!" exclaimed McCarthy. "You" —

"You didn't know me?" she asked as she steadied the car and increased its pace over the smooth asphalt.

"Why are you here? What are you doing?" he asked in astonishment.

"I had to come," she replied swiftly. "There was no one else. We must catch the train. Don't talk, please."

He leaned back wearily and watched the street as it seemed to flow past them.

"How much time have we?" he asked above the roaring of the wind.

"The train leaves at 6.35," she called back, without lifting her eyes. "Watch for clocks."

She had increased the speed gradually and the light car jumped as it struck a cross-town street-car track. Suddenly the car jolted, slid to a quick stop and with an exclamation of despair the girl strove to reverse and killed the engine.

"The street is closed below," she said. "Crank up, the engine is dead."

McCarthy leaped from the car and cranked rapidly. A precious minute was lost before the engine throbbed and the girl, turning the car quickly, ran back a block, swung across to a side street and raced for the station.

"The captain of the bell boys is waiting with the tickets. I sent him before I left the hotel," she said without lifting her eyes. "Jump from the car the moment I stop. He'll meet you at the gate."

"Two minutes – can we make it?" he asked.

"We'll try." Her face was set and white. She whirled the corner of the avenue onto the side street at full speed. A block and a half away was the station. The car was at racing speed now. The girl kept the siren screaming, hoping for a clear way. They tore toward the intersection of the streets – and directly ahead a lumbering team of horses, drawing a heavy wagon, trundled across their path. With a sudden swerve, a grinding of the emergency and a sickening lurch, the car checked its mad flight, scraped past the rear of the wagon, and gathering speed renewed the race against time.

"Goodbye," he said, leaning suddenly inward as the car commenced to lose momentum. "When I come back" —

"Hurry, hurry," she pleaded. "Run" —

He leaped before the car stopped and, with one glance back toward her, sprinted down the long passageway.

The gate was closing. He cried aloud, and ran faster. The gate clanged. A boy in uniform ran to him and shoved tickets into his hands as they ran side by side.

"Open it! Let me through!" he screamed at the gateman, just starting to lock the gate.

McCarthy was sprinting desperately in pursuit of the train already half way down the long train shed. He ran until his heart pounded audibly against his ribs, straining every muscle, and crying for the train to stop. Faster and faster it went, and, near the end of the station, McCarthy realized he had lost the race and, stopping, he stood dejectedly looking after the rapidly disappearing observation car.

The gateman let him out with a sympathetic word, but he did not raise his head. He knew that, 235 miles away, twenty men were hoping for his arrival. He would hire a special train. He whirled at the thought – and then remembered he was without money.

He felt a hand touch his arm and, turning quickly, he saw Betty Tabor.

"I missed it," he said, hopelessly.

"I know, I know," she responded quickly. "The boy who had the tickets told me. There is no time to lose. I have a plan."

"A special train?" he asked. "I have no money."

"The auto," she replied quickly. "I will drive it. I've driven it hundreds of miles" —

"Betty," he expostulated, using her name unconsciously. "You cannot – maybe we can find a driver."

"I can and I will," she said decisively; "it is only 235 miles. We have eight hours. We can make it. The car is fast and easy to handle."

Still arguing, she led him back to the car, and they rode quickly back to the hotel over part of the route they had traversed during their wild flight. They breakfasted while the car was being prepared for the run, studying road maps while they ate.

"Betty, how can I ever thank you," he said, leaning forward over the table.

"By calling me Miss Tabor and winning the game to-day," she said, coolly, without looking up from the maps.

"The car is ready," the head waiter announced. "A good trip to you, Miss Tabor."

"You have a good driver, McCarthy," said the manager, who alone knew the object of the trip. "She handles that car better than I do. I have given her permission to tear it to pieces to get you through."

The start was undramatic. The car rolled easily along to the drive and presently was lifting and dropping over the hills of the splendid speedway. A gentle breeze from the river fanned them as they rushed through it.

In five minutes they were clear of the congested traffic on the bridge and the car, gathering speed, rushed into the hills on the opposite side of the river. Five minutes later the car was quivering with its increasing speed and McCarthy, looking at the gauge, saw that it registered forty-seven miles, and was still sliding forward. Fourteen miles across the rolling plateau the car raced with sustained speed, the engine humming in perfect tune and only the heavier vibration of the tires attesting the speed. At slower pace the car climbed among the ridge of hills that had been rising ahead, and after five miles of rougher going it turned into the old stage road.

"It's five minutes past nine," said the girl, "and we've done more than forty miles already. The next forty is good and we'll try to gain time."

"We ought to make it easily," he responded brightly. "You're a heroine."

"I do not know what the roads are beyond Hedgeport," she interrupted anxiously. "It is hill country. It rained two days ago."

She had steadily increased the speed again until the indicator kept constantly around the forty-five mile mark. The speed was terrific and made conversation almost impossible.

"Hadn't you better rest? You must be tired," he screamed above the noise of the car.

"Arms are cramped," she replied, without lifting her eyes from the road ahead. "We'll take gas at Hedgeport and walk around. We will lunch somewhere near Hilton. We'll be over the worst of the road then."

"I wish I could help you," called McCarthy, after a long silence.

She shook her head, and, after the car had throbbed up the next incline and was sailing, hawklike, down the opposite side, she said:

"You'll need your strength for the game. There's Hedgeport now."

Before them, set on the hillside, lay the little city. It seemed as if the houses grew by magic as they rushed upon it. They flashed past a few market wagons, passed another auto chugging along busily, and slackened the pace as the car rolled upon the brick pavements and toward the heart of the city.

"A hundred and thirty-one miles in a little over three hours," said McCarthy, elated. "That leaves us one hundred and four miles and more than four hours to make it in. We've won."

"The road has been perfect," Betty Tabor said. "For the next fifty miles it is marked bad."

She turned quietly to ask questions of the mechanician, who was overhauling and examining every part of the machine, and examining the feed pipes. Another man was filling the tanks and using oil plentifully.

"My hands and wrists are cramped and numb," she remarked, turning to McCarthy.

"Let the man drive the rest of the way. He knows the road," he urged.

"And leave me – to miss the game?" she asked. "Not much. Rub my hands, please."

She extended her strong, firm hand and McCarthy, bending over it, massaged and slapped it vigorously.

"Don't break it, please," she said, laughing. "Take the other one."

"Both," he whispered, his voice full of meaning.

"All ready," announced the garage keeper. "I think she'll stand it now."

"It's 11.10," said McCarthy. "If we get there by three."

"If we get there at all," she said, "even if you are late, you can get into the game."

For five miles they sped along over perfect roads, then suddenly a long stretch of new macadam loomed ahead. For three miles they lurched and struggled, and were free again, but the road was heavy and slow. Up hill and down they fought the road, at times slipping, lurching and skidding while the girl coaxed the car onward. The road grew worse and worse. The hills were steeper. The rain-guttered mud at times almost stalled the car.

"Twenty miles in an hour and ten minutes," groaned McCarthy. "This won't do."

The next hour was even worse. The girl was showing signs of weariness and the strain of holding the machine in the rough going. Three miles of good road across a hill-top plateau raised their courage, then they encountered sand.

It was twenty minutes to two o'clock, when, mud splattered, they raced into Hilton, with the car missing fire in one cylinder, the engine smoking and gasoline almost exhausted.

McCarthy almost lifted Betty Tabor from the car as they stopped at the garage and she gave rapid directions to the manager, explaining the need of haste.

"I'm afraid the car won't get you through," he said, "but we'll try."

"Have it ready at two o'clock," she ordered quickly. "We must get through somehow."

"It's thirty-four miles," he said. "But the roads are fair. If the car was in shape it would be easy."

"We'll eat lunch while you overhaul it," she replied.

McCarthy secured the lunch from the car and they spread it upon the grass in the yard and ate. The girl was too weary for conversation, but as she ate she seemed to gain strength and courage.

"We'll get there before the game is over, anyhow," she said quietly. "I want to see Williams's face when you come onto the field."

"I thought you and he" —

"I never have liked him," she interrupted quickly.

Three minutes before the town clock chimed the hour of two in Hilton, the machine, again running smoothly, shot out from the garage. Its occupants, refreshed and more cheerful, faced the final stretch of the long race.

"Fourteen miles in twenty-one minutes," cried McCarthy, as the mile posts flashed by. "We'll be there."

Ten minutes later the smoke haze that hangs eternally over the great city of the Blues was visible. The country homes along the road over which they sped were closer and closer together.

"Only ten more miles," McCarthy shouted triumphantly.

"We can cut across to the west here," she said as she swung the car into an avenue. "This goes near the ball park and we'll save three miles."

"Hurray," he shouted. "Then it's only seven miles."

The girl did not reply. She was weary and her fair face showed haggard lines. Their progress became slower, although two or three times policemen turned to watch them, as if to interfere.

The grandstand was close now. The steady roar of the huge crowd inside pulsed and beat upon them. A bell rang.

"That's either game time or last fielding practice," screamed McCarthy. "Hurry, please, hurry."

The car suddenly swung out of the line, sent a swarm of pedestrians scurrying, and jarred to a stop at the entrance marked "Players."

"Betty," said McCarthy, as he started to lift her from the car —

"Hurry," she said, faint from weariness and the reaction. "You must dress."

He ran stiffly toward the dressing room under the stand. Bill Tascott, the umpire, was just starting toward the field.

"McCarthy!" he exclaimed at sight of the specter covered with mud and with cut and bruised features.

"Bill, don't start the game yet," panted McCarthy beseechingly. "Wait till I dress. Please tell Clancy I'm here."

"I'll tell him. I'll delay the game. Can you play?" said the umpire rapidly.

"Yes – give me time to dress."

Jack, the trainer, quiet after his first outburst of surprise, was preparing the hot shower and working like mad over the weary player and when Clancy, summoned by a quiet word from the umpire, rushed into the player's room, McCarthy was sighing luxuriously as the trainer soaked his weary, cramped limbs with witch hazel.

"Hurry, Jack," ordered Clancy as he squeezed McCarthy's hands. "I knew you'd come, Kohinoor."

"Am I in time?" asked the player. "Get my uniform out, please."

"Just in time. Good old Bill Tascott is delaying the game. You ought to see him raising cain over his mask being lost. He hid it in our bench and is accusing the Blues of stealing it. He won't start the game until you are ready."

In five minutes they rushed him toward the little gate by which the players enter the field from under the stands, just in time to hear Bill Tascott announce:

"Batteries for to-day's game – Wiley and Kirkpatrick for the Blues; Williams and Kennedy for the Bears." He glanced toward the group emerging from under the stands and his voice rang with gladness as he yelled, in louder tones:

"McCarthy will play third base."

CHAPTER XXXI

The Plotters Foiled

The gasp of astonishment with which the crowd greeted the announcement that Williams would pitch gave way quickly to a cry of surprise that rose to a roar of applause when Bill Tascott announced that McCarthy would play third base.

He walked slowly out toward third base, the huge arm of Swanson, who with a bellow of gladness had raced to meet and embrace him, around his shoulders, while the great crowd stood and howled with excitement and hummed with curiosity as to the explanation of his reappearance. Had Clancy tricked the Blues and produced his third baseman at the dramatic instant, hoping to unnerve them? Had McCarthy been hurt? A thousand conjectures and questions flashed around the field.

The announcement by Bill Tascott was a double shock to two persons sitting in one of the front boxes near the Bears' bench. Barney Baldwin brought his fat hand down with a thump upon the shoulders of the rat-faced, cold-eyed man who sat next to him, and shouted, "I told you so!"

Easy Ed Edwards, paler than usual, turned angrily toward the politician, restrained himself, and resumed his steady scrutiny of the field. When the umpire announced McCarthy playing third, Baldwin, in his astonishment, half arose and Edwards started quickly.

"Sit down, you fool," he said sharply. "We're in enough trouble without you giving us away. Clancy was watching us from the bench. They're wise to you."

"To me!" ejaculated Baldwin. "I like your nerve" —

"You're the only one they can connect with McCarthy's – accident," he said coldly. "There'll be h – to pay at home."

McCarthy's head was bandaged afresh, strips of court-plaster decorated his face, and even from the stands the black bruises around his eyes were visible.

Nearly forty thousand persons were watching, unaware of the full meaning of the complex drama they were witnessing. McCarthy was so astonished at hearing that Williams was pitching that he turned to Swanson.

"What does it mean, Silent?" he asked anxiously.

"Clancy made him pitch," whispered Swanson rapidly as they went toward the bench. "He has had him locked in his room all day and Williams is scared stiff. Look at him."

The pitcher was white to the mouth, and he licked his lips nervously as if in a fever, as he sat during the first inning while his own team endeavored to make a run. Clancy, his face hard, sat next to him, terrible in his rigidity.

Three of the Bears retired in rapid order and the team raced for the field. A roar of applause greeted them, and as McCarthy ran along in front of the stands, the applause followed him like a wave. It was clear some hint of the truth was spreading through the crowd. Williams hung back when the team started for the field.

"I can't, Bill. Oh, God, I can't," he wailed. "Please" —

"Get out there and pitch! Pitch whatever Kennedy signals for, and if you don't" —

"I'll try, Bill. But if" —

"There are no ifs," snarled the manager, half rising.

Williams walked to his position, a glare of terror in his eyes, as if he contemplated flight. He was wild and erratic at the start. Two balls sailed wide from the plate, and Swanson ran to him.

"Get that next one over or I'll signal Clancy," he said.

Williams put every ounce of power into his throwing arm, and the ball cut the heart of the plate, jumping.

"The old hop on it!" yelled McCarthy. "That's pitching, Adonis; that's pitching."

Williams stood staring toward him as if dumfounded. A grateful look came into his eyes.

"Now the old hook, Adonis," yelled McCarthy. "Something on every one to-day, remember!"

An outburst of cheering arose from the crowd. Those who had heard or read the stories and rumors of the enmity between the two thought they recognized the magnanimity of the third baseman and admired him. Another strike whizzed over the plate, and a fast ball hopped while the batter swung. The strike out was greeted with a howl of applause. Williams glanced toward the stands. His eyes met those of Edwards fixed upon him, and his nerve broke. He pitched without looking to see what Kennedy signaled, and "Sacred" White, the center fielder of the Blues, drove the ball to left center for three bases. Kennedy gave a quick glance at Clancy, who sat staring straight ahead. Swanson rushed upon Williams, who, trembling with fear, waved him back. He pitched desperately, but Wertheim hit a long fly to center and "Sacred" White scampered home.

"I didn't do it, Bill. Honestly, I didn't," pleaded Williams, as he returned to the bench and resumed his seat next to the manager.

"Williams," said Clancy coldly, "you pitched without a signal. I've got men in the stands to pass circulars telling exactly what you have done. If that happens again I'll signal them, and when the crowd gets you, may the Lord have mercy" —

"I'll pitch – I was trying," begged the pitcher. "Don't turn the crowd loose on me. They'll kill me."

"Then win," ordered Clancy.

The fifth came with the score 1 to 0 and Wiley pitching at his best. Williams had lost some of his nervousness. Either he had made up his mind to betray Edwards, and strive to win, or he was pitching, as he thought, for his life. His fast ball was cutting the plate, and even when the Blues hit it they popped the ball into the air for easy outs. The last half of the fifth started. Williams, glancing toward the stand as he walked out to the slab, saw Edwards. Edwards made a quick signal with his hand and turned his face away. Williams went to the slab entirely unnerved. He was wild, and a base on balls gave the Blues another opening. Instantly Swanson charged upon him and renewed his threats, and Williams, after pitching two more balls wild, got one over the plate, and Henderson sacrificed, putting Hickman on second. Kirkpatrick drove a hard bounder at Norton, who fumbled, recovered, threw wild and Malone scored.

McCarthy was feeling deadly weary. The racking ride in the automobile, the injuries received at the hands of Edwards and his prize-fighter employe, the loss of sleep and the anxiety, added to the strain of the game, had sapped his youthful vitality. Williams, under the dire threats of Clancy, Kennedy and Swanson, was pitching steadily. He was inspired now by a new hope: That he might lose the game and not be blamed for defeat and at the same time escape the vengeance of Edwards by pretending he lost it purposely.

"We ought to get at him this time, boys," called Swanson, as the Bears opened their eighth inning. "We've got to. Look out there – at the score board – the Panthers are winning, 4 to 1, and it means the pennant."

Suddenly Noisy Norton, the silent man, sprang to his feet and rushed to the coaching lines.

"Wow! Little of the old pep, boys!" he yelled.

"Whoop! We've got it won now. Noisy is coaching. Come on, boys – get at them!" yelled Swanson.

Out by first base, Norton, who had never been on the coaching lines in the five years he had played with the Bears, was ranting and screaming like a wild man. The spirit of the thing came over the Bears. Kennedy, rushing to the bat, cracked the first ball that Wiley pitched to center for a single. A moment later little McBeth, who had been fretting his soul out on the bench for three months, leaped toward the bat like a hound unleashed. He never had played in a major league game before, and Wiley teased him into swinging at two slow twisters, then attempted to waste a curve high and outside the plate. The boy, his teeth set, waded into the ball, drove it over third for a base hit, and, with runners on first and third, Swanson came rushing up and drove a line single to left that scored Kennedy and sent the speedy little McBeth scurrying around to third.

McCarthy was coming to bat. He swung two bats, testing their weight, and walked toward the plate. The excitement of the rally had revived his waning strength and stirred his jaded nerves. Swanson signaled his intention to steal on the first ball pitched. McCarthy crouched, and as the ball came he swung viciously at it, not intending to hit it, but to give Swanson the advantage by hampering the catcher. The strike was wasted, as the catcher, knowing the speed of McBeth, bluffed at throwing, and held the ball, hoping to lure the substitute off third base and let Swanson reach second without trouble.

The next ball McCarthy fouled against the stands for a second strike. A great dread came over him as he heard the roar of the crowd. He turned to watch the Blue's catcher recover the ball, and at that instant he saw the face of Betty Tabor, strained, white, beseeching, as the girl, still mud-splattered and stained from the long race, leaned forward. Her face revealed all the hopes and fears that surged within her. As McCarthy's heart leaped with grim resolve he saw another face that caused him to step back out of the batter's box and, while pretending to rub dirt upon his hands, to glance again.

James Lawrence, his uncle and guardian, was sitting in the box next to that in which Betty Tabor was voicelessly beseeching him to win the game.

"Hit it, Larry – hit it!"

The sound of the name called by the familiar voice, the sight of the agony in the girl's face, spurred him to desperation. He delayed, wiped his hands carefully, stepped into position and waited. Wiley wound up. A fast curve flashed toward the plate. McCarthy took one step forward, snapped his bat against the ball. The Blues' third baseman leaped wildly, stuck up one hand, the ball went on, struck two feet inside the foul line, and before it ceased rolling around the stands two runs were across the plate. McCarthy was on third, and the Bears were in the lead.

The inning ended with McCarthy still on third, and the score 3 to 2 in favor of the Bears.

Wilcox, who had been kept warmed up during the entire game, ready to rush to the slab if Williams weakened, went in to pitch and held the Blues in the eighth, and in their ninth the Bears drew a blank.

McCarthy knew he was very weary. Only by his will power did he make his tired, aching limbs obey his brain. He ached in every muscle, and his brain seemed dulled. Gallagher hit a long fly to Pardridge. Swanson was still shouting, urging Wilcox to cinch the victory, encouraging, leading, fighting with every nerve for the victory. Henderson drove a two-base hit to center field, and Swanson redoubled his efforts to brace the team against a rally that might rob them of their victory. Kirkpatrick, a dangerous hitter at any time, drove a fast bounder at Norton. The little second baseman set himself for the ball. It took a bad bounce, struck his wrist and rolled away only a few feet. He was after it in an instant, but he knew that Kirkpatrick's terrific speed would get him to first ahead of the ball. As Norton's fingers gripped the ball he thought of another play. Henderson would go to third on the fumble, turn the base, look to see where the ball was, and if it had broken through the infield far enough, he would try to score. For an instant, Norton knew, the runner would halt, undecided, six feet from third, and if the ball was there – Without looking, Norton hurled the ball toward third. McCarthy saw it coming. He realized the play that Norton had attempted to make to save the day. He grabbed the ball and dived desperately between the runner and the bag. Henderson, trapped, leaped back toward the base, feet first. McCarthy felt the shock of the collision, felt the spikes bite into his arm, and he held his ground, blocking the runner away. He heard Bill Tascott's cry of "Out!" and, dazed, hurt and dizzy, he arose slowly and tossed the ball back to Wilcox. Trentman, the great pinch hitter of the Blues, was sent in to attempt to snatch victory from defeat. Twice he drove fierce line fouls past third base, then he lifted a high foul and, as the ball settled into Kennedy's mitt, McCarthy swayed upon his feet.