Jimmy Kirkland and the Plot for a Pennant

"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.