Jimmy Kirkland and the Plot for a Pennant

The Jackrabbits had figured cunningly that McCarthy would be unnerved by the strain of the situation, and "Hooks" O'Leary, the manager, had ordered that the attack be directed upon him. The first batter pushed a slow, twisting bounder down the third-base line and McCarthy, racing forward, scooped the ball with one hand and still running, snapped it underhand to first base ten feet ahead of the runner. He knew that his feat was mere bravado and that he had taken a reckless and useless chance, but the crowd needed no further convincing, but broke into a crashing testimonial of applause, and he knew he was safe so far as their confidence in him was involved.

The game developed into a panic, then the rout of the Rabbits and the triumphant Bears rushed to victory by a score of 11 to 2. And, while they were winning, the Panthers won one game by a wide margin and lost the second after a fierce pitcher's duel, 2 to 1, leaving the Bears a full game in the lead of the pennant race, with but five games to play, while the Panthers played four.

"The place to contradict baseball stories," remarked Clancy, grimly, in the club house, as the players were dressing after the victory, "is on the ball field. If we had lost to-day we would have been a bunch of crooks, but as we won, we're all honest."

He glanced quickly toward where Williams was dressing, but the pitcher kept his eyes averted and seemed not to hear the remark.

"And Kohinoor," the manager added, "I give it to you for nerve in pulling off that circus stuff in the first inning. But if you do it again it'll cost you a bunch of your salary."

McCarthy found a note in his key box when he returned to the hotel. He had torn it open to read when Miss Betty Tabor, who had returned from the grounds with Mrs. Clancy, came laughing and almost dancing across the lobby toward the group of players, leaving her portly, but no less elated companion, to pant along behind her.

"Oh, it was glorious, boys!" she said. "I never was so excited in my life as when you made those four runs in the third inning. And Mother Clancy was so wrought up she dropped three stitches in her fancy work and had to work all the rest of the game picking them out."

"She has a frightful case of nerves," said Swanson sarcastically. "I believe she'd break a needle if we won the world's championship the last inning of the deciding game."

They laughed joyously as the girl turned to McCarthy and said frankly:

"I am so glad for your sake, Mr. McCarthy. I was so angry I could have turned and told some of the people behind me what I thought of them before the game started, but when you fielded that first ball they cheered you – and that made up for it."

"They should have heard what Mr. Clancy had to say about it," he laughed, and then growing serious said, "It is kind of you, Miss Tabor. I am glad to know someone had faith in me."

They were standing a little apart from the group, which was slowly moving toward the elevators, chattering excitedly as school boys and girls. The feeling of relief from the anxiety and suspicion that had fallen upon them gave rise to exuberance.

"Mr. Clancy is taking us for an auto ride all around the city to-night," said Miss Tabor. "Shall I ask him to invite you to come with us? There's an extra seat."

"It's awfully good of you," he said in genuine regret. "I wish I could – but I have an engagement."

"Oh," she said, her tones chilling quickly. "I'm sorry."

"Miss Tabor," he pleaded eagerly, "please do not think I do not want to go" —

"Did I hint such a thing?" she inquired, with an air of innocent indifference.

He could not fence with her upon that basis and after a moment of idle exchange of formalities she turned to join Mrs. Clancy and McCarthy went to his room. Swanson was stretched upon the bed, reading newspapers, and flinging each sheet at random as he finished scanning its contents.

"Darn the luck," said McCarthy, hurling his glove and shoes toward his trunk.

"Did his 'ittle tootsie wootsy treat him mean?" asked Swanson in his most exasperating tones.

"Aw shut up, you big dub," snapped McCarthy angrily, resorting to ball players' repartee to cover his feelings.

"Maybe his lovey dovey is just jealous and will forgive her 'ittle pet," taunted the giant. "Petty mustn't mind what lovey says in her notes."

"Oh," said Swanson, with vast relief when he found Swanson was barking up the wrong tree, "I forgot all about the note."

He dragged the missive from his pocket and scanned it hastily, then tossed it across to Swanson.

"Date is off," he announced joyously. "Needn't watch me to-night."

Swanson read:

"Dear Larry:

"Don't come to-night. Uncle will be here – with friends – and I'm afraid. I must see you soon as possible. Will try to arrange to meet you somewhere to-morrow. I will telephone. H."

And while Swanson read the note McCarthy was at the telephone.

"Miss Tabor," he was saying eagerly, "this is Mr. McCarthy. I find my engagement for this evening is canceled. Please ask Mr. Clancy if I may go. Please. Yes, I said please. Shall I say it again?"

"And, Miss Tabor, if that spare seat is in the tonneau – No, Mrs. Clancy should sit with her husband."

CHAPTER XXII

A Victory and a Defeat

Another crowd of enormous size greeted the Bears as they raced onto the ball field early the next afternoon to play the doubleheader that was to complete the season's series against the Jackrabbits.

The paper that had printed the attack upon the team had given space to a partial retraction, and, although the players did not know it, the reporter who had written the article had been suspended during an investigation that was inspired because Technicalities Feehan had, after overwhelming two editors with his statistics, convinced them that no basis of truth existed for such charges.

The Bears were happy and confident. With a full game the advantage and only five more games to play, and those comparatively easy; with the pitching staff in good condition, they considered the pennant as won.

McCarthy and Swanson almost had forgotten to keep watch upon Williams. They despised him, and in the club house and on the field they ignored him completely. Several of the other players, although they knew nothing of the plot, had come to ignore the pitcher, and he shunned them all. He seemed nervous and laboring under a heavy strain. Two or three times he started toward Clancy as if to speak to him, but each time the manager, who was watching him, turned away to address another player. Finally, Williams seemed to gather his courage, and with a pretense of indifference he sauntered toward Clancy, who was talking with several of the players.

"Which game do I work, Bill?" he asked, tossing his glove down and picking up a bat.

"I think I'll save you for the first game of the World's Series, Adonis," replied Clancy. "It's a shame to waste you beating these dub clubs."

The hidden sarcasm in the words stung. The pitcher started, then rallied and said:

"What have you got it in for me about? Haven't I worked my head off to win for your team?"

"I haven't made any kick," responded Clancy shortly. "When I have a kick coming I'll make it good and strong."

"I'm not joking, Bill," the pitcher persisted. "My arm is good, and a lot of my friends are wondering why I don't work when it's my turn."

"Tell them," said Clancy very quietly, "that I have only one third baseman, and that I don't want him killed."

Williams's eyes were opened. He felt beneath the bitter calmness of the manager's voice the fact that Clancy knew – at least part of the truth. His jaw dropped and his face went white. Clancy, with a short laugh, started to run away.

"Then I don't work to-day?" Alarm, pleading and a note of despair in his tones as if he realized what the manager's decision meant to him.

"No, not to-day," replied Clancy, watching him sharply.

He turned away with exaggerated carelessness, and the rat-faced, cold-eyed man in the stands, who had been watching them closely, gritted out an oath and turned to Barney Baldwin, who was sitting beside him:

"He isn't going to let Williams pitch," He said. "We're done for, Baldwin."

The politician turned purple with rage.

"Well, by – , Edwards," he snarled, "we'll see about this. I'll put this over or know why."

The first game of the afternoon was a romp for the Bears. They scored early, and by clean hitting and dashing play on the bases, piled up tallies until the opponents were hopelessly defeated before the fifth inning. The game was a stern chase from that to the finish, and the Bears, scoring steadily, won, 9 to 2.

Instead of being elated by the victory Clancy seemed worried. On the bench he was fretful and uneasy.

"Don't you fellows take any wide chances in the next game," he decreed while the pitchers were warming up for the final battle against the Jackrabbits. "We want this game. I'm sending Wilcox in to win it. Who's that young bird the Rabbits are warming up? Hoskins, eh? Busher? Well, watch him. These young fellows with nothing but a strong arm are dangerous as the deuce at this time of the year."

Unlike their manager, the players were confident. Their easy victory in the first game, the fact that Wilcox, their best right-handed pitcher, was to start the game against an unknown and untried "busher" fresh from some small team and nervous through desire to win his first game, made it seem as if victory should be easy.

They blanked the Jackrabbits easily in the first inning, and, obedient to orders, attacked the pitching of the youngster, Hoskins, with every art known to them. They coached noisily, they waited at the plate, they crowded close to the plate and they ran at the ball.

"What's that bird got?" demanded Clancy as each batter returned to the bench. "Nothin', eh? Nothing, and you swingin' your bat like you was stirrin' apple butter? Nothin'? Say, you fellows get busy and make a run or two."

In spite of the orders, the abuse and criticism heaped upon them by the anxious manager, the Bears were not able to hit the balls offered by the tall, cool youngster picked up by the Jackrabbits from some obscure club. He had steadied from his early symptoms of stage fright and was pitching beautifully. His curve ball angled across the plate, his speed jumped high across the shoulders of the batters. The fifth inning came with the score nothing to nothing.

The players no longer were confident. The batters no longer came back to the bench with reports that the pitcher "had nothing," but they grew serious and anxious and silent. They tried bunting, but the Jackrabbits were prepared and checked the assault. They changed, and instead of waiting they hit the first ball pitched. They realized now that they were engaged in a contest with a pitcher of merit, for they knew the difference between hitting unluckily and hitting good pitching.

Wilcox, a quiet, studious pitcher, was among the first to realize that the youngster was pitching well.

"Get a run for me, fellows," he begged. "This kid has a world of stuff on the ball. Just meet that fast one – poke it, and it may go over safe. Get a run for me and we'll trim them."

The veteran was pitching slowly, cautiously. Two or three times the Jackrabbits threatened to score, but each time Wilcox put another twist on the ball and stopped them. Inning after inning he pleaded with his fellows to make a run, and Clancy stormed and grew sarcastic with each failure.

"Get him this time, fellows; finish it up," begged Clancy when the Jackrabbits had been blanked. Norton was the first batter. He chopped his bat with a short stroke and sent a safe hit flying to right. A sacrifice pushed him along to second base and the crowd commenced to cheer as Pardridge came to bat. The big fellow drove his bat crashing against the first ball. It went on a line almost straight toward second base. Norton was tearing for the plate when O'Neill, the Jackrabbit second baseman, running across, leaped and stretched out one hand. The ball stuck in his extended glove, he came down squarely on second base and the triumphant scream of the crowd ended in a gasp of disappointment at the realization that a double play had balked the Bears' attack and ended the inning.

The Jackrabbits, aroused by their narrow escape, attacked with new vigor. A fumble gave them the opening. Despite the most determined efforts of Wilcox they forced a run across the plate and the Bears were thrown back under a handicap.

McCarthy was the first batter. He crowded close to the plate, determined to force the young pitcher to earn his victory. He refused to hit until two strikes and three balls had been called, and then, shortening his grip upon his bat, he hit the straight, fast ball sharply to center for a base. Instead of sacrificing, Swanson received orders to hit and run and, although he was thrown out at first base, McCarthy reached second, and Babbitt, the first baseman, came to bat. Hoskins appeared nervous. The strain was telling upon the youngster, and Babbitt hit the first ball. From the sound of the bat hitting the ball, McCarthy knew the hit was not on the ground, and as he started homeward a glance showed him that Merode, the speedy little center fielder, was running back into the deep field with his eye on the ball. It was a fly-out unless Merode muffed, and McCarthy, knowing that such a muff happens only four or five times a season, returned and perched upon second base, ready to sprint for third the instant the ball struck the fielder's hands. The thought flashed through his brain that the Blues had released Merode because of a weak arm and a habit of lobbing the ball back to the infielders instead of throwing it back with all his power. The ball fell into the upstretched hands of the outfielder. McCarthy leaped and raced for third base. He knew that Merode would not throw there because of his weak arm and the length of the throw, so he swung a little outside the base path, slowed up as he turned third, and glanced toward the field. The ball was coming in. Merode had thrown it slowly and carelessly toward the shortstop. McCarthy leaped forward toward the plate. The shortstop, running out to meet the slow throw, heard the cry of alarm from the fielders and the roar of excitement from the crowd. He knew what was happening. He grabbed the ball, whirled and threw like a shot to the plate. McCarthy was two-thirds of the way home; but the ball, striking the ground, bounded into the hands of the catcher six feet ahead of him. Like a flash McCarthy hurled his body inside the line, with one foot outstretched to touch the goal. He had out-guessed the catcher. His foot, stretched out, felt the sharp jar of some object, then struck the plate, and, rolling over and over, he arose covered with dust.

The crowd was roaring. Nine out of ten thought McCarthy had counted with the tying run, but Bill Tascott, crouching over the plate, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, signaling that the runner was out and the Bears beaten.

Like flood waters breaking a dam, the crowd surged from the stands, shouting, screaming, threatening. A thousand men, mad with disappointment, swarmed around the umpire, pushing, shoving, shaking fists and screaming. McCarthy pushed his way hurriedly into the mob, which was growing more and more threatening.

"Let him alone. He was right," he cried loudly. "The ball touched my foot as I slid in."

Those who heard him stopped, and in an instant the danger was over. The crowd, subsiding suddenly, began to melt away. Tascott grinned as he turned to McCarthy.

"That was tough luck, Kohinoor," he said. "I was pulling for you to beat the ball, and you had it beat, but your leg kicked up and hit the ball as you slid. I'd have given a month's salary to call you safe."

CHAPTER XXIII

Kidnapped

"Train leaves at 11.30, Kohinoor," said Swanson as McCarthy came up to their rooms after dinner that evening. "Let's play billiards until it goes."

"Can't," replied McCarthy shortly. "I've got to make that call to-night. There's something wrong up there at Baldwin's, Silent. The girl writes to-day that Baldwin will not be home this evening and that she must see me to give me important news."

"Sure you can trust her?" asked the big shortstop. "Don't take any chances."

"There's no danger in going to one of the finest homes on the drive to call on a young woman," laughed McCarthy.

"I'll get away as soon as possible and tackle you for fifty points, three cushions, before we start for the train," promised McCarthy. "You hang around."

McCarthy had puzzled for two days over the odd conduct of Helen Baldwin, and her brief note, appointing that evening for the call, had failed to bring any solution of the riddle. He knew now that the girl with whom he had imagined himself in love was selfish and shallow, but he could not believe her criminal, nor did he for an instant think that she was a part of the conspiracy to rob the Bears of their championship. That he was in any danger he did not consider possible. He went uptown determined to hasten the interview as much as possible and arrived at the Baldwin mansion shortly after eight o'clock.

Presently Helen Baldwin came. She was wearing a dark street gown and her face was pale, dark rings under her eyes showing that she had been suffering.

"Larry," she said quietly, "you'll think me hateful and wicked. I have had a terrible time these last two days, and I have been thinking.

"I wanted to tell you I was a foolish, vain girl. I didn't love you; I was in love with the thought of being mistress to James Lawrence's fortune. I was conceited and silly and never thought of any one but myself; but I did like you, Larry – I do. You will believe that, will you not?"

"Yes," he said simply.

"I thought baseball was just a silly game," she went on, as if each word cost her a pang. "I couldn't understand why you gave up so much; why you insisted upon staying with the team. I didn't know that here in the East it is a great business and that hundreds of thousands of people take it so seriously. Uncle Barney asked me to get you to quit, and I told him you would. My vanity was hurt when you refused."

"You found out what it means for me to quit?" he asked.

"Yes. Uncle Barney came home in a terrible rage. He had been drinking and when he saw me he swore about you. He swore he'd fix you."

Her voice sank to a frightened whisper.

"He was only bluffing – I beg pardon; only talking," he said, striving to soothe her.

"I didn't know until then that I really cared, Larry," she went on. "He frightened me. I asked him questions, and he told me what he and some others have been doing to keep your club from winning."

"What did he tell you?" he asked quickly.

"He said they had one of your pitchers, I think he said, fixed, and that he had paid some other players to hurt you and to hurt Mr. Wilcox, I think he said. He wanted me to get you to come to meet me somewhere, and they'd kidnap you and someone else – Mr. Swanson, I believe it was."

"He's a kindly fellow," commented McCarthy coldly, an angry light gleaming in his blue eyes. "Did he say where this was to take place?"

"No. He tried to get me to write you to meet me at some place he named. He said I needn't go there, just get you to come. I told him I would. When he went to sleep I telephoned you because I was so frightened. To-day we had a terrible quarrel. I refused to write to you to meet me at the place he named."

Her terror was so evident that her words were not necessary to add conviction.

McCarthy laughed a short, rasping laugh.

"It's a good joke on him," he explained. "If he and his thugs are hunting for me all over the city and I here in his own home, safe; the last place he would look for me."

"You mustn't wait," she urged anxiously. "You mustn't wait here, Larry. He is drinking and I do not know what he might do if he came home and found you here. You must go now."

"I'll run back to the hotel and pick up my bodyguard, Swanson," he said steadily, and with an attempt at indifference of manner, "I think I'll be safe."

"You'll kiss me goodbye, Larry," she pleaded. "She wouldn't care – if she knew."

"She?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

He was astonished and curious to learn how the girl knew anything of his growing regard for Betty Tabor.

"I knew, I knew," she repeated. "I knew it the first time we met – I knew there was another girl" —

"I'm certain I did not hint at such a thing," he replied with an attempt at dignified bearing. "I have not even told her."

"Good-bye," she said. "I hope you're happy, Larry, and please don't think I meant to do wrong."

She clung to him weeping until he put away her hands and went out. The girl threw herself face downward upon the lounge and sobbed, this time from a sense of loneliness and perhaps of loss.

McCarthy descended the stairs and walked rapidly through the darkened lawn to the street. In spite of his pretense of believing there was no danger he found himself nervous. He walked two blocks toward the street car line, when a taxicab swerved toward the sidewalk.

"Taxi, sir, taxi?" asked the driver. "Take you downtown, sir?"

McCarthy hesitated an instant. If he hurried back to the hotel and found Swanson he would rid himself of the nervous dread of something intangible which he could not explain.

"How much downtown?" he asked, stopping near the taxicab, which had come to a full stop.

"Take you down for half rates, sir; I'm going that way."

"Very well," said McCarthy.

He walked to the side of the car, and turned the handle to step within. The instant he entered the car he felt himself seized and jerked downward while a pair of hands gripped at his throat. A vicious blow struck him on the back of the neck. Twisting, fighting, squirming, he struggled to free himself from the hands that were throttling him. His knees found a grip upon the floor of the car, and bracing himself, he jerked loose from one of the men, and struck wildly at the shape he saw silhouetted against the opposite window. His fist met flesh with a crunching sound.

"I'll kill you for that," gritted someone, striking him. In the half light of the interior McCarthy saw an object descending. He threw up an arm to protect his head, and with a crunching blow a heavy blackjack fell upon his arm. He seized the weapon and jerked it from the hand that had held it, but it fell to the floor of the cab.

McCarthy had struggled to his feet, bowing as his head struck the roof. One man, seated, kicked at him and hurt him cruelly. He was standing, with the car door swinging wide, while the car lurched and raced along a rough street.

Curses, groans, cries of pain and anger came from the interior as the player, battling against two unknown opponents, fought on. All three of the participants in the battle at forty miles an hour, were hampered by the smallness of the interior.

McCarthy strove to tear himself from the arms and legs that struck and kicked him, to get his head out of the window to raise the alarm.

Again and again he cried. Then suddenly the car lurched around a corner at a mad pace, tipping onto two wheels and skidding sickeningly. At that instant one of his assailants drove his feet against his body, and, as the car lurched wildly, McCarthy broke loose, grasped frantically for something to save himself, plunged from the machine, struck upon the asphalt of the side street into which the car had whirled, slid along it to the gutter and lay a huddled heap.

The car stopped quickly and whirled back to where he lay. The men leaped out, one cursing and frothing, the other urging silence and haste. Between them they lifted the half-conscious player and shoved him into the bottom of the car.

"Hurry up, Fred," urged the quiet man to the driver. "These fellows down at the corner are coming. Jump in, Jack."

They leaped back into the taxi, and the man called Jack said viciously:

"There – you, that'll teach you" – He kicked the prostrate player.

"Cut that out," ordered the quiet man, quickly. "You needn't murder him; he's fixed."

CHAPTER XXIV

Baiting a Trap

Events that preceded and led up to the desperate encounter between McCarthy and the two strangers in the dark interior of a racing taxicab seemed to have been dictated by fate. At the end of the doubleheader between the Jackrabbits and Bears, Easy Ed Edwards had hurriedly laid new plans to save himself. The gambler had watched both contests, believing all the time that the result of the games ended his final hope of winning the bets, and, facing ruin, he had welcomed his new lease upon hope with the determination of resorting to desperate measures to achieve his end. He realized that unless he acted at once all his plotting had failed. After the defeat of the Bears in the second game he left the grounds, hastened downtown in a taxi and at once telephoned to both Adonis Williams and Barney Baldwin to meet him at his rooms. Baldwin responded at once to the gambler's summons and entered the rooms blustering.