CHAPTER VII
McCarthy Meets Helen
"Come to the hotel parlor at eight this evening. I wish to see you."
The note, hastily scribbled on hotel letter paper, was awaiting him when Kohinoor McCarthy entered the hotel after the disastrous game. He recognized the angular scrawled writing at a glance. Since the moment his eyes had met those of Helen Baldwin during the game he had been thinking hard. Her behavior had hurt him and the thought that she deliberately had refused to recognize him stung his pride. The note proved she had recognized him on the field. Either she was ashamed of his profession or did not want the men with her to know that she knew him.
McCarthy ate a hurried dinner and paced the lobby of the hotel. He was anxious to meet the girl, yet he felt a dread of it, an uncertainty as to the grounds on which their acquaintanceship should be resumed. For nearly half an hour he waited, growing more impatient with every minute and wondering whether there had been a mistake. His mind was busy framing a form of greeting. When last they met it had been as affianced lovers. Now – A rustle of soft garments brought him to his feet and he stepped forward with outstretched hand to meet the tall, slender girl who came leisurely from the hallway. Her mass of light, fair hair framed a face of perfect smoothness.
"Helen," he exclaimed quickly, "this is a pleasant surprise."
"I wish to talk with you, Larry," she replied without warmth, as she extended a limp hand, sparkling with jewels.
"It is good to see you, Helen," he exclaimed, a bit crestfallen because of her manner. "What brings you East? I was nearly bowled over when I saw you to-day. I thought you did not know me, but I see you did."
"Surely you did not expect me to bow to you there," she responded. "Did you desire all those people to know that I had acquaintances in that – that class?"
"Then you chose to cut me deliberately?" he asked.
"Don't be foolish, Larry," she replied. "A girl must think of herself and I did not choose to have my companions learn that I was acquainted with persons in that – profession, do you call it?"
"Well, if you are ashamed of my profession" – he said hotly.
"Nonsense," she interrupted him. "I simply did not desire to have people see me speak to a person who earns his living sliding around in the dirt on his face. That is what I wanted to see you about. What new prank is this? Are you seeking notoriety?"
"I am earning my living," he said. "Baseball is the only thing I could do well enough to make money."
"Earn your living?" The girl's surprise was sincere. "You haven't broken with your Uncle Jim, have you?"
The girl's eyes grew wider with surprise, and her tone indicated consternation.
"I have – or, rather, he has – cut me off," the boy explained rather sullenly. "I tried to find a job – thought it would be easy here in the East, but no one wanted my particular brand of ability, and I tried something I knew I could do."
"Then you – then your uncle" – the girl's consternation was real, and she hesitated. "Then our engagement" —
"I thought that was broken before I left," he replied. "You said you wouldn't marry me at all if I told Uncle Jim."
"I thought you would be sensible," she argued. "Everyone at home thinks you are sulking somewhere in Europe because of a quarrel with me. Why didn't you write to me?"
"After our last interview it did not seem necessary," he said.
"Oh, Larry," the girl said, pouting, "you've spoiled it for both of us. If you had done as I wanted you to do everything would have been happy, and now you humiliate me and all your friends by earning your living playing with a lot of roughs."
"They're a pretty decent lot of fellows," he responded indignantly.
"Why did you do it?" she demanded, on the verge of tears from disappointment and annoyance.
"I quarreled with Uncle Jim," he admitted. "I told him I wanted to marry you, and he told me that if I continued to see you he'd cut me off."
"And you lost your temper and left?" she concluded.
"Just about that," he confessed. "He told me I was dependent upon him, and said I'd starve if I had to make my own living. Of course, I could not stand that" —
"Of course," she interjected stormily. "I told you that he hated all our family, but that if we were married he would forgive you."
"I couldn't cheat him that way," he replied with some heat. "Besides you had broken with me. I knew he hated your uncle – but I thought if he knew you" —
"He would have," she said, "if you had given him a chance."
"I told him I could make my living – a living for both if you would have me," he confessed.
"Playing ball?" Her tone was bitter. "And you had an idea you would come East and make your fortune and come back and claim me?"
"I did have some such idea when I left," he confessed. "It wasn't until I was broke and unable to find work that I realized how hopeless it was to think of you."
"I couldn't bear being poor, Larry," the girl spoke with some feeling.
"We were poor once. Be sensible. Go back home and make up with Mr. Lawrence – and when I return" —
"I am making a good salary," he said steadily. "I can support two. If you care enough" —
"I couldn't marry a mere ball player," she said, shrugging with disdain.
"You used to like it when I played at the ranch and at college," he retorted angrily.
"That was different," she argued. "There you were a hero – but here you are a mere professional."
"But you attend games," he protested.
"I had to to-day. I am on my way to visit Uncle Barney for the summer, and his friend insisted upon taking us to the game."
"Oh, see here, Helen," he protested. "He's your uncle, but everyone knows he is crooked in politics and in business. Why do you accept his money?"
"He is very good to me – and I cannot bear to be poor again."
"Then you will not" —
"Be reasonable, Larry," she interrupted. '"You know I cannot marry a poor man."
"Then it was only the money you cared for," he said bitterly. "Uncle Jim said it was, and I quarreled with him for saying it – and it was true."
"You put it coarsely," she said coldly. "You cannot expect me to give up the luxuries Uncle Barney provides for me and marry a ball player. Unless you make it up with your uncle I shall consider myself free."
A stifled exclamation, like a gasp of surprise, startled them, and a rustle of retreating garments in the adjoining parlor caused McCarthy to step quickly to the doorway. He was just in time to recognize the gown. He realized that Betty Tabor had overheard part of the conversation, and he wondered how much.
"Some eavesdropper, I suppose," Miss Baldwin remarked carelessly.
"She came by accident, probably to read, and departed as soon as she realized it was a private conversation," he said warmly.
"Then you know her?" she asked quickly.
"Yes," he replied, realizing he had betrayed undue interest in the defense.
"Who is she?" the girl demanded.
"One of the women with the team, daughter of the secretary," he explained, striving to appear unconcerned.
"Is she pretty?"
"Why – yes – I don't know. She is very pleasant and nice looking."
"Rather odd, isn't it, a woman traveling with a lot of tough ball players?"
"You are unjust," he exclaimed indignantly. "She is with her father and Mrs. Clancy. Besides, the ball players are not tough – at least none of them is while she is with the club."
"You seem ready to rush to her defense," she remarked with jealous accents.
"Of course, I cannot let you think she is not a nice girl."
"Of course not" – her tone was sarcastic. "Traveling around the country with a crowd of men and eavesdropping in hotel parlors."
"She would not do such a thing. You must not speak of her in that way," he stormed indignantly.
"I congratulate her upon having captured so gallant a champion," she mocked.
They were verging upon a sharper clash of words when a big man, heavy of jaw and red of face, strolled into the parlor, not taking the trouble to remove his hat.
"Oh, here you are, Helen," he said. "I've been looking everywhere. Time to start or we'll be late to bridge."
"Uncle Barney," said the girl, rising, "this is Mr. – oh, I forget. What is it you call yourself now? – McCarthy. I knew him when he was at college. He plays on some baseball team – one of those we saw to-day. Mr. McCarthy, this is my uncle, Mr. Baldwin."
"I have heard of you often, Mr. Baldwin," said McCarthy coolly, although fearful that Baldwin might remember him.
"You're McCarthy, the new third baseman, eh?" asked Baldwin, without offering his hand and merely glancing at the boy. "Saw you play to-day. Too bad you threw that game away."
"I" – McCarthy started to offer defense.
"We must be going, Helen," said Baldwin.
The girl extended her hand carelessly.
"We hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again," she said.
Baldwin, with a curt nod to the player, turned to leave the parlor and McCarthy, seizing the opportunity, said:
"As a favor, Helen, do not reveal my identity. Your uncle did not recognize me as the boy he saw play on the Shasta View team."
"You need not fear," she responded rapidly. "And, Larry, please be sensible. Go home and make it up with Mr. Lawrence – and you may hope. And," she added in a low tone, "beware of that girl."
She hurried after her uncle, who had stopped and turned impatiently, leaving McCarthy staring after her and frowning. After all, he thought bitterly, his uncle was right. All she cared for was the money and not for him. He had quarreled with his uncle, his best friend, who had taken care of him since his childhood and who had made him his heir – on account of her. He was free. Yes, he was free.
He found himself wondering that he was happy instead of bitter over the loss of Helen Baldwin. He knew now he never had loved her. With a thrill of gladness came the thought of Betty Tabor. His jaw set, the fighting look came into his blue eyes and he saw his way clearly. He was not free. His duty was to the Bears.
CHAPTER VIII
In the Deeper Waters
Two defeats at the hands of the Maroons sent the Bears into the final game of the series desperately determined to win. Their pitching staff was exhausted from the effort to stop the team which they had expected to beat easily.
The game was a brilliant exhibition of defensive playing on the part of the Bears, who were driven back by the hard hitting of the Maroons. In spite of the fierce batting of the Maroons the magnificent defensive work of the Bears held their rivals to two runs, while by their brilliant and resourceful attack and skilful inside work they had scored three runs on five scattered hits, and at the start of the eighth inning were holding grimly to their lead of one run.
McCarthy, spurred by determination to redeem himself for the errors of the preceding games, was giving a wonderful exhibition of third-base play. The knowledge that Helen Baldwin, her uncle and a group of friends were sitting in one of the field boxes directly behind him urged him to greater efforts. It was his long hit in the sixth inning, followed by a clever steal of third, that had enabled the Bears to gain the lead which they were holding by their fast work on the infield.
The Bears failed to score in their half of the eighth, and the Maroons opened with a fierce assault upon Klinker that threatened to break down the Bears' inner wall of defense. Swanson's brilliant stop and throw of a vicious drive checked the bombardment, but a safe drive and a two-base hit went whizzing through beyond the finger tips of the diving infielders, and there were runners on second and third bases, one out and a hit needed to turn the tide in favor of the Maroons again.
The infield was drawn close in the hope of cutting off the runner from the home plate. It was desperate baseball, and, as the infielders advanced to the edge of the grass, each man knew that a line smash, a hard-driven bounder between them, or even a fumble, probably meant the destruction of their pennant hopes.
The ball was hit with terrific force straight at McCarthy, who threw up his hands and blocked desperately. The ball tore through his hands, struck his knee with numbing force and rolled a few feet away. He pounced upon it and like a flash hurled it to Kennedy at the plate, so far ahead of the runner who was trying to score that he turned back toward third, with Kennedy in pursuit. Swanson had come up to cover third, and the runner from second base stood at the third bag watching the play, ready to dash back if the runner, trapped between third and the plate, managed to elude the pursuers and regain third base. Kennedy passed the ball to Swanson, and as the runner turned back, Swanson threw to McCarthy, who had fallen in behind Kennedy, leaving the pitcher to cover the plate if the runner broke through in that direction. The runner started to dodge, but McCarthy, without an instant's hesitation, leaped after him and drove him hard back toward third base, so hard that the runner went on over the bag and ten feet beyond before he could stop. Like a flash McCarthy leaped sideways, touched the other runner who was starting back to second base, and, with a fierce dive, he threw his body between the base and the runner who had overslid it and tagged him.
Before he could scramble to his feet to claim the double play he heard Clancy, excited in spite of his long experience, shouting: "Good boy – nice work." As the umpire waved both runners out the crowd, bewildered for an instant by the rapidity with which McCarthy had executed the coup, commenced to understand and broke into a thundering round of applause as he limped toward the bench.
With that attack staved off, the Bears held the Maroons safe in the ninth and closed the final Western trip of the team with a hard-earned victory. They started homeward that evening with confidence renewed and the men hopeful.
The Bears were scheduled to stop en route to the home grounds to play a series of three games against the Travelers, a team low in the standing of the clubs, but one of the most dangerous of all. It was a slow but heavy-hitting aggregation, and at times more dreaded than were the stronger clubs. The series was a critical one for the Bears as, after that, they would return to the home grounds to play all the other games, with the exception of two against the Blues.
McCarthy was happier and more interested than he had been since he joined the Bears. Restlessly he awaited an opportunity to talk with Betty Tabor. Since his interview with Helen Baldwin he had been strangely jubilant for a young man who had just been discarded by the girl to whom he was engaged. He wondered how much of the conversation Betty Tabor had overheard, and worried about it. He wanted to explain to her who Miss Baldwin was and how he had happened to be talking with her, yet he knew it would seem presumptuous for him to broach the subject. Why should Betty Tabor think enough of him to be jealous? Yet, in spite of this, he decided that, at the first opportunity, he would mention meeting Helen Baldwin.
He went to bed annoyed and with an odd sense of being wronged. He determined to see the girl at breakfast and almost decided to confide in her the secret of his past life. But he did not see her at breakfast. After a restless night he was among the first in the dining car and he loitered, but the girl, usually one of the earliest risers, slept late, and when the train reached the city of the Travelers she went with Manager Clancy and his wife in a taxicab, while McCarthy was bundled with the other players into the big auto 'bus. He failed to catch a glimpse of her during luncheon and was in a bad humor when the team made an early start for the ball park.
The game was a runaway for the Bears. They piled up such a large score during the early innings that Manager Clancy was able to take out Morgan in the sixth and send Shelby, a second-string pitcher, to finish the game, saving up more strength and skill to use at the finish.
It was a jubilant crowd of players that returned to the hotel after the game. They sang and laughed and were happy again. They had won, and during the afternoon the Panthers, overconfident, had suffered two defeats by the Maroons, leaving the teams again practically tied for the lead.
McCarthy spent the evening loitering around the hotel lobbies, still hoping for an opportunity to see Miss Tabor, and she failed to appear at dinner and was not with Mr. and Mrs. Clancy when they started out for a car ride. He wandered aimlessly around until, abandoning his quest, he went to his room disconsolately. It was not yet eleven o'clock, but Swanson was preparing for sleep. As McCarthy came into the room he stopped to laugh. The giant shortstop was in his pajamas, on his back in the bed. With one bare foot he was holding a sheet of paper against the head board, and with a pencil grasped between the toes of the other foot he was laboriously striving to write.
"What was you trying to do, Silent?" asked McCarthy, laughing harder.
"Figuring my share of the World's Series receipts," responded Swanson, laboring harder. "Clancy said he'd fine any one of us caught with a pencil in his hand doping out these statistics," said Swanson, "and I just had to know."
They were ready to settle down for the night when the telephone rang in the connecting room. The door between the rooms was ajar, and Swanson sprang from bed to respond to the call.
"Hello!" he said. "Hello! Yes, this is Williams's room, but he isn't in just now. What? Oh, yes, I understand. I'll tell him. Hello – hold a minute, here he is now."
"Hey, Adonis," Swanson called to the pitcher, who was just entering the room from the hallway. "Someone wants you."
He handed the receiver to Williams carelessly and walked back into the room, where McCarthy was stretched upon the bed reading. His face was working rapidly as if trying to tell McCarthy something by lip signals.
"I'm tired," said Swanson in a loud tone; "let's sleep late in the morning." Then approaching McCarthy's bed he said in a whisper: "Listen. Try to catch what he says."
"Hello! Yes, this is Williams," said the pitcher brusquely. Then his voice changed suddenly. "Yes, Ed, I know you. To-night? Aw, say, Ed, I've got to have sleep! Can't it wait? I'll be there in a quarter of an hour."
He hurried out of the room, and before the door slammed behind him Swanson had leaped from bed and was dressing with great haste.
"Kohinoor, that was Easy Ed Edwards calling him."
"What are you going to do?" inquired McCarthy.
"Get a move on yourself," ordered the giant. "Something is up and I want to know what it is. Wait a minute," he added as if by sudden inspiration, and ran to the telephone.
"Hello," he said to the operator. "Can you tell me where that call for Mr. Williams came from just now? He has forgotten which hotel he is to meet his friend at. Thank you," he said after a moment's wait.
"Hurry. He's going to the Metropolis Hotel," he ordered. "We must catch up with him."
They dressed with the speed of men accustomed to changing clothing four or five times a day, and before Williams had been five minutes on his way they were racing for the elevator. Swanson, hastily leaping into a waiting taxicab, ordered the driver to make all possible speed to the corner nearest the Metropolis Hotel.
"What is up?" asked McCarthy, as they settled back in the cushions of the taxi as it lurched over the pavement.
"There is something funny going on in this ball club," said Swanson. "And I am going to find out what it is. Whatever it is, Williams is mixed up in it. I want to find out why he is meeting Edwards to-night and what is up."
"What do you think?" asked McCarthy.
"I haven't got it figured out," said Swanson, scratching his head. "There has been something wrong for two weeks. Ever since you joined the club Williams hasn't been natural. He acts mysterious off the field and worse than that on it. He has only won one of his last three games, and ought to have lost them all the way he pitched."
The taxi jerked to a stop at the corner opposite the hotel, and Swanson, after reconnoitering carefully, led the way across the street and into the café.
"I used to know this place like a book when I was hitting the booze," he said. "They'll be in here – or I don't know Williams. Let's take the corner booth so we can see who comes in and goes out."
Five minutes later two men came through the swinging doors from the hotel lobby. Swanson could see them, but McCarthy was out of the range of vision. Swanson drew back deeper into the booth.
"Who is it?" inquired McCarthy in a whisper.
"Sh – h! It's Williams and Edwards. They're going into the booth next to us. Put your ear close to the partition. I'd give a farm to hear them."
The players sipped their soft drinks, while in turn they strove to hear what was passing in the next booth. Occasionally they could distinguish a voice, but the words were unintelligible. Ten minutes of vain listening ensued. Then a heavy man in evening clothes hurried into the café, and after a hasty glance into the booths entered the one in which Edwards and Williams were waiting.
"I wonder who that fat man is?" whispered Swanson.
"It's a lucky thing he didn't recognize me," replied McCarthy in low tones. "That's Barney Baldwin, the broker and politician, one of the big men of this part of the country – and a crook."
"Whew," whistled Swanson. "Let's sneak. We can't hear anything – and the water is getting deep."