CHAPTER XVII.
The Fight in the Café
Swanson left the hotel intending to pursue his volunteer detective work only a few moments after McCarthy started uptown to respond to the invitation of Miss Baldwin. He had remained lounging around the lobby talking with Kennedy, the big catcher, until he saw Williams leave the hotel by a side entrance and enter a street car. Then he signaled Kennedy and they strolled out together and caught the next car.
"It's Williams we're going to trail," was the only hint Swanson would give at the start.
"Williams?" snorted Kennedy. "You told me there was a chance for a scrap. That guy won't fight."
"Maybe those he's going to see will," replied Swanson encouragingly.
Swanson did not know then that, only a short time before he made his arrangement with Kennedy, Williams had pleaded over the telephone to Edwards that he was afraid to meet him that evening, as requested, because he thought Clancy might discover the fact and that Clancy was already suspicious. Williams pretended alarm and convinced Edwards that there was danger of someone following the pitcher, and on his way to keep the appointment to meet the athlete he had drawn into the toils of the conspiracy, he stopped at his gambling room and ordered Jack, a big ex-prizefighter, to follow him to the meeting place and to keep watch during the conference.
It was growing dark when Edwards strolled slowly across town toward the rendezvous. Williams's fear of being upbraided when he met the gambler on that evening was unfounded. The gambler was convinced that the pitcher had made every effort to lose the game and that he had been balked only by luck and the fielding of McCarthy. He wanted to learn from Williams whether or not there was any other player on the team who could be bribed into assisting in the plot.
Swanson and Kennedy trailing cautiously saw Williams jump off the car and walk along the sidewalk, and, after riding past him, they descended and walked along the opposite side of the street, keeping close in the shadows of the tall buildings. A block further downtown they saw Williams stop, look around suspiciously as if to see whether or not anyone was following him, then turn up the side street and enter a café. Swanson quickly led the way. They passed the saloon on the opposite side of the street, and after walking half a block they retraced their steps and stopped in a doorway opposite the entrance.
"Let's wait here and see who goes in," suggested Swanson.
"Whom do you expect him to meet?" inquired Kennedy.
"Edwards," vouchsafed Swanson grudgingly. "He has been meeting that crook for ten days now, and I want to find out what they're up to."
"Why didn't you tell me before?" demanded Kennedy. "I'd kick his head off" —
"We hadn't the goods on him," explained Swanson. "That's what I want you for. If we can prove he's up to some crooked work" —
The big Swede menacingly folded his ponderous paw into a fist and flexed his biceps.
"Do you think he's trying to throw games? He's been pitching funny ball lately," asked Kennedy. "I've had to fight him in every game to get him to pitch fast."
"What I think and what I can prove are different things," growled the shortstop. "I've got my suspicions. Now we're after proof. Come on. If he was to meet anyone there the one he was to meet is in ahead of him."
The players walked to the corner, crossed the street and went into the saloon without an effort at concealment. The place appeared empty, save for a bartender who was washing glasses behind the bar, and a heavy, coarse-featured man lounging near the end of the bar with a half-consumed high ball before him.
"Gimme a beer," ordered Swanson, throwing a coin onto the bar; "what you have, Ben?"
"Make it two," replied Kennedy.
There was no sign of Williams, and only a narrow doorway, leading somewhere toward the rear, gave a clue as to his probable egress from the barroom.
The bartender, having rung up the amount of the sale on the cash register, exchanged a few words in a low tone with the man at the end. Then he strolled back and stood near where Swanson and Kennedy were wasting time over their drinks.
"We were expecting to meet a friend here to-night," remarked Swanson, deciding to take a new tack with the bartender. "Rather tall, slender young fellow. Has anyone been in?"
"Young fellow came in a while ago something like that," replied the bartender. "Seemed to be expecting someone, but turned around and went out. Maybe that was him."
They knew he was lying, and Swanson, without changing expression, said:
"Must have thought he was in the wrong place, or too early. Maybe he'll come back. We'll stick around awhile."
Had they known what was transpiring in the private room just beyond the doorway their interest would have been greater. The big man who had stood at the end of the bar had gone at the first opportunity and was reporting to Easy Ed Edwards, who grew venomous with hate, while Williams sat shaking with fright.
"I knew they'd get on. If they report to Clancy I'm done for," he said.
"Shut up," ordered the gambler angrily. "They haven't seen you and they don't know I'm here. Who are they, Jack?"
"I don't know dem," said the ex-fighter. "Dey's a big, husky lookin' guy, a Dutchman, I guess, wid a blue suit" —
"It's Swanson," said Williams. "He's been looking at me as if he knew something for two or three days. He has followed me here."
"De oder one is a smaller, wiry sort o' guy. Got on a light suit" —
"It must be McCarthy," whined Williams. "He's always with Swanson. They're looking for me. I wish I had kept out of this."
"Listen," ordered Edwards coldly. "This fellow McCarthy is the one we want. If we can get him out of the way it'll be easy and I can get even with that big, fat lobster, Baldwin, for trying to double cross me. Jack, you go out there and get in a mix-up with them and take a poke at the little fellow that'll keep him from playing ball for a week. Is the bartender a friend of yours?"
"One of me best pals," replied the ex-fighter. "Leaf it to me. I'll land de punch dat'll fix dat fresh, young guy."
The fighter strolled back to the barroom and resumed his stand at the end of the bar, eyeing the two ball players. As he tapped the bar the bartender walked to him.
"I'm goin' to start somethin'," said Jack in a low tone. "Ed wants me to punch de head offen dat youngest one."
"That big guy looks hard to handle," commented the bartender. "Make it quick. I don't like no rough house here. The license ain't any too safe now."
"I'm going back to see what's there," whispered Kennedy to Swanson. "You stick here. I'll bluff it through."
He walked toward the door leading back from the bar and started to pass through it.
"Here, young feller," said the bartender, "where you goin'?"
"Washroom," replied Kennedy, keeping on through the door.
"Naw you don't. Come back outen there," ordered the fighter angrily.
"Who appointed you boss?" asked Kennedy belligerently.
"Well, I'm boss anywhere I goes," declared the big fellow. "Youse stay outen there. D'ye hear?"
He grabbed the ball player by the arm – and at that instant Kennedy swung. His fist caught the bruiser squarely on the mouth and he reeled back, then, with a bellow of rage, he sprang at Kennedy.
With a roar of anger Swanson hurled himself into the fray. Kennedy's fist had caught the ex-fighter and cut his cheek open and blood spurted upon both as they fought, the frail partition swaying under their weight. Swanson leaped with his arm drawn for a knock-out blow, just as Jack's right caught Kennedy upon the jaw and dropped him to the floor helpless. The blow the Swede had aimed at the fighter hit him upon the shoulder and slid over his head, and Jack, whirling, faced his new adversary. Swanson sprang to close quarters with the giant and his fist thudded home. Jack, groggy and already half spent from his exertions, clinched and hung on. The Swede, now a man gone mad with the lust of battle, shook him off, hurled the giant backward against the partition, and, crouching, he prepared to swing his right, waiting for the opening to the jaw, while Jack, groggy and half dazed, covered his head with his arms and swayed. The blow never landed. Suddenly it seemed to Swanson as if the worlds were crashing around his head. Bright stars danced before his eyes, his knees gave way beneath him, and with a foolish laugh he sank to the floor and rolled, helpless, beside his fallen comrade. His last recollection was of hearing a telephone bell jangling somewhere.
The ringing of the telephone bell that Swanson heard as he lapsed into unconsciousness was the call of Barney Baldwin for Ed Edwards. The gambler, who, with his frightened companion, had heard the sounds of the terrific struggle in the barroom sink into silence, spoke rapidly for an instant, then, as Baldwin said: "They've got the wrong man," he hung up the receiver with an oath and leaped toward the doorway. He emerged upon a tableau showing his slugger, half dazed and hanging to the partition for support, two figures inert upon the floor and the bartender coolly walking back toward the bar, carrying a heavy bung-starter in his hand, that explained the sudden ending of the fight.
CHAPTER XVIII
Two Missing Men
The disappearance of Silent Swanson and Ben Kennedy brought consternation to the ranks of the Bears, consternation that increased as the hour for starting the first game of the series against the Jackrabbits drew near. McCarthy, returning to the rooms after his surprising interview with Helen Baldwin, was determined to tell his chum all that had taken place and to explain as well as was possible the position in which he found himself. He planned to urge Swanson to go with him to Clancy, and for that reason he postponed taking the manager into his confidence.
He hastened downstairs to breakfast, half expecting to find his chum waiting for him in the dining room with an account of the night's events. He finished breakfast in a troubled state of mind, and, after wandering around the lobby for nearly an hour in the vain hope that Swanson would appear, he encountered Noisy Norton, who appeared disturbed and distressed.
"Say," said Norton, "seen Kennedy?"
"No – seen Swanson?"
"They went out together," said Norton, with an unusual burst of conversation.
"Didn't Kennedy come home either?" asked McCarthy in fresh alarm.
"No."
They sat silent for some time, then Noisy said:
"Something wrong."
"What'll we do?" asked McCarthy anxiously.
"Tell Clancy," said Norton, with an effort.
They ascended the elevator together and rapped at Clancy's door.
"Mr. Clancy," said McCarthy, when the manager had bade them enter, "I ought to have come to you before. Swanson and Kennedy are missing. They didn't come in last night – and we're worried."
"Where were they?" demanded the manager quickly.
"I was going with Swanson on an errand last night," said McCarthy. "We were working on that matter that caused trouble the other day. Then I had a telephone call and went to see a – a friend of mine. Swanson said he'd take Kennedy with him. They left the hotel together, Norton tells me, and they haven't come home."
"Either of them drinking?" asked Clancy sharply.
"Beer – sometimes – not often," said Norton.
"Swanson hasn't been drinking at all," declared McCarthy. "Neither of them would go off on a tear at this stage of the game."
"You're right, Kohinoor," said Clancy worriedly. "It's something else. They'll show up, all right. Thank you for telling me, boys, and don't say anything about it."
In spite of their silence, however, the rumor that the star catcher and the shortstop were missing spread through the team. By noon the players were openly discussing the whereabouts of the two players. Clancy showed his anxiety.
"Can't you tell me where they were going, Kohinoor?" he asked. "I don't want to press you to reveal anything you don't want to, but I'm afraid those boys are in trouble."
"I haven't any idea where they were going," replied McCarthy. "I know that they were watching a certain fellow, and that a gambler named Edwards was mixed up in it."
"You've told me plenty," said the manager in low tones. "I have suspected it all along. I'm afraid they're run afoul of Edwards and that he has managed to get them into trouble."
"If he has he has his nerve," said McCarthy. "Look over there. He just came in with a party of friends. I know the big man."
"Who is he?" inquired the manager, watching the party just entering one of the field boxes.
"That's Barney Baldwin, the political boss," explained McCarthy.
"Is he in this thing, too?" inquired Clancy, starting with surprise.
"Yes, at least I think so. You see, I know his niece. It was at his house I went to call last night. I discovered that he ordered his niece to call me and had her try to persuade me to quit the team right away."
"Look here, Kohinoor," said the manager, drawing him aside so the other players could not hear, "I'm sorry you didn't tell me this before. It looks worse and worse all the time. He wanted you to quit – and now two of my men disappear. You'll have to play short to-day, and we'll send Pardridge to third. Get in there and hustle."
Smith, the big spitball pitcher of the Bears, who had been held in reserve, was chosen to pitch, and for three innings the teams fought for the opening without a real chance to score. The cunning of Clancy was shown in his choice of the big pitcher, whose speed and spitball kept the Jackrabbit batters hitting toward right field or sending slow, easy bounders down toward the pitcher. He had chosen Smith in order to protect the weakened third base side of the infield, and his plan worked well until the fourth inning, when Egbert, one of the speediest of the Jackrabbit sprinters, hit a spitball on top and sent a slow, weak roller toward third base. Pardridge made a desperate effort to field the ball, but fell short, and the Jackrabbits discovered the weak place in the defense. Two bunts rolled down the third-base line in succession, and, although Pardridge, playing close in a desperate effort to stop that style of attack, managed to throw out the second bunter, runners were on second and third with but one out when "Buckthorne" Black smashed a long hit over center for three bases and scored an instant later on a sharp, slashing hit through Noisy Norton. The three runs seemed to spell the doom of the Bears, and they came in from the field angry, hot and desperate. The roar of the crowd grew stronger when the score board showed the Panthers were winning their game – 5 to 1 – from the Blues.
McCarthy was first at bat in that inning. As he selected his bat he glanced toward the stand and grew hot with rage at seeing Baldwin laughing until red in the face and slapping Ed Edwards on the back. The gambler's usually stony face wore a smile of relief. McCarthy walked to the plate, pushed the first ball pitched down the third-base line and outsprinted the ball to first. Norton strove to bring him home, but his long-line drive went straight to the left fielder, and when Holleran struck out it seemed as if the chance to score was lost for that inning. McCarthy stood still, a few feet off first base, and, as Randall wound up to pitch, he started at top speed for second base. Jackson, catching for the Jackrabbits, saw him, grabbed the ball and leaped into position to throw. Like a flash McCarthy stopped and danced a step or two back toward first base, as if daring the catcher to throw the ball. Jackson pretended to throw to first, and, as McCarthy edged a step closer the base the catcher saw there was no chance to catch him, and slowly relaxing from throwing position, he took a step forward and started to toss the ball back to his pitcher. In that instant McCarthy acted. He leaped forward, and, before Jackson could recover and spring back into throwing position, the fleet Bear was nearing second base, making a beautifully executed delayed steal. Jackson threw, although it was too late. The ball, hurled over hastily, broke through the second baseman's hands and rolled twenty feet toward center field. McCarthy turned second at full speed and raced for third, while Reilly tore after the ball, and, picking it up, made a fast, low throw toward third. Again the ball escaped the baseman, and McCarthy, without the loss of a stride, turned third base and raced home, sliding under Jackson as he reached for the high-thrown ball.
The game had settled down to a desperate series of attacks by the Bears, and a stubborn defense on the part of the Jackrabbits. In the sixth and again in the seventh the Bears forced the attack, but each time they fell short of scoring, and the eighth inning came with the score 3 to 1 against them. Lucas, who was catching in Kennedy's place, opened that inning, and the Bears' hope arose when he, the weakest hitter on the team, was hit by a pitched ball. Smith drove a hard bounder toward first, but O'Meara knocked down the ball and reached the base in time to retire the big, lumbering pitcher, letting Lucas reach second. Jacobsen struck out, and McCarthy, gritting his teeth, came to bat. One strike and one ball had been called when, looking toward the bench for a signal from Clancy, he saw a sight that made his heart jump. In that fleeting glance he had seen Swanson, in uniform, coming onto the bench through the little doorway under the stands.
Swanson's eye was black and a strip of plaster extended from under his cap onto his forehead. His face was swollen and discolored and a bandage covered his head, showing under his cap.
If he only could get on first base, McCarthy told himself, there was hope, and, as the ball sped toward him he poked out his bat, dropped another bunt toward third base, and, by a terrific burst of speed he beat it to first base, sending Lucas to third.
"Swanson batting for Holleran. Swanson will play shortstop, McCarthy third base, Pardridge in left field."
McCarthy had determined to steal second base, but the chance never presented. The first ball that came whizzing toward the plate Swanson hit. It went like a rocket far out to left center field. Two speedy outfielders glanced at the flying ball, then turned and sprinted for the outer barriers. The ball soared on and on, and with a crash struck against the sign over the left field seats and fell back into the throng in the bleachers, and while the crowd cheered and groaned three Bears trotted around the bases to the plate.
Swanson, running slowly and painfully, crossed the plate, with the score that put the Bears in the lead. He did not stop. Straight toward the box where Edwards and Baldwin sat, he went. His face was terrible. They saw him coming, and Baldwin, apologetic with fear, half arose, as if to cry for help. The gambler, white but still keeping his nerve, shrank back a trifle, but held his seat. Swanson walked straight to them. For an instant he towered over them threateningly, then he said:
"Good afternoon, gentlemen, I hope you're glad to see me."
CHAPTER XIX
Swanson to the Rescue
When Silent Swanson aroused himself from the effects of the blow on the head from the beer mallet in the hands of the treacherous bartender, he sat up feebly and found himself in semi-darkness.
"Someone crowned me with a crowbar," he muttered to himself as his brain gradually began to work normally. "They must have kicked me after I went down."
A faint groan from the heavy shadows near him startled him into a realization of what had happened. He felt around for a moment and his fingers touched the body of a man huddled against a wall.
"It must be Ken – and he's hurt," he muttered, and crept toward his companion. Swanson worked over him, shaking and speaking to him and presently Kennedy stirred and sat up against the wall.
"Where are we? What happened?" he inquired in a bewildered manner.
"Search me," replied Swanson mournfully. "I was just getting ready to swing the haymaker on that big fellow when the house fell. I think someone beaned me from behind with a brick and then kicked us around. Ouch – my ribs feel stoved in."
"I'm sore all over," moaned Kennedy. "That fellow didn't do it all by himself, did he?"
"I have a dim recollection of hearing someone tell him to fix us right," replied Swanson. "I may have dreamed it."
"Let's get out of here," urged Swanson suddenly. "If some watchman finds us here we'll be pinched, and it will make a nice story for the reporters."
"Where do you think we are?" asked Kennedy, striving to get to his feet and groaning with every move.
"In the alley back of the joint we were in," replied Swanson. "They must have dragged us to the back door and dumped us."
He had managed to get upon his feet, assisted Kennedy to arise, and slowly and with many groans they went toward the mouth of the alley.
"Let's go around to the front door and clean out that place," urged Swanson, growing angry.
Both men were commencing to recover from the effects of the cruel treatment they had endured, and, as their injured muscles loosened their anger arose. They made their way painfully around the block and to the entrance of the saloon. It was locked and the place was in total darkness. Swanson shook the barred doors without result, then stood gazing blankly against the glass.
"Say, Ken, we must have been knocked out for quite a while," he remarked thoughtfully. "No one is here. They probably closed up as soon as they threw us out – and we haven't a bit of proof against anyone."
"Wonder what time it is?" groaned Kennedy. "We've got to get to bed if we want to play."
"Holy Mackerel," exclaimed Swanson, using his favorite form of swearing. "I forgot! That's it! Ken, after we were knocked out they beat us to keep us from playing. Come on. We've got to forget about fighting and get ready to play. I'll get even with someone for this."
Swanson was thinking rapidly as they limped slowly along the darkened streets in search of a night prowling cabman or taxi-cab, keeping a sharp lookout for policemen, fearing they might be arrested because of their battered condition.
"We've got to get to somewhere we can be patched up and get some sleep," he repeated, urging Kennedy, whose sufferings made their progress slow. "We've got to keep those crooks from finding out where we are. Let them think they've finished us and then show up in time to play."
"I don't think I can play, Silent," moaned Kennedy. "I can't drag myself much farther."
He was making a brave effort to keep on, and for another block Swanson half supported him. Then he gave up and sat down upon the curbing.
"Sit here," said Swanson quickly. "There is an all-night drug store a couple of blocks down; I'll find a cab there."
He limped away as rapidly as possible, and, almost before Kennedy realized it, he returned in a taxicab.
"Caught him just starting home," explained Swanson, as he half lifted Kennedy into the tonneau. "He says there is a hospital less than a mile from here where we can get treatment."
The bruised and battered players groaned and swore under their breath, while the cab made a rapid trip to the hospital, and half an hour later they were resting easily in a private room, their wounds were being washed and dressed and a young doctor was working hard to relieve their sufferings.
"We've got to play ball this afternoon, Doc," said Swanson, watching the surgeon cut and wash the hair from the wound on his scalp. "Fix us up right."
"You'll not play ball this week," said the surgeon cheerfully. "Your friend over there will be all right in a couple of days. He's badly bruised and his hand is sprained, but not seriously. He's sorer than you are, but by morning you'll be a cripple."
"But, Doc, we've got to play," pleaded Swanson. "You've got to fix us up."
"I'll do all I can," remarked the surgeon. "But your right arm is badly wrenched and bruised. The cuts won't hurt, but one of your eyes will be out of commission for three or four days. Whose mule kicked you?"
Swanson, pledging the doctor to secrecy, revealed part of the truth.
"You won't be able to play," he advised his patients, "and Kennedy must take two days off at least."
"I've got to play, Doc," responded Swanson, "if it's on one leg; I've got to."
It was a few minutes past noon when Swanson awoke with a start. The nurse was in the room, moving about quietly, and Kennedy still slept, moving and muttering in his sleep, as if dreaming of the battle. He remained quiet for a few moments, and then said:
"Nurse, please bring me my clothes."
"You must wait until after breakfast," she said, coming to the bedside. "Dr. Anderson was here a short time ago, and said I was to give you your breakfast when you awoke, then call him."
"But I'm in a hurry," protested the player. "I can't wait. They'll be anxious about us."
"The doctor said he would give you treatment and massage, so that you could get out more quickly," she responded. "I'll bring breakfast and then call him."
Kennedy, feeling much refreshed, but too sore and stiff to move without suffering, was awakened for breakfast, and he and Swanson discussed the situation in low tones as they ate.
It was past one o'clock before Swanson commenced to worry about the failure of the doctor to come. After fuming and fretting for more than half an hour he rang for the nurse and sent her in quest of Dr. Anderson. She returned soon and reported that he had been summoned suddenly to assist in performing an important operation, but that he probably would return soon. Not until two o'clock had passed did Swanson commence to become seriously disturbed at the failure of the doctor to appear. A short nap had refreshed him somewhat, and when Kennedy announced that it was past two o'clock he waited a few moments, then commenced ringing the call bell by his bedside to summon the nurse. There was no response, and growing angry and impatient, he rang again and again.
"If I only had a pair of pants," wailed the helpless giant, "I'd break out."
He climbed out of bed and searched the room. In his impatience he bumped his wounded head, and blood flowed afresh from under the bandages, and with a movement of his arm he smeared it over his face. The giant Swede was working himself into a fury. Every few moments he rang the bell, and a few moments before three o'clock the nurse, calm and appearing as if nothing unusual was happening, came in.
"Did you ring?" she inquired.
Swanson started to explode, but stood looking at her in helpless fury.
"Get me my clothes," he ordered in tones that frightened the girl, trained as she was to the outbursts of patients.
"Get me my clothes," he repeated.
"It is against orders," she said hesitatingly. "You cannot go until the doctor" —
"Get me my clothes," he half screamed. "If my clothes aren't here in five minutes I'm going this way."
The nurse, thoroughly alarmed by the fury of the big man, ran from the room, and, within five minutes she returned with another nurse to support her.
"Where are my clothes?" he demanded in an awful voice.
"It's against orders," said the older nurse firmly. "You cannot leave without permission from the doctor in charge."
For an instant it seemed as if Swanson would forget himself and become violent. With an effort he controlled his anger and sank back upon the pillows.
"All right," he said resignedly, "let me telephone to the boss and explain."
"You are not going to quit, Silent?" demanded Kennedy, starting up in bed. "I'll go myself" —
The quick wink that Swanson gave him stopped the catcher's angry expostulation.
"That's a good boy!" said the nurse pleasantly. "There isn't any use to fret. I'll bring you the telephone."
The telephone was brought, and, when the nurse left the room Swanson called up the hotel at which they lived.
"That you, Joe?" he said rapidly. "This is Silent – yes, in hospital. Send a taxi to the corner as fast as you can get it here. I'll be watching."
He cut off the carriage clerk's curious questions by hanging up the receiver.
"What are you going to do?" whispered Kennedy from his bed.
"I'm going out of here," said Swanson. He crept out of bed, and with his face pressed against the window, watched the corner four floors below until a taxicab stopped there and waited. Then, drawing a sheet over his night gown, he opened the door cautiously.
The receiving clerk had a glimpse of a ferocious looking ghost, garbed in a white sheet, and with face smeared with blood, racing down the hallway, and before her screams could bring help, Swanson had run limpingly across the street, leaped into the taxi and was shouting orders to the driver to get him to the ball park.