Baseball Joe in the World Series; or, Pitching for the Championship

by Lester Chadwick

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE PLOT

  "There are lots of people in Boston hoping the same thing," repliedBixby. "But I think they're due to be disappointed. It isn't often theysend that boy back to the shower."

  "He can be beaten like any one else," snarled Fleming, his gorge risingas he heard Joe praised.

  "Sure," conceded Bixby. "The best of them have an off day at times. Butthey say he's in splendid shape just now. That arm of his is certainly adandy."

  Fleming could have told him better than any one else just how good thatstalwart arm was. Not four hours had passed since he had tested itsstrength. And he knew that it was good for something besides baseball.

  But not for the world would he have had that beating come to light. Itwould make him the laughing stock of the clubs. He was sure that Joehimself would not tell of it nor would Reggie, because of their desireto prevent Mabel's name being dragged into the affair. So that hissecret was safe, unless he himself should reveal it while he was in hiscups.

  "He's a false alarm," he growled. "Lots of these fellows start out asthough they were going to set the league afire, but after a year or twoyou find them back again in the minors. They go up like a rocket andcome down like the stick."

  "Well, if he's a false alarm, he's deceived a good many people,"answered Bixby with a diminished respect for his friend's judgment. "Allthe dope is that he's going to be another Hughson."

  They drained their glasses and ordered more liquor. While they werewaiting for it to come, Bixby glanced around the cafe. His eye rested ona table in the further corner of the room where three men were sitting.

  "Do you see that big fellow over there with the other two?" he askedFleming.

  "I see him," replied Fleming, shortly.

  "Well, that's Big Connelly the notorious Chicago sporting man," returnedBixby.

  "Well, what if it is?" said Fleming, indifferently.

  "Oh, nothing special, except that he seems to feel a good deal the sameway about Matson that you do. I was sitting near him just before I cameover here to join you and he was grouching to beat the band."

  "Is that so!" ejaculated Fleming with a quickening of interest. "Whatdoes he seem to have against him?"

  "Oh, that's more than I know," was the reply. "But he seems to have abitter grudge from the way he talks."

  "Do you know Connelly personally?" demanded Fleming.

  "In a way I do," replied Bixby. "I met him at a prize fight once inChicago and was introduced to him. I don't know whether he'd remember meor not. But why do you ask?"

  "I'd like to meet him if you don't mind," answered Fleming.

  Bixby was somewhat surprised but did not object, and the two wendedtheir way among the tables till they came to the one in question.

  "How are you, Mr. Connelly?" said Bixby. "I don't know whether yourecall me, but I met you at that Welsh-Leonard bout in Chicago lastyear. Bixby is my name."

  It was Connelly's business to recollect faces, or to pretend to even ifhe did not.

  "Sure, I remember you," he replied with the real or assumed heartinessof his class. "Glad to see you again, Mr. Bixby."

  "This is my friend, Mr. Fleming," introduced Bixby.

  Connelly's shrewd eyes appraised Fleming as one of the "idle rich," theplucking of whom had often feathered his nest, and his greeting wascordial.

  "Won't you sit down and have something with us?" he inquired,introducing the two men who were with him and making room at the table.

  "We'd be glad to if we're not intruding," replied Bixby.

  "Not at all," said Connelly, and to seal the acquaintance he ordered abottle of champagne.

  It was not long before they were talking freely, and it goes withoutsaying that in the one engrossing thought that prevailed everywhere theyfell to discussing the World Series.

  Connelly--"Big" Connelly, to give him the name by which he was usuallyreferred to--was, as his name implied, a ponderous man with a hard,smooth-shaven face and cold, calculating eyes. He was a hardened "sport"and a shrewd politician, with strings out everywhere in the underworldthat he could pull when he felt so inclined. He was wholly unscrupulousand stopped at nothing to achieve his ends.

  "I hear you're expecting Boston to win the Series, Mr. Connelly,"remarked Bixby.

  "I've picked 'em to win," agreed Connelly, "and I think they would to adead certainty if it weren't for one thing, or perhaps I ought to sayone man."

  "And that one man is Matson, I suppose?" put in Fleming.

  "Exactly," frowned Connelly. "With him out of the way it would be awalk-over for the Sox."

  "You'd go into mourning if he broke a leg or anything like that,"grinned Bixby.

  "No such luck," grunted Connelly. "Nothing ever happens to that bird. Hemust carry a horseshoe around with him. I came all the way from Chicagoto see Brennan's team win, only to see Matson smear a defeat on them.But it isn't that I'm sore about especially."

  "Some little personal feeling, eh?" ventured Fleming, tentatively.

  "He turned me down on a little deal once," Connelly spat out viciously,"and I've vowed to get even with him some time."

  He refrained from explaining that the "deal" referred to had been acrooked bit of work that he had dared to suggest to Joe at the time thelatter was with St. Louis and the club was struggling to get to the headof the second division. Not only had Joe rejected the proposition hardand instantly, but Connelly had only saved his face from disfigurementby beating a hasty and undignified retreat. From that moment he hadcherished a bitter grudge against the man who had humiliated him, andthis was intensified at the present by the young pitcher's popularity.

  "Yes, sir-ee," he grunted vindictively, "I'd give ten thousand dollarsto have Matson put on the shelf."

  "You could have him put out of the way for a good deal less than that,"suggested one of his companions, an evil-faced man named Moriarity."There are fellows in New York or Boston who would do it for a thousand."

  "Nix on that stuff," growled Connelly. "You could get away with a goodmany things, but you couldn't get away with that. You might as well tryto do away with the President. Any one who puts the extinguisher onMatson would go to the electric chair sure, and nothing could save him.Even if he got off, the public would tear him to pieces. Forget it."

  Moriarity was squelched and shrank back before the big man's disapproval.

  "Just the same," ruminated Connelly, "I wish I could think of somethingthat didn't have any come-back."

  A thought suddenly came into Fleming's mind, but he hesitated to expressit in the presence of Bixby, who was an ardent partisan of the NewYorks. He sat toying with his glass and turning the idea over in hismind.

  It was a relief to him when Bixby rose a few minutes later and leftthem on the ground of an engagement. Fleming hitched his chair a littlecloser to Connelly's.

  "I've just thought of something that may help you out a little, Mr.Connelly," he began.

  Connelly looked at him in curiosity.

  "Let's hear it," he said eagerly.