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CHAPTER XXXV
THE SHATTERING STROKE

That explained it. Now Lefty knew why he had received no answer to his cablegrams. Before the first was sent, Charles Collier was on the high seas, bound for America. He was home, and Garrity held him in the hollow of his hand. On the morrow the owner of the Blue Stockings was to feel the crushing grip of the triumphant schemer.

Weegman watched the southpaw’s face, noting the look of consternation upon it. Suddenly snapping his fingers, he began speaking again: “That’s why I came to you, Locke. What’s done must be done quickly. After eleven o’clock to-morrow it will be too late. You know what that means for you. Garrity hates you like poison, and you won’t last any time after he gets control. You can raise that money.”

“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars! You’re crazy!”

“You can do it, and save yourself. If you’ll do the right thing by me, I’ll tell you how to raise the needful. Together we’ll hand Garrity his bumps. What do you say? Is it a go?” He sprang up and approached, his hand extended.

Locke rose and faced him. The scorn and contempt upon his face would have withered a man less calloused. Weegman recoiled a little, and his hand dropped to his side.

“Weegman,” Lefty said, “you’re the most treacherous scoundrel I ever had the bad fortune to meet. You’re just about as trustworthy as a rattlesnake. Heaven knows I need money, and I certainly want to hold my job, but not even to save my own father and mother from being turned out of the home that has sheltered them so long would I enter into any sort of partnership with you.”

A look of astonished wrath contorted Weegman’s features, and a snarling laugh broke from his lips. “You poor fool!” he cried. “You’ve thrown away your last chance! I did think you would know enough to save yourself, but I see you haven’t an atom of sense in your head.”

There was something almost pitying in the smile Lefty gave him. Something, also, that caused the man a sudden throb of apprehension.

“You’re the fool, Weegman,” returned the southpaw. “You have confessed the whole rotten scheme. You have betrayed yourself and your fellow conspirator, Garrity.”

“Bah!” the rascal flung back, snapping his fingers again. “What good will it do you? I’ll deny everything. You can’t prove a thing. I was careful that there should be no witnesses, no one to hear a word that passed between us.”

Locke grabbed him by the wrist, and snapped him round with a jerk, facing one wall of the room. “And I,” he cried, “took care that every word we uttered should be heard by two reliable persons. I set the trap for Garrity, but I have been unable to decoy him into it. You walked into it unbidden. Look!”

With two strides he reached a dresser that stood against the wall. He seized it and moved it aside. With one finger he pointed to a small, square, black object that clung to the wall two feet from the floor.

“Look!” he commanded again.

Weegman stared uncomprehendingly, yet with the perspiration of dread beginning to bead his forehead.

“What is it?” he asked huskily.

“A dictograph!” answered Lefty. “I had it put in two days ago. When you met me a short time ago and asked for a private interview I started to turn you down. Then I saw old Jack Kennedy and Stillman, the reporter, in the background. They gave me a signal. Thirty seconds after we entered this room they were in the room adjoining, listening by means of that dictograph to every word that passed between us. We’ve got you, Weegman, and we’ve got Garrity, too. Criminal conspiracy is a rather serious matter.”

All the defiance had faded from Bailey Weegman’s eyes. He trembled; he could not command even a ghost of a laugh. He started violently, and gasped, as there came a sharp rap on the door.

“They want to take another good look at you to clinch matters so that they can make oath to your identity,” said Locke, swiftly crossing and flinging the door open. “Come in, gentlemen!”

Kennedy and Stillman entered. Weegman cowered before them. They regarded him disdainfully.

“You beaned him all right, Lefty,” said the ex-manager. “He wasn’t looking for the curve you put over that time.”

The reporter paused to light a cigarette. “After your arrest, Weegman,” he said, “I advise you to make haste to turn State’s evidence. It’s your only chance to escape doing a nice long bit in the stone jug.” He turned, closed the door behind him, and shot the bolt again. “In the meantime,” he added, “I think we can persuade you to refrain from warning Garrity regarding what is coming to him shortly after eleven o’clock to-morrow.”

Looking feeble and broken, Charles Collier sat at his desk in the office of the Blue Stockings Baseball Club. On the desk before him lay the books of the club and a mass of letters and documents. At one end of the desk sat Tom Garrity, smoking a big cigar and looking like a Napoleon who dreamed of no impending Waterloo. He was speaking. His words and manner were those of a conqueror.

“You can see how the land lies, Collier. You should have sold out your interest in the team before going abroad. Weegman made a mess of it. To-day you can’t realize fifty cents on the dollar. I’ve offered you my Northern Can stock for your holdings. That’s the best way out for you now. If you refuse you’ll lose Northern Can and the team, both. Better save one by sacrificing the other.”

Collier wearily lifted a protesting hand. “You don’t have to repeat it, Garrity; I know you’ve got me cornered. I’m merely waiting for Weegman. He promised to be here at eleven. It’s past that hour.”

Without asking permission, Garrity reached for the desk phone. “I’ll call in my lawyers,” he said. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Before he could lift the receiver from the hook the door swung open, and Weegman came in, pale and shrinking. At his heels followed Locke, Kennedy, and Stillman. With an astonished exclamation, Garrity put the instrument down.

“I hope we don’t intrude,” said Lefty, smiling on the startled owner of the Rockets. “Having learned from Weegman of this little business meeting, we decided to drop in. I’m very glad to see that you have arrived home in time, Mr. Collier.”

“Too late!” sighed the hopeless man at the desk. “Too late! You’re just in time to witness the transference of the Blue Stockings to Garrity.”

“On the contrary,” returned the southpaw easily, “we have come to purchase Mr. Garrity’s Blue Stockings stock at the prevailing price. Likewise his interest in Northern Can.”

Garrity rose, his face purple with wrath. A tremendously explosive ejaculation burst from his lips. “What in blazes do you mean?” he roared.

“Just what I have said,” Locke answered calmly. “Since arriving in town I have made arrangements for this little business matter. I have opened an account with the New Market National by depositing a certified check for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which is more than enough to make the purchases mentioned. Mr. Collier’s attorney will arrive in ten minutes or so to see that everything is done in a legal manner.”

“But you can’t buy a dollar’s worth of my holdings in either concern.”

“You may think so now. I’m sure you’ll change your mind in a few moments. It is also reported that, for the good of the game, you’ll get out of organized baseball. Have you brought a copy of the second edition of the Morning Blade with you, Stillman? Show it to Mr. Garrity, please.”

The reporter drew a newspaper from his pocket, opened it, passed it to Garrity. One finger indicated a half-column article, with headlines.

GARRITY TO GET OUT.

WILL DISPOSE OF HIS INTERESTS IN THE ROCKETS AND ABANDON BASEBALL. HINTS OF A CONSPIRACY TO WRECK THE BLUE STOCKINGS.

Garrity’s eyes glared. His breath whistled through his nostrils. His wrath was volcanic. “Somebody’ll pay for that!” he shouted, swinging his ponderous fist above his head like a sledge hammer. “What’s it mean?”

“It means,” answered Stillman, “that more will follow, giving complete details of the conspiracy–unless you decide to quit baseball for the good of the game.”

“I’ll institute a suit for libel!”

“No, you won’t. You won’t dare. We’ve got the goods on you. Let me tell you how it happened.” He did so with unrepressed satisfaction, and the man’s air of bluster gradually evaporated as he listened. But he gave Weegman a murderous look.

The door swung open again, and a sharp-faced little man entered briskly.

“Here’s Mr. Collier’s attorney,” said Lefty. “Now we can get down to real business.”

CHAPTER XXXVI
THE TEST OF MYSTERIOUS JONES

The unscrupulous Garrity had long been a menace to organized baseball, but such efforts as had been made to jar him loose from it had failed. At last, however, like a remorseless hunter, he was caught in a trap of his own setting. Twist and squirm as he might, the jaws of that trap held him fast. Even when the representatives of a syndicate met him by agreement to take the team over at a liberal price, he showed a disposition to balk. Stillman was there. He handed Garrity a carbon copy of a special article giving a complete and accurate statement of the conspiracy.

“If you own the Rockets to-morrow morning,” said the reporter, “that will appear, word for word, in the Blade. Criminal action against you will be begun at the same time.”

Upon the following day Garrity was no longer interested in the Rockets.

The Blade had put over a scoop by being the first paper to announce that Garrity would retire. It could have created a tremendous sensation by publishing the inside facts relative to the method by which he had been forced out. But organized baseball was under fire, and already the suspicious public was beginning to regard it askance. The menacing Federals were making no end of trouble. The cry of “rottenness” was in the air. Through the publication of the story thousands of hasty, unthinking patrons could be led to believe that, square and honest though it seemed to be on the field, the game was really rotten at the core. Stillman knew how that would hurt, and he loved the game. He was tempted to the limit, but he resisted. Not even his editor ever found out just how much he knew and suppressed.

On the usual date the Blue Stockings went South for spring training. Old Jack Kennedy was among the very first to arrive at the camp. He had been engaged as coach and trainer.

The newspapers had a great deal to say about how the Federals had taken the heart out of the once great machine Collier controlled. Few of them seemed to think that Locke, the new manager, could repair the damages in less than a year or two. He would do well, they declared, if he could keep the club well up in the second division. For it was said that Lefty himself would pitch no more, and the rest of his staff, filled out with new men and youngsters, must necessarily be weak and wabbly. Occasionally a new deaf-mute pitcher, Jones, was mentioned as showing great speed, but who had ever heard of Jones? Of course he would lack the experience and steadiness a pitcher must possess to make good in fast company.

Behind the bat the Stockings seemed all right, for Brick King would be there. Still, it was strange that Frazer had let King go. Old Ben was wise as the serpent, and he certainly had his reasons. The Stockings were trying out a young fellow named Sheridan in center field, but surely Herman Brock was worth a dozen ordinary youngsters. Some of the papers had a habit of speaking of all youngsters as “ordinary.”

Jack Keeper, who seemed slated to hold down the far cushion for the Stockings, was also a youngster Frazer had not seen fit to retain. In the few games he had played with the Wolves Keeper had made a good showing, but the general impression was that the manager had not considered him quite up to Big League caliber. Various other youngsters who had been farmed out to the minors were being used at second and short, and two of them, Blount and Armstrong, from the Cotton States League, seemed to be the most promising. But what an infield it would be, with three-fourths of the players “unripened”! The interest of the fans who read this sort of “dope” turned to the Wolves, who were almost universally picked as probable pennant winners.

All this was natural enough. The Wolves had held together before the Federal raids better than any team in the league. Certainly no one who knew much about baseball would have chosen the Blue Stockings in advance for a come-back. But in baseball, and nearly everything else, there is no fixed rule of reckoning that can’t be smashed. Plenty of old-timers will say this is not so, just as men assert that there is nothing like luck in the game. The Stockings continued to attract little attention during their tour North, although they won exhibition games regularly and with ease. Jones pitched in some of these games. Locke did not.

All the same, no day passed that Lefty failed to get out and warm up with his pitchers. Dillon, Reilley, Lumley, and Savage were the old flingers left with the staff. The “Glass Arm Brigade,” it was called. Savage was regarded as the only one of the quartet who possessed the stamina to work through nine hard innings. Counting him out, the team would have to depend on young twirlers. Of course, Locke warmed up merely from habit and as an example for the others. Otherwise he would try to pitch sometimes in a game.

The season opened with the Blue Stockings playing against the Dodgers, away from home. Mysterious Jones pitched and shut the Dodgers out, his team making five runs behind him. Even that created no more than a slight flurry, for the Dodgers were chronic subcellar champions. Jones had speed, and it had dazzled them. But wait until he went up against real batters!

Reilley and Lumley, taking turns on the mound, succeeded in handing the Dodgers the second game by a one-sided score. Savage went in and captured the third contest, but Pink Dillon dropped the fourth after making a fight for it up to the eighth inning. If that was the best the Blue Stockings could get, an even break, when facing the habitual tailenders, what would happen to them when they tackled the Wolves in the series to follow?

The crowd turned out loyally to witness the opening game on the home grounds, but even the most hopeful among the fans permitted their courage to be tinged with pessimism. They were in that state of mind that would lead their sympathies easily to turn to the opposition. True, they hailed Lefty cheerfully and encouragingly from the stands and bleachers, but they could not have the faith in him as a manager that they had had as a pitcher. They were stirred, however, by the sight of old Jack Kennedy, and they gave him a rousing cheer. It warmed the cockles of the veteran’s heart. He doffed his cap to them.

Frazer came over from the visitors’ bench and shook hands with Locke and Kennedy.

“I hope,” said Ben, “that you’re going to give us a crack at that dummy speed merchant to-day, Lefty. We want to see if he is a real pitcher.”

Coming forth from the home team’s dugout, a swarthy small man, who wore knickerbockers and a wrist watch, overheard these words.

“Bo-lieve me, Frazy,” said Cap’n Wiley, “you’ll never ask for him again with any great avidity after you face him once. I hope you’ll excuse me for butting in and making that statement without the polite formality of an introduction to you, but I am so impetuous! I’m the proud party who sold Jonesy to Lefty. Shortly after that little transaction I was unnecessarily worried lest he should decide to abandon baseball, but he has just informed me that, having succeeded in giving away the last of an infinitesimal fortune of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, he is now excruciatingly happy and ready to follow pitching as a profession.”

Frazer looked the odd character over tolerantly. “So you’re the party who bunkoed Lefty, are you?” He laughed. “You’re very much in evidence before the game begins, but I fancy it’ll be difficult to find you with a microscope when it’s finished–if Locke has the nerve to pitch your dummy wonder.”

“I think I’ll start him on the hill, at any rate,” said the manager of the Blue Stockings.

Apparently Wiley started to cheer, but checked himself abruptly. “I’ll conserve my vocal cords,” he tittered. “I doubt not that my voice will be frazzled to a husky whisper before the contest terminates. Take a tip from me, Mr. Frazer, and send your premier twirler on to the firing line. Smoke Jordan’s the only pitcher you have who can make the game interesting with Jones pastiming for the Stockings.”

“Jordan has asked to pitch,” returned Ben, “but I have half a dozen others who would do just as well.”

Locke was passing in front of the section occupied by the newspaper men when Stillman called to him. “I don’t see your wife here, nor Miss Collier,” said the reporter. “I looked for both to be on hand for the opening game on the home grounds.”

“Unfortunately neither was able to get here, although they planned to do so,” explained Lefty. “You know they have been spending the past eight weeks in Southern California with Virginia’s aunt, who invited them to accompany her and would not take no for an answer. They’ll be on hand to-morrow, however.”

Stillman leaned toward the wire netting and lowered his voice. “Has Collier ever caught on to the fact that the sister with whom he had quarreled furnished the capital to save him from going to smash?” he questioned.

“Not yet. It’s still a mystery to him how I was able to come forward at the psychological moment with that loan.”

The newspaper man laughed softly. “He came near passing away from heart failure that day. He was shocked almost as much as Garrity, but in a different way.” His manner changed to one of concern. “You’re going to use Jones to-day, aren’t you? Think you have any chance to win?”

“Unless I’ve made a mistake in estimating that man,” replied Locke, “it won’t be his fault if we lose. But it’ll be a test for the whole team as well as Jones.”

It was truly a test. A pitcher who was merely a “speed merchant” could not have lasted three innings against the Wolves, who “ate speed.” It was not long, however, before the anxious crowd, and the visiting team as well, began to realize that the mute twirler had something more than speed. Now and then he mixed in a sharp-breaking curve, and his hopper was something to wonder at, something that made the batters mutter and growl as they slashed at it fruitlessly. But, best of all, besides coolness and judgment, he had that prime essential of all pitchers, control. With never-failing and almost monotonous regularity, he seemed to put the sphere precisely where he tried to put it.

In Brick King, Jones had a valuable aid. King knew his old associates; if any one of them had a batting weakness, he was aware of it. And not once during the game did Jones question a signal given him by King. What Brick called for he pitched, and put it just where it should be put. With such rifle accuracy, the work of the man behind the bat seemed easy, save for the fact that occasionally Jones’ smokers appeared almost to lift the backstop off his feet. But King held them as if his big mitt had been smeared with paste.

Smoke Jordan was also in fine fettle. It was a pitcher’s battle, with the crowd watching and gasping and waiting for “the break.” It must not be imagined that the Wolves did not hit the ball at all, but for a long time they could not seem to hit it safely, and for four innings they could not get a runner on. In the first of the fifth, however, a cracking single and two errors permitted them to score an unearned run.

“If I know what I’m talking about,” said Ben Frazer, “we had no license to get that tally. Now, Smoke, you’ve got to hold ’em. If that dummy don’t crack, I’ll acknowledge that he’s a real pitcher.”

“I’ll hold ’em,” promised Jordan.

But he couldn’t keep his promise. In the sixth, with one down, King beat out an infield hit, reaching the initial sack safely by an eyelash. He stole second on the catcher for whom he had been discarded, to the disgust of Frazer. The crowd seemed to forget that Jones was deaf and dumb, for it entreated him to smash one out, and Cap’n Wiley, from his place in a box, howled louder than any ten others combined. Jones drove a long fly into left, but the fielder was there, and King was held at second.

Hyland followed. Jordan, a bit unsteady, bored him in the ribs.

Then Keeper, another Wolf discard, came up and singled to right field. Covering ground like a hundred yards’ sprinter, King registered from second on that hit, tying the score up.

The crowd went wild. The Blue Stockings and Mysterious Jones had the fans with them after that. Constantly that great gathering rooted for another run–just one more. Hyland perished on third when Spider Grant popped weakly.

If possible, the Wolves were fiercer than ever. In the first of the eighth they got Jones into a hole again through another hit and errors which peopled the corners, with not a man down. Then Jones won a roaring ovation from the standing multitude by striking out three men in succession.

The game was settled in the last of the ninth, and again Jack Keeper figured in the play. He had reached second, with one out, when Grant hit into the diamond. The ball took an amazingly high bound. The shortstop went for it, at the same time seeing Keeper scudding for third, and realizing that it would be impossible to get him at that sack. The moment he got the ball, the shortstop whipped it to first, catching Grant by a foot.

There was a shout of warning. Keeper had not stopped at third. Over the sack at full speed he had flashed, and on toward home. The first baseman lined the sphere to the catcher, who had leaped into position. Keeper hit the dirt, twisting his body away from the catcher, who got the ball and jabbed at him–a fraction of a second too late.

Keeper had accomplished a feat that is the desire of every base runner’s heart. He had scored from second on an infield out. And that performance gave the Blue Stockings the game.

While the crowd was still shouting its rejoicing, Cap’n Wiley found Frazer shaking hands with Lefty.

“I demand an apology!” croaked Wiley, barely able to speak.

“I apologize,” said Frazer. “Your dummy can pitch! But a team with one real pitcher is scarcely equipped to cut much figure in the race. Who’ll you use to-morrow, Locke?”

“I am thinking of trying out another one of our uncertainties,” answered the southpaw, with an enigmatical smile.