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

by Lester Chadwick

  CHAPTER XXVII

  STEALING SIGNALS

  Fleming sat in his chair, limp and sprawling, after the departure of thetrio who had burst in on him so unexpectedly. So swept and exhausted washe by the tide of emotions aroused by their visit that he had forgottenall about the presence of Connelly in the adjoining room, and onlybecame conscious of it when the fellow plumped himself down in the chairbeside him.

  "Some stormy session," he remarked, as he lighted a fat, black cigar.

  Fleming only growled in reply.

  "Don't wonder that you feel sore," Connelly commented. "They certainlyput the skids under you in great shape. That Matson is a bird and nomistake."

  "I'll get even with him yet," Fleming broke out stormily. "I won't lethim crow over me. I won't pay that money."

  "Oh, yes, you will," returned Connelly, calmly. "He's got you wherethe hair is short in that matter of the jail. It mightn't have been sobad if you'd kept your nerve and denied everything. But he got you sorattled that you admitted knocking that fellow down and then the gravywas spilled."

  "What was the use of keeping it up?" queried Fleming. "He had the facts."

  "Maybe he did," admitted Connelly, doubtfully, "and then again he mayhave had only some half facts and made a bluff at the rest. He's gotnerve enough to do it. I have to hand it to him. But now you haveadmitted it, you'll have to pony up. What's a couple of thousand to you,anyway?"

  "It isn't so much the money," Fleming muttered gloomily. "It's knowingthat he got it out of me and is probably laughing at me this minute."

  "Let him laugh," said Connelly, with the philosophy that it is so easyto use where others are concerned. "We'll have our laugh later on. Butyou want to get that money paid right away, because if we put over onMatson what we're planning, he'll be so furious that he'll send you tojail sure. But if the thing is settled, he'll be helpless.

  "Another thing, unless I'm very much mistaken, Matson himself has givenus a mighty valuable tip. He's put a spoke in his own wheel."

  "What do you mean?" asked Fleming.

  "Didn't you hear him say that he was going to run up to-night to thatold man's house to see whether you'd come across or not?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, where could we have a better chance for pulling off our littlegame? It's probably a poor neighborhood with the lights none too goodand where a scrap wouldn't attract much attention because it's a commonthing. Moriarity and his bunch could be on hand and the rest would be aseasy as taking a dead mouse from a blind kitten."

  "By Jove, the very thing!" ejaculated Fleming, a look of malevolentdelight coming into his face.

  "Sure it is," chuckled Connelly. "I'll get word to Moriarity at once.In the meantime, you'd better settle. Take in all you can of theneighborhood while you're doing it."

  "Even if Markwith wins this afternoon and so ends the Series, I'd liketo put this through on Matson just the same," snarled Fleming, viciously.

  "No we won't," declared Connelly, decidedly. "I'm out to keep him fromwinning the Series and nothing else. If Markwith wins, the game's up,anyway, and the thing ends for me right there. But if he loses I've gota chance, and I'll see that Matson doesn't pitch the last game."

  All Boston seemed to have turned out that afternoon at Braves Field. Theenormous seating accommodations were taxed to capacity. It was the lastchance the loyal Bostonians would have to see their favorites in action.And the fact that if they lost to-day their chance for the world'spennant was gone brought the excitement to a delirious pitch.

  Landers was in the box for the Bostons while Markwith twirled for theGiants. Before the game had gone three innings it was seen that boththese gladiators were out to do or die. There was an unusual number ofstrike outs and the bases were occupied only at infrequent intervals.Up to the fifth it was little more than a pitcher's duel. But afterthat, though Landers kept his effectiveness, the Red Sox began to get toMarkwith more frequently. It was not that the latter seemed to have letdown a particle. His speed and his curves were working beautifully, butin a way almost uncanny the Bostons seemed to know what kind of ball wascoming next and set themselves for it accordingly.

  In the sixth they gathered two runs. Burkett had clouted out a home runfor the Giants in their half, but that left them still one short of atie.

  Boston started the seventh with a rattling two-bagger to center.

  "I don't understand it," muttered McRae, uneasily. "Markwith neverseemed to be in better shape. He's got a world of smoke."

  "They seem to know just what he's going to feed them," commented Robson."It almost looks----"

  He was interrupted by a sharp exclamation from Joe.

  "Look over there by the Boston dugout!" he exclaimed excitedly. "There'sHartley just behind the screen whispering to Banks. I'll bet that skunkis giving away Markwith's signals!"

  They looked in the direction indicated. Banks, the Boston second stringpitcher, was lolling carelessly against the railing of the grandstand,idly chewing on a wisp of straw. Hartley's face behind the screen wasnot two feet away from Banks' ear.

  As Markwith prepared to wind up for the next pitch, Hartley leanedforward a trifle and his lips moved. A glance and an almost imperceptiblesign passed between Banks and the man at the plate. Then as a lowincurve came sweeping up, the batsman caught it square on the seam fora line single to left.

  "Great Scott!" cried McRae, leaping up from the bench. "They're stealingour signals!"