Baseball again claimed the attention of Joe and his mates. They were working hard, for the end of the season was in sight, and the pennant ownership was not yet decided.
Clevefield was still at the top of the list, but Pittston was crowding her hard, and was slowly creeping up. Sometimes this would be the result of her players’ own good work, and again it would be because some other team had a streak of bad luck which automatically put Joe’s team ahead.
The young pitcher was more like himself than at any time since he had joined the club. He was really pitching “great” ball, and Gregory did not hesitate to tell him so. And, more than this, Joe was doing some good work with the bat. His average was slowly but steadily mounting.
Joe would never be a great performer in this line, and none realized it better than himself. No clubs would be clamoring for his services as a pinch hitter. On the other hand many a pitcherin the big leagues had not Joe’s batting average, though of course this might have been because they were such phenomenal twirlers, and saved all their abilities for the mound.
Also did Joe pay attention to the bases. He wished he was a south-paw, at times, or a left-hand pitcher, for then he could more easily have thrown to first. But it was too late to change now, and he made up his mind to be content to work up his reputation with his good right arm.
But, even with that, he made some surprisingly good put-outs when runners took chances and got too long a lead. So that throughout the circuit the warning began to be whispered:
“Look out for Matson when you’re on first!”
Joe realized that a good pitcher has not only to play the game from the mound. He must field his position as well, and the failure of many an otherwise good pitcher is due to the fact that they forget this.
Much of Joe’s success, at this time, was due to the coaching and advice he received from Pop Dutton. The veteran could instruct if he could not pitch yet, and Joe profited by his experience.
No reference was made by Joe to the night Pop had gone to the lodging house, nor did the old pitcher say anything to his young friend. In fact he did not know Joe had had any hand in the matter. Pop Dutton went on his reformed way.He played the game, when he got a chance, and was increasingly good at it.
“Joe!” he cried one day, when he had played a full game, “we’re getting there! I hope I’ll soon be pitching.”
“So do I!” added Joe, earnestly. True, the game Pop had played at centre for the full nine innings was with the near-tailenders of the Central League, but it showed that the veteran had “come back” sufficiently to last through the hard work.
“How is your arm?” asked Joe.
“Not good enough to use on the mound yet, I’m sorry to say,” was Pop’s answer. “I guess I’ll have to have that operation, after all. But I don’t see how I can manage it. I’m trying to pay back some of my old debts——”
“Don’t let that part worry you,” spoke Joe, quickly. “If things turn out right I may be able to help you.”
“But you’ve done a lot already, Joe.”
“I’ll do more—if I can. Just wait until the close of the season, when we have the pennant.”
What Joe meant was that he would have the money for an operation on the pitcher’s arm if the cash was not needed to put Mr. Matson’s eyes in shape through the attention of a surgeon.
And this matter was still undecided, much to the worriment of Joe, his mother and sister, to say nothing of his father. But it is necessary, insuch matters, to proceed slowly, and not to take any chances.
Joe felt the strain. His regular salary was much needed at home, and he was saving all he could to provide for his father’s possible operation. That cost would not be light.
Then there was Pop Dutton to think of. Joe wanted very much to see the old player fully on his feet again. He did not know what to do, though, should all the money he might get from the pennant series be required for Mr. Matson.
“Well, I’ll do the best I can,” thought Joe. “Maybe if Gregory and the others see how well Pop is doing they’ll take up a collection and pay for the operation. It oughtn’t to cost such an awful lot.”
Joe shook his head in a puzzled way. Really it was a little too much for him to carry on his young shoulders, but he had the fire of youth in his veins, and youth will dare much—which is as it should be, perhaps.
Then, too, Joe had to be on edge all the time in order to pitch winning ball. No pitcher is, or can be, at top notch all the while. He can hardly serve in two big games in quick succession, and yet Joe did this several times, making an enviable record for himself.
The rivalry between him and Collin grew, though Joe did nothing to inflame the other’s dislike.But Collin was very bitter, and Pop gave Joe some warning hints.
“Oh, I don’t believe he’d do anything under-handed,” said Joe, not taking it seriously.
“Well, be on the lookout,” advised the veteran. “I don’t like Collin, and never did.”
There came a series of rainy days, preventing the playing of games, and everyone fretted. The players, even Joe, grew stale, though Gregory tried to keep them in form by sending them off on little trips when the grounds were too wet even for practise.
Then came fine bracing weather, and Pittston began to stride ahead wonderfully. It was now only a question of whether Joe’s team or Clevefield would win pennant honors, and, in any event, there would have to be several games played between the two nines to decide the matter.
This was due to the fact that the league schedule called for a certain number of games to be played by each club with every other club, and a number of rainy days, and inability to run off double headers, had caused a congestion.
Pittston kept on playing in good form, and Joe was doing finely. So much so that on one occasion when a big league scout was known to be in attendance, Gregory said in a way that showed he meant it:
“Joe, they’re going to draft you, sure.”
The larger or major league clubs, those rated as AA, have, as is well known, the right to select any player they choose from a minor league, paying, of course a certain price. Thus the big leagues are controllers in a way of the players themselves, for the latter cannot go to any club they choose, whereas any big league club can pick whom it chooses from the little or “bush” leagues. If two or more of the big clubs pick the same player there is a drawing to decide who gets him.
“Well, I’m not worrying,” returned Joe, with a smile.
After a most successful game, in Washburg, which team had been playing good ball—the contest having been won by Pittston—Joe was walking across the diamond with Pop Dutton, when the young pitcher saw approaching them the same tramp with whom his protegé had entered the lodging house that night.
“Hello, Pop!” greeted the shabby man. “I want t’ see you.” He leered familiarly. Pop Dutton stopped and gazed with half-frightened eyes at Joe.
“Well, are you comin’?” demanded the tramp, as Dutton did not answer. “I said I want to see you, an’ I’m dead broke! Took all I had t’ git a seat on th’ bleachers t’ see de bloomin’ game.”
“Well, you saw a good game—I’ll say that,” commented the old player, though his voice was a bit husky. He seemed to be laboring under some nervous strain.
“Huh! I didn’t come to see th’ game. I want t’ see you. Are you comin’?”
Pop did not answer at once. About him and Joe, who still stood at his side, surged the other players and a section of the crowd. Some of the members of the team looked curiously at Pop and the ragged individual who had accosted him. Collin, the pitcher, sneered openly, and laughed in Joe’s face.
“Who’s your swell friend?” he asked, nodding toward the tramp. Joe flushed, but did not answer.
“Well, I’m waitin’ fer youse,” spoke the tramp,and his tone was surly. “Come on, I ain’t got all day.”
“Nothing doing,” said Pop, shortly. “I’m not coming with you, Hogan.”
“You’re not!”
There was the hint of a threat in the husky tones, and the glance from the blood-shot eyes was anything but genial.
“No, I’m not coming,” went on Pop, easily. He seemed to have recovered his nerve now, and glanced more composedly at Joe.
“Huh! Well, I like that!” sneered the tramp. “You’re gettin’ mighty high-toned, all of a sudden! It didn’t used to be this way.”
“I’ve changed—you might as well know that, Hogan,” went on Pop. There were not so many about them now. All the other players had passed on.
“Well, then, if you won’t come with me, come across with some coin!” demanded the other. “I need money.”
“You’ll not get any out of me.”
“What!”
There was indignant protest in the husky voice.
“I said you’ll not get any out of me.”
“Huh! We’ll see about that. Now look here, Pop Dutton, either you help me out, or——”
Dutton turned to one of the officers who kept order on the ball field.
“Jim, see that this fellow gets out,” the old player said, quietly.
“All right, Pop. What you say goes,” was the reply. “Now then, move on out of here. We want to clean up for to-morrow’s game,” spoke the officer shortly to the man whom Pop had addressed as Hogan.
“Ho! So that’s your game is it—MisterDutton,” and the ragged fellow sneered as he emphasized the “Mister.”
“If you want to call it a game—yes,” answered Dutton, calmly. “I’m done with you and yours. I’m done with that railroad business. I don’t want to see you again, and I’m not going to give you any more money.”
“You’re not!”
“I am not. You’ve bled me enough.”
“Oh, I’ve bled you enough; have I? I’ve bled you enough, my fine bird! Well then, you wait! You’ll see how much more I’ll bleed you! You’ll sing another tune soon or I’m mistaken. I’ve bled you enough; eh? Well you listen here! I ain’t bled you half as much as I’m goin’ to. And some of the others are goin’ t’ come in on the game! You wait! That’s all!”
And he uttered a lot of strong expressions that the ground officer hushed by hustling him off the field.
Joe took no part in this. He stood quietly atthe side of Pop as though to show, by his presence, that he believed in him, trusted him and would help him, in spite of this seeming disgrace.
They were alone—those two. The young and promising pitcher, and the old and almost broken down “has-been.” And yet the “has-been” had won a hard-fought victory.
Pop Dutton glanced curiously at Joe.
“Well?” he asked, as if in self-defence.
“What’s the answer?” inquired Joe, trying to make his tones natural. “Was it a hold-up?”
“Sort of. That’s one of the fellows I used to trail in with, before you helped me out of the ditch.”
“Is he a railroad man?” asked Joe. “I thought he said something about the railroad.”
“He pretends to be,” said Dutton. “But he isn’t any more. He used to be, I believe; but he went wrong, just as I did. Just as I might be now, but for you, Joe.”
His voice broke, and there was a hint of tears in his eyes.
“Oh, forget it!” said Joe, easily. “I didn’t do anything. But what sort of a fellow is this one, anyhow?”
The man had been hustled off the grounds by the officer.
“Oh, he’s just a plain tramp, the same as I was. Only he hasn’t anything to do with the railroadany more, except to rob baggage. That’s his specialty. He hangs around the depots, and opens valises and such when he gets a chance.”
“He does!” cried Joe, with sudden interest. “Is he the fellow the detectives wanted to get the time they raided the Keystone Lodging House?”
Pop Dutton flushed red.
“What—what do you know about that?” he asked.
“Oh—I—er—I happened to be around there when the police were getting ready to close in,” answered Joe, truthfully enough. He did not want to embarrass his friend by going into details.
“Oh,” said Pop, evidently in relief. “Yes, I think he was one of the gang they wanted to get. But they didn’t.”
“He’s taking a chance—coming here now.”
“Oh, he’s let his whiskers grow, and I suppose he thinks that disguises him. He’s had a hold over me, Joe, but I’m glad to say he hasn’t any longer. I won’t go into details, but I will say that he had me in his power. Now I’m out.”
“So he used to rob travelers’ baggage, did he?”
“Yes, and he does yet I guess, when he gets the chance. Jewelry is his specialty. I remember once he was telling me of a job he did.
“It was at a small station. I forget just where. Anyhow this fellow—Hogan is one of his names—hepretended to be a railroad freight brakeman. You know they are rather roughly dressed, for their work is not very clean. Well, he got a chance to open a certain valise. I remember it because he said it was such an odd bag.”
Joe felt a queer sensation. It was as though he had heard this same story years before. Yet he knew what it meant—what it was leading to—as well as if it had all been printed out.
“Hogan made a good haul, as he called it,” went on Pop. “He thought he was going to have a lot of trouble opening the bag when he came into the station pretending he wanted a drink of water. It was a foreign-make valise, he said, but it opened easier than he thought and he got a watch and a lot of trinkets that ladies like.”
“He did?” asked Joe, and his voice sounded strange, even to himself.
“Yes. Why, do you know anything about it?” asked Pop in some surprise.
“I might,” said Joe, trying to speak calmly. “Would you remember how this bag looked if I told you?”
“I think so.”
“Was it a yellow one, of a kind of leather that looked like walrus hide, and did it have two leather handles, and brass clips in the shape of lions’ heads?”
“Yes—that’s exactly how Hogan described it,” said Pop. “But—why——”
“And would you remember the name of the station at which the robbery took place?” asked Joe. “That is if you heard it?”
“I think so.”
“Was it Fairfield?”
“That’s it! Why, Joe, what does this mean? How did you know all this? What is Hogan to you?”
“Nothing much, Pop, unless he proves to be the fellow who took the stuff I was accused of taking,” answered Joe, trying to speak calmly. “Do you know where we could find this man again?”
“You mean Hogan?”
“Yes. I’m going to tackle him. Of course it’s only a chance, but I believe it’s a good one.”
“Oh, I guess we can easily locate him,” said Pop. “He hasn’t any money to get far away.”
“Then come on!” cried Joe, eagerly. “I think I’m at last on the track of the man who took the stuff from Reggie Varley’s valise. Pop, this means more to me than you can imagine. I believe I’m going to be cleared at last!”
“Cleared! You cleared? What of?” asked the old ball player in bewilderment.
“I’ll tell you,” said Joe, greatly excited. “Come on!”
Hardly understanding what was afoot, and not in the least appreciating Joe’s excitement, Pop Dutton followed the young pitcher across the diamond.
“What are you going to do?” asked the old player, as he hurried on after Joe.
“Get into my street togs the first thing. Then I’m going to try and find that fellow—Hogan, did you say his name was?”
“One of ’em, yes. But what do you want of him?”
“I want him to tell when and where he took that stuff from the queer valise. And I want to know if he has any of it left, by any chance, though I don’t suppose he has. And, in the third place, I want to make him say that I didn’t take the stuff.”
Pop Dutton drew a long breath.
“You, Joe!” he exclaimed. “You accused?”
“Yes. It’s a queer story. But I’m beginning to see the end of it now! Come on!”
They hurried into the dressing rooms. Mostof the other players had gone, for Joe and Pop had been delayed out on the diamond talking to Hogan. Charlie Hall was there, however, and he looked curiously at Joe.
“Anything the matter?” asked the young shortstop.
“Well, there may be—soon,” answered his friend. “I’ll see you later. Tell Gregory that I may be going out of town for a while, but I’ll sure be back in time for to-morrow’s game.”
“All right,” said Charlie, as he went in to take a shower bath.
“Now, Pop,” spoke Joe, as he began dressing, “where can we find this Hogan?”
“Oh, most likely he’ll be down around Kelly’s place,” naming a sort of lodging-house hang-out for tramps and men of that class.
“Then down there we’ll go!” decided the young pitcher. “I’m going to have an interview with Hogan. If I’d only known he was the one responsible for the accusation against me I’d have held on to him while he was talking to you. But I didn’t realize it until afterward, and then the officer had put him outside. He was lost in the crowd. But suppose he isn’t at Kelly’s?”
“Oh, someone there can tell us where to find him. But it’s a rough place, Joe.”
“I suppose so. You don’t mind going there; do you?”
“Well, no, not exactly. True, a lot of the men I used to trail in with may be there, but, no matter. They can’t do any more than gibe me.”
“We could take a detective along,” suggested Joe.
“No, I think we can do better by ourselves. I don’t mind. You see after I—after I went down and out—I used to stop around at all the baseball towns, and in that way I got to know most of these lodging-house places. This one in Washburg is about as rough as any.”
“How did you come to know Hogan?”
“Oh, I just met him on the road. He used to be a good railroad man, but he went down, and now he’s no good. He’s a boastful sort, and that’s how he came to tell me about the valise. But I never thought you’d be mixed up in it.”
“Of course I can’t be dead certain this is the same valise that was robbed,” said Joe; “but it’s worth taking a chance on. I do hope we can find him.”
But they were doomed to disappointment. When they reached Kelly’s lodging-house Hogan had gone, and the best they could learn, in the sullen replies given by the habitués, was that the former railroad man had taken to the road again, and might be almost anywhere.
“Too bad!” exclaimed Pop sympathetically, as he and Joe came out.
“Yes, it is,” assented the young pitcher, “for I did want Reggie Varley to know who really robbed his valise.” Perhaps Joe also wanted a certain other person to know. But he did not mention this, so of course I cannot be sure. “Better luck next time!” exclaimed the young pitcher as cheerfully as he could.
They endeavored to trace whither Hogan had gone, but without success. The best they could ascertain was that he had “hopped a freight,” for some point west.
Joe did not allow the disappointment to interfere with his baseball work. In the following games with Washburg he fitted well into the tight places, and succeeded, several times, when the score was close, in being instrumental in pulling the Pittston team out a winner.
On one occasion the game had gone for nine innings without a run on either side, and only scattered hits. Both pitchers—Joe for Pittston, and young Carrolton Lloyd for Washburg—were striving hard for victory.
The game came to the ending of the ninth, with Washburg up. By fortunate chance, and by an error on the part of Charlie Hall, the home team got two men on bases, and only one out. Then their manager made a mistake.
Instead of sending in a pinch hitter—for a hit was all that was needed to score the winning run,the manager let the regular batting order be followed, which brought up the Washburg pitcher. Lloyd was tired out, and, naturally, was not at his best. He popped up a little fly, which Joe caught, and then sending the ball home quickly our hero caught the man coming in from third, making a double play, three out and necessitating the scoring of another zero in the ninth frame for Washburg.
Then came the tenth inning. Perhaps it was his weariness or the memory of how he had had his chance and lost it that made Lloyd nervous. Certainly he went to pieces, and giving one man his base on balls, allowed Joe to make a hit. Then came a terrific spell of batting and when it was over Pittston had four runs.
It was then Joe’s turn to hold the home team hitless, so that they might not score, and he did, to the great delight of the crowd.
This one feat brought more fame to Joe than he imagined. He did not think so much of it himself, which is often the case with things that we do. But, in a way, it was the indirect cause of his being drafted to a big league, later on.
The season was now drawing to a close. The race for the pennant was strictly between Pittston and Clevefield, with the chances slightly in favor of the latter. This was due to the fact that therewere more veteran players in her ranks, and she had a better string of pitchers.
A week or so more would tell the tale. Pittston and Clevefield would play off the final games, the best three out of four, two in one town and two in the other.
Interest in the coming contests was fast accumulating and there was every prospect of generous receipts.
The winners of the pennant would come in for a large share of the gate receipts, and all of the players in the two leading teams were counting much on the money they would receive.
Joe, as you may well guess, planned to use his in two ways. The major part would go toward defraying the expenses of his father’s operation. It had not yet been definitely settled that one would be performed, but the chances were that one would have to be undertaken. Then, too, Joe wanted to finance the cost of getting Dutton’s arm into shape. A well-known surgeon had been consulted, and had said that a slight operation on one of the ligaments would work wonders. It would be rather costly, however.
“Joe, I’m not going to let you do it,” said Pop, when this was spoken of.
“You can’t help yourself,” declared Joe. “I saved your life—at least I’m not modest when it comes to that, you see—and so I have, in a way,the right to say what I shall do to you. Besides, if we win the pennant it will be due, as much as anything, to the instruction you gave me. Now will you be good!”
“I guess I’ll have to,” agreed Pop, laughingly.
Pittston closed all her games with the other teams, excepting only Clevefield. The pennant race was between these two clubs. Arrangements had been made so that the opening game would be played on the Pittston grounds. Then the battle-scene would shift to Clevefield, to come back to Pittston, and bring the final—should the fourth game be needed, to Clevefield.
“If we could only win three straight it would be fine,” said Joe.
“It’s too much to hope,” returned Pop.
It was the day before the first of the pennant games. The Pittstons had gone out for light practice on their home grounds, which had been “groomed” for the occasion. As far as could be told Pittston looked to be a winner, but there is nothing more uncertain than baseball.
As Joe and his mates came off the field after practice there shuffled up to the veteran player a trampish-looking man. At first Joe thought this might be Hogan again, but a second look convinced him otherwise. The man hoarsely whispered something to the old pitcher.
“He says Hogan and a gang of tramps are ina sort of camp in Shiller’s Woods,” said Pop, naming a place that was frequently the abiding place of “gentlemen of the road.”
“He is?” cried Joe. “Then let’s make a beeline for there. I’ve just got to get this thing settled! Are you with me, Pop?”
“I sure am. But how are we going to get out there? It’s outside the city limits, no car line goes there, and trains don’t stop.”
“Then we’ve got to have an auto,” decided Joe. “I’ll see if we can hire one.”
He was on his way to the dressing rooms, when, happening to glance through the big open gate of the ball ground he saw a sight that caused him to exclaim:
“The very thing! It couldn’t be better. I can kill two birds with one stone. There’s our auto, and the man in it is the very one I want to convince of my innocence! That’s Reggie Varley. I’ll make him take us to Shiller’s Woods! We’ll catch Hogan there. Come on!”
Never stopping to think of the peculiar coincidence that had brought Reggie on the scene just when he was most needed, Joe sprinted for the panting auto, Pop following wonderingly.
“Come on!” cried Joe to Reggie Varley, not giving that astonished young man a chance to greet him. “Come on! Got plenty of gas?”
“Gas? Yes, of course. But where? What is it? Are they after you?”
“Not at all. We’re afterthem!” laughed Joe. He could afford to laugh now, for he felt that he was about to be vindicated.
“But I—er—I don’t understand,” spoke Reggie, slowly. “Where is it you want to go?”
“After the tramp who rifled the valise you suspected me of opening in that way-station some time ago,” answered Joe quickly. “We’re after him to prove I didn’t do it!”
“Oh, but my dear Matson—really now, I don’t believe you took it. Sis went for me red-hot, you know, after you told her. She called me all kinds of a brute for even mentioning it to you, and really——”
He paused rather helplessly, while Joe, takingthe situation into his own hands, climbed up beside Reggie, who was alone in his big car. The young pitcher motioned for Pop to get into the tonneau, and the veteran did so, still wondering what was going to happen.
“It’s all right,” laughed Joe, more light-hearted than he had been in many months. “If you’ll take us to Shiller’s Woods you may see something that will surprise you.”
“But still I don’t understand.”
Joe explained briefly how Hogan, the railroad tramp, had boasted of robbing a valise corresponding to Reggie’s. Hogan was now within five miles of Pittston, hiding in a tramps’ camp, and if he was arrested, or caught, he might be made to tell the truth of the robbery, clear Joe, and possibly inform Reggie where the watch and jewelry had been disposed of.
“I don’t suppose he has any of it left,” said Reggie, simply. “There was one bracelet belonging to sis that I’d like awfully much to get back.”
“Well, we can try,” answered Joe, hopefully.
“Sometimes,” broke in Pop, “those fellows can’t dispose of the stuff they take, and then they hide it. Maybe we can get it back.”
“Let’s hope so,” went on Reggie. “And now, where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere you say, and I’ve got plenty of gas.”
“Shiller’s Woods,” returned Joe. “Do you know where it is, Pop?”
“Yes. I’ve been there—once or twice.”
“And now,” went on Joe, as he settled back in the seat, still in his baseball uniform, as was Pop Dutton, “how did you happen to be here?” and he looked at Reggie.
“Why, I had to come up in this section on business for dad, and sis insisted that I bring her along. So we motored up, and here we are. Sis is at the Continental.”
“Our hotel!” gasped Joe. “I didn’t see her!” His heart was beating wildly.
“No, I just left her there,” returned Reggie. “She is wild to see these final games——”
“I hope she sees us win,” murmured Joe.
“But about this chase,” went on Reggie. “If we’re going up against a lot of tramps perhaps we’d better have a police officer with us.”
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” agreed Pop. “We can stop and pick up a railroad detective I know. They’ll be glad of the chance to raid the tramps, for they don’t want them hanging around.”
“Good idea,” announced Joe, who was still puzzling over the manner in which things fitted together, and wondering at the absurdly simple way in which Reggie had appeared on the scene.
The car sped away from the ball field, purring on its silent, powerful way. Pop Dutton gavedirections as to the best roads to follow, and a little distance out of Pittston he called a halt, in order that a railroad detective might be summoned.
They found one at a small branch freight station, and this man called a companion, so there were five who proceeded to the rendezvous of the tramps in Shiller’s Woods.
It is not a difficult matter to raid the abiding place of the men, unfortunates if you will, who are known as “hoboes,” and tramps. They are not criminals in the usual sense of the term, though they will descend to petty thievery. Usually they are “pan-handlers,” beggars and such; though occasionally a “yegg-man,” or safe-blower, will throw in his lot with them.
But for the most part the men are low characters, living as best they can, cooking meager meals over a camp fire, perhaps raiding hen-roosts or corn fields, and moving from place to place.
They have no wish to defy police authority, and usually disappear at the first alarm, to travel on to the next stopping place. So there was no fear of any desperate encounter in this raid.
The railroad detectives said as much, and expressed the belief that they would not even have to draw their revolvers.
“We’ll be glad of the chance to clean the rascals out,” said one officer, “for they hang aroundthere, and rob freight cars whenever they get the chance.”
“But we’d like a chance to talk to them—at least to this Hogan,” explained Joe. “We want to find what he did with Mr. Varley’s jewelry.”
“Well, then, the only thing to do is to surround them, and hold them there until you interview them,” was the decision. “I guess we can do it.”
Shiller’s Woods were near the railroad line, in a lonesome spot, and the outskirts were soon reached. The auto was left in charge of a switchman at his shanty near a crossing and the occupants, consisting of the two detectives, Joe, Pop and Reggie, proceeded on foot. They all carried stout cudgels, though the officers had revolvers for use in emergency.
But they were not needed. Pop Dutton knew the way well to a little hollow where the tramps slept and ate. He led the others to it, and so quietly did they approach that the tramps were surrounded before they knew it.
Down in a grassy hollow were half a dozen of them gathered about a fire over which was stewing some mixture in a tomato can, suspended over the flame on a stick, by means of a bit of wire.
“Good afternoon, boys!” greeted one of the officers, as he stood up, and looked down on the men. It was apparent at first glance that Hoganwas one of them. Pop had silently indicated him.
The tramps started up, but seeing that they were surrounded settled back philosophically. Only Hogan looked eagerly about for a way of escape.
“It’s no go,” said one of the railroad detectives. “Just take it easy, and maybe you won’t be so badly off as you imagine.”
Hogan had been found at last. It developed that Pop had asked his former “friends of the road” to keep track of him, and send word when located. This had been done by the ragged man who accosted the old player on the diamond that afternoon.
“Well, what do you want?” growled Hogan, for he seemed to feel that attention was centered on him.
“Nothing much—no more than usual, that is,” said one of the detectives, to whom the story of the looted valise had been told. “Where did you put the stuff you got from this gentleman’s bag some time last Spring?” was the sharp question.
“Whose bag?” Hogan wanted to know, with a frown.
“Mine!” exclaimed Reggie. “That is, if you’re the man. It was a yellow bag, with lions’ heads on the clasps and it contained a Swiss watch, with a gold face; some jewelry, including a bracelet of red stones was also taken.”
Hogan started as this catalog was gone over.
“Now look here!” broke in the officer. “These gentlemen are willing to make some concessions to you.”
“Yes?” spoke Hogan, non-committally. He seemed easier now.
“Yes. If you’ll own up, and give back what you’ve got left we’ll call it off, providing you get out of the State and keep out.”
“An’ s’posin’ I don’t?” he asked, defiantly.
“Then it’s the jug for yours. You’re the one we want. The rest of you can go—and keep away, too,” added the detective, significantly.
The tramps slunk off, glad enough to escape. Only Hogan remained.
“Well,” he said, but now his nerve was gone. He looked surlily at Pop, and wet his lips nervously.
“Go on,” urged the officer.
“I guess I did get a few things from his bag—leastwise it was a satchel like the one he tells about,” confessed Hogan.
“Then that clears me!” cried Joe, joyfully.
Reggie Varley held out his hand to the young pitcher.
“It was silly of me ever to have suspected you,” he said, contritely. “Will you forgive me?”
“Of course!” Joe would have forgiven Reggie almost anything.
“Where’s the stuff now?” asked the chief detective, sharply.
Hogan laughed.
“Where do you s’pose?” he asked. “Think I can afford to carry Swiss watches with gold faces, or ladies’ bracelets? I look like it; don’t I?”
Truly he did not, being most disreputable in appearance.
“Did you pawn it?” asked the other officer.
“Yes, and precious little I got out of it. You can have the tickets if you like. I’ll never redeem ’em,” and he tossed a bunch of pawn tickets over to Reggie, who caught them wonderingly.
“Are—er—are these stubs for the things?” he asked. “How can I get them back?”
“By paying whatever the pawnbrokers advanced on the goods,” answered Pop Dutton, who looked quickly over the tickets. He knew most of the places where the goods had been disposed of.
“I’ll be glad to do that,” went on the young man. “I’m much obliged to you, my good fellow.”
Hogan laughed again.
“You’re a sport!” he complimented. “Is that all you want of me?”
The detectives consulted together a moment. Then one of them asked Joe and his two friends:
“What do you say? There isn’t much to be gained by arresting him. You’ve got about all you can out of him. I suppose you might as well let him go.”
“I’m willing,” spoke Joe. “All I wanted was to have my name cleared, and that’s been done.”
“I don’t care to have him prosecuted,” spoke Reggie. “It might bring my sister into unpleasant prominence, as most of the things were hers.”
“I say, my good fellow,” he went on—he would persist in being what he thought was English, “does the ticket for that bracelet happen to be among these you’ve given me.”
“No, here’s the thing itself—catch!” exclaimed Hogan, and he threw something to Joe, who caught it. It proved to be a quaint wrist-ornament.
The young pitcher slipped it into his pocket.
“It’ll have to be disinfected before she can wear it,” he said in a low voice to Reggie. “I’ll give it to her, after I soak it in formaldehyde.”
Reggie nodded—and smiled. Perhaps he understood more than Joe thought he did.
“Is that all you want of me?” asked Hogan, looking uneasily about.
“I guess so,” answered one of the officers. “But how did you come to get at the valise?”
“Oh, it was easy. I spotted it in the depot and when that chap wasn’t looking,”—he nodded at Reggie—“I just opened it, took out what I wanted, and slipped out of the station before anyone saw me. You’d never have gotten me, either, if I hadn’t been a dub and told him,” and he scowled at Pop Dutton.
“Well, I’m glad, for my own sake, that you did tell,” spoke Joe.
“Now you’d better clear out,” warned the officer, “and don’t let us find you near the railroadtracks again, or it will be the jug for yours. Vamoose!”
“Wait a minute,” said Pop Dutton, softly. “Have you any money, Hogan?”
“Money! No, how should I get money? I couldn’t pawn that bracelet, or I’d have some though. They all said it wasn’t worth anything.”
“My sister values it as a keepsake,” explained Reggie to Joe in a low voice. “She’ll be awfully glad to get it back.”
“Here,” went on the old pitcher to his former companion of the highway, and he passed him a bill. “It’s all I can spare or I’d give you more.”
Hogan was greatly surprised. He stared at the money half comprehendingly.
“You—do you mean it?” he stammered.
“Certainly,” answered Pop.
“Well, I—er—I—I’m sorry!” burst out the tramp, and, making a quick grab for the bill, he turned aside and was soon lost to sight amid the trees.
“Hum! That’s a queer go!” commented one of the officers.
“I guess he’s got some feeling, after all,” said Joe, softly.
They had accomplished what they set out to do—proved the innocence of the young pitcher. And they had done more, for they were in the way of recovering most of the stolen stuff. Joe anticipatedmuch pleasure in restoring to Mabel her odd bracelet.
They motored back to the city from the rendezvous of the tramps, talking over the strange occurrence. But they took none of the members of the ball team into their confidence—Joe and Pop. They thought the fewer who knew of it the better.
“And now if I was sure dad would be all right, and Pop’s arm would get into pitching shape again, I wouldn’t ask for anything more,” said Joe to Reggie that night, when he called on the youth and his sister.
“Don’t you want to win the pennant?” asked Mabel, softly. She had thanked Joe—and her brother—with blushing cheeks for the return of her keepsake bracelet. But her blushes were not for her brother.
“The pennant! Of course!” cried Joe. “I almost forgot about that! And we’re going to win it!”
“I’m going to see every game, too!” exclaimed Mabel, with brilliant cheeks and eyes.
The first pennant game with Clevefield was a hard-fought one. Collin took the mound in the opening of the battle, and for a time all went well. He made some mistakes, and the heavy batters on the other side began “finding” him. But he was well supported by the fielders and basemen, andthree innings ran along with the visitors securing nothing but zero tallies.
Then came a break. A swift ball glanced off Collin’s glove, and Charlie Hall, the shortstop, after a magnificent jump, by which he secured the horsehide, made a wild throw to first. Then began a slump, and Collin had his share in it.
Joe was called on, but too late to be of any real service, though he stopped the rout.
Score: Pittston three, Clevefield nine.
“We’ve got to take three straight, or make a tie so as to get another game—making five instead of four,” said Gregory, gloomily that evening.
The next contest would take place in Clevefield and the teams made a night journey there. Reggie and his sister went on by auto early the next day, arriving in time to visit Joe before practice was called.
“Joe, you’re nervous!” exclaimed Reggie, when he met the young pitcher, just before lunch. “You ought to come out in the country for a little run. I’ll take you in my car. It will do you good.”
“Yes, do come,” urged Mabel.
“All right,” agreed Joe. “But I’ll have to be back soon. No telling which one of us Gregory will call on to pitch.”
“Oh, I’ll get you back in time,” promised Reggie.
So Joe, with the permission of Gregory, who warned him not to be late, started off for an auto ride.
They went for some distance into the beautiful country and Joe was beginning to feel in fit condition to pitch a great game. As they passed through one small town, Joe looked at the clock in a jeweler’s window. Then he glanced at his watch.
“I say!” he cried in dismay. “Either my watch is slow, or that clock is fast. Why, I haven’t time enough to get back to play! What time have you, Reggie?”
“My watch has stopped. But we can ask the jeweler if his time is right.”
It was, as Joe learned to his dismay. They had been going by his watch, and now it developed that it was nearly an hour slow!
“Jove! If I should be late!” cried the young pitcher in a panic of apprehension.
There was but one thing to do—make all speed back to the ball park. Already, in fancy, Joe could see his team trotting out for warming-up practice, and wondering, perhaps, why he was not there with them.
“This is fierce!” he gasped. “I had no idea it was so late!”
“Neither had I,” admitted Reggie. “It was such easy going that I kept on. It was my fault, Joe.”
“No, it was my own. I ought to have kept track of the time on such an important occasion. Of course I don’t mean to say that they won’t win the game without me, but if Gregory should happen to call on me and I wasn’t there it would look bad. I’m supposed to be there for every game, if I’m able, whether they use me or not.”
“Then I’ll get you there!” cried Reggie. “I’ll make this old machine hum, take my word for that! We’ll have a grand old race against time, Joe!”
“Only don’t get arrested for speeding,” cautionedthe young pitcher. “That would be as bad as not getting there at all.”
He looked at his watch while Reggie turned the car around in a narrow street, necessitating some evolutions. Again Joe compared his timepiece with the clock in the window of the jewelry store. His watch was more than an hour slow.
“I can’t understand it,” he murmured. “It never acted like this before.”
Joe’s watch was not a fancy one, nor expensive, but it had been recommended by a railroad friend, and could be relied on to keep perfect time. In fact it always had, and in the several years he had carried it the mechanism had never varied more than half a minute.
“Maybe the hair spring is caught up,” suggested Reggie. “That happens to mine sometimes.”
“That would make it go fast, instead of slow,” said Joe. “It can’t be that.”
He opened the back case, and looked at the balance wheel, and the mechanism for regulating the length of the hair spring, which controls the time-keeping qualities of a watch.
“Look!” he cried to Reggie, showing him, “the pointer is shoved away over to one side. And my watch has been running slow, no telling for how long. That’s what made us late. My watch has been losing time!”
“Did you do it?” asked Reggie.
“Of course not.”
“Then it was an accident. You can explain to your manager how it happened, and he’ll excuse you.”
“It was no accident!” cried Joe.
“No accident! What do you mean?”
“I mean that someone did this on purpose!” cried Joe. “Someone got at my watch when I wasn’t looking, and shoved the regulator lever over to slow. That was so it would lose time gradually, and I wouldn’t notice. It has lost over an hour. This is too bad!”
“Well, don’t worry,” advised Reggie, as he speeded the car ahead, turning into a long, country road that would take them almost directly to the ball park. “I’ll get you there on time if I have to do it on bare rims. Let the tires go! But who do you imagine could have slowed down your watch?”
“I wouldn’t like to say—not until I have more proof,” answered Joe, slowly. “It would not be fair.”
“No, I suppose not. Yet it was a mean trick, if it was done on purpose. They didn’t want you to get back in time to pitch. Say! Could it have been any of the Clevefield players? They have plenty of cause to be afraid of you for what youdid in the game yesterday—after you got a chance.”
“No, it wasn’t any of them,” said Joe, with a shake of his head. “They’re too good sports to do a thing like that. Besides, I didn’t do so much to them yesterday. We couldn’t have had a much worse drubbing.”
“But you prevented it from being a regular slaughter.”
“Maybe. But it was none of them who slowed my watch.”
“You don’t mean it was one of your own men!” cried Reggie.
“I won’t answer now,” returned Joe, slowly. “Let’s see if we can get there on time.”
Joe was doing some hard thinking. There was just one man on the Pittston nine who would have perpetrated a trick like this, and that man was Collin. He disliked Joe very much because of his ability, and since the game of yesterday, when Collin, unmercifully batted, had been taken out to let Joe fill his place, there was more cause than ever for this feeling of hatred—no good cause, but sufficient in the eyes of a vindictive man.
Joe realized this. He also realized that Collin might even throw away the chance for his team to win in order to gratify a personal grudge. Other players had said as much to Joe, and it was almost an open secret that Gregory intended givingCollin his release at the end of the season. But Joe had not believed his enemy would go to such lengths.
“He must be afraid I’ll be put in first to-day,” thought Joe, “and that he won’t get a chance at all. Jove, what a mean trick!”
Joe had no “swelled head,” and he did not imagine, for a moment, that he was the best pitcher in the world. Yet he knew his own abilities, and he knew he could pitch a fairly good game, even in a pinch. It was but natural, then, that he should want to do his best.
For Joe was intensely loyal to the team. He had always been so, not only since he became a professional, but while he was at Yale, and when he played on his school nine.
“Hold on now!” called Reggie, suddenly breaking in on Joe’s musings. “I’m going to speed her up!”
The car sprang forward with a jump, and Joe was jerked sharply back. Then the race was on in earnest.
The young pitcher quickly made up his mind. He would say nothing about the slowed watch, and if he arrived too late to take part in the game—provided he had been slated to pitch—he would take his medicine. But he resolved to watch Collin carefully.
“He might betray himself,” Joe reasoned.
He could easily see how the trick had been worked. The players came to the ball field in their street clothes, and changed to their uniforms in the dressing rooms under the grandstand. An officer was always on guard at the entrance, to admit none but the men supposed to go in. But Collin could easily have gone to Joe’s locker, taken out his watch and shoved over the regulator. It was the work of only a few seconds.
Naturally when one’s watch had been running correctly one would not stop to look and see if the regulator was in the right position. One would take it for granted. And it was only when Joe compared his timepiece with another that he noticed the difference.
Could they make it up? It was almost time for the game to start, and they were still some distance from the grounds. There was no railroad or trolley line available, and, even if there had been, the auto would be preferable.
“I guess we’ll do it,” Joe murmured, looking at his watch, which he had set correctly, also regulating it as well as he could.
“We’ve just got to!” exclaimed Reggie, advancing the spark.
They were certainly making good time, and Reggie was a careful driver. This time he took chances that he marveled at later. But the spirit of the race entered into him, and he clenched histeeth, held the steering wheel in a desperate grip, with one foot on the clutch pedal, and the other on the brake. His hand was ready at any moment to shoot out and grasp the emergency lever to bring the car up standing if necessary.
And it might be necessary any moment, for though the road was good and wide it was well crowded with other autos, and with horse-drawn vehicles.
On and on they sped. Now some dog would run out to bark exasperatingly at the flying machine, and Reggie, with muttered threats, would be ready to jam on both brakes in an instant. For a dog under an auto’s wheels is a dangerous proposition, not only for the dog but for the autoist as well.
“Get out, you cur!” yelled Joe, as a yellow brute rushed from one house. “I wish I had something to throw at you!”
“Throw your watch!” cried Reggie grimly, above the noise of the machine.
“No, it’s a good watch yet, in spite of that trick,” answered Joe. “It wasn’t the fault of the watch.”
Once more he looked at it. Time was ticking on, and they still had several miles to go. The game must have been called by this time, and Joe was not there. He clenched his hands, and shut his teeth tightly.
“We’ll do it—or bust!” declared Reggie.
His car was not a racer, but it was capable of good speed. He did not dare use all that was available, on account of the traffic. Many autos were taking spectators to the game, and they were in a hurry, too.
Amid dust clouds they sped on, the engine whining and moaning at the speed at which it was run. But it ran true and “sweet,” with never a miss.
“They’re playing now!” spoke Joe, in a low voice. In fancy he could hear the clang of the starting gong, and hear the umpire cry:
“Play ball!”
And he was not there!
“We’ll do it!” muttered Reggie.
He tried to pass a big red car that, unexpectedly, swerved to one side. Reggie, in desperation, as he saw a collision in prospect, whirled the steering wheel to one side. His car careened and almost went over. Joe clung to the seat and braced himself.
An instant later there was a sharp report, and the car, wobbling from side to side, shot up a grassy bank at the side of the road.
“A blow-out!” yelled Reggie, and then, as he managed to bring the car to a sudden stop, the vehicle settled over on one side, gently enough, tossing Joe out on the grass with a thud.
Confusion reigned supreme for a moment. Several autos that were passing stopped, and men and women came running up to be of assistance if necessary.
But neither Joe nor Reggie was hurt.
Slowly the young pitcher picked himself up, and gazed about in some bewilderment. For a moment he could not understand what had happened. Then he saw Reggie disentangling himself from the steering wheel.
“Hurt?” asked Joe, anxiously.
“No. Are you?”
“Not a scratch.”
“Rotten luck!” commented Reggie. “Now you’ll never get to the game on time.”
“Lucky you weren’t both killed,” commented an elderly autoist. “And your car isn’t damaged to speak of. Only a tire to the bad. That grassy bank saved you.”
“Yes,” assented Reggie. “All she needs isrighting, but by the time that’s done it will be too late.”
“Where were you going?” asked another man.
“To the game,” answered Reggie.
“I’m on the Pittston team,” said Joe. “I’m supposed to be there to pitch if I’m needed. Only—I won’t be there,” he finished grimly.
“Yes you will!” cried a man who had a big machine. “I’ll take you both—that is, if you want to leave your car,” he added to Reggie.
“Oh, I guess that will be safe enough. I’ll notify some garage man to come and get it,” was the reply.
“Then get into my car,” urged the gentleman. “I’ve got plenty of room—only my two daughters with me. They’ll be glad to meet a player—they’re crazy about baseball—we’re going to the game, in fact. Get in!”
Escorted by the man who had so kindly come to their assistance, Joe and Reggie got into the big touring car.
The other autoists who had stopped went on, one offering to notify a certain garage to come and get Reggie’s car. Then the young pitcher was again speeded on his way.
The big car was driven at almost reckless speed, and when Joe reached the ball park, and fairly sprang in through the gate, he was an hour late—the game was about half over.
Without looking at Gregory and the other players who were on the bench, Joe gave a quick glance at the score board. It told the story in mute figures.
It was the start of the fifth inning, and Pittston was at bat. Unless she had made some runs so far the tally was six to nothing in favor of Clevefield. Joe groaned in spirit.
“Any runs?” gasped Joe, as he veered over to the bench where his mates sat. He was short of breath, for he had fairly leaped across the field.
“Not a one,” said Gregory, and Joe thought he spoke sharply. “What’s the matter? Where have you been?”
Joe gaspingly explained. When he spoke of the slow watch he looked at Collin sharply. For a moment the old pitcher tried to look Joe in the face. Then his eyes fell. It was enough for Joe.
“He did it!” he decided to himself.
“How many out?” was Joe’s next question.
“Only one. We have a chance,” replied Gregory. “Get into a uniform as fast as you can and warm up.”
“Are you going to pitch me?”
“I guess I’ll have to. They’ve been knockingCollin out of the box.” Gregory said the last in a low voice, but he might as well have shouted it for it was only too well known. Collin himself realized it. He fairly glared at Joe.
As Joe hurried to the dressing room—his uniform fortunately having been left there early that morning—he looked at the bases. Bob Newton was on second, having completed a successful steal as Joe rushed in. Charlie Hall was at bat, and Joe heard the umpire drone as he went under the grandstand:
“Strike two!”
“Our chances are narrowing,” thought Joe, and a chill seemed to strike him. “If we lose this game it practically means the loss of the pennant, and——”
But he did not like to think further. He realized that the money he had counted on would not be forthcoming.
“I’m not going to admit that we’ll lose,” and Joe gritted his teeth. “We’re going to win.”
Quickly he changed into his uniform, and while he was doing it the stand above him fairly shook with a mighty yell.
“Somebody’s done something!” cried Joe aloud. “Oh, if I was only there to see!”
The yelling continued, and there was a sound like thunder as thousands of feet stamped on the stand above Joe’s head.
“What is it? What is it?” he asked himself, feverishly, and his hands trembled so that he could hardly tie the laces of his shoes.
He rushed out to find the applause still continuing and was just in time to see Charlie Hall cross the rubber plate.
“He must have made a home run! That means two, for he brought in Bob!” thought Joe.
He knew this was so, for, a moment later he caught the frantic shouts:
“Home-run Hall! Home-run Hall!”
“Did you do it, old man?” cried Joe, rushing up to him.
“Well, I justhadto,” was the modest reply. “I’m not going to let you do all the work on this team.”
Gregory was clapping the shortstop on the back.
“Good work!” he said, his eyes sparkling. “Now, boys, we’ll do ’em! Get busy, Joe. Peters, you take him off there and warm up with him.”
Charlie had caught a ball just where he wanted it and had “slammed” it out into the left field bleachers for a home run. It was a great effort, and just what was needed at a most needful time.
Then the game went on. Clevefield was not so confident now. Her pitcher, really a talented chap, was beginning to be “found.”
Whether it was the advent of Joe, after hissensational race, or whether the Pittston players “got onto the Clevefield man’s curves,” as Charlie Hall expressed it, was not quite clear. Certainly they began playing better from that moment and when their half of the fifth closed they had three runs to their credit. The score was
“We only need four more to win—if we can shut them out,” said Gregory, as his men took the field again. He sat on the bench directing the game. “Go to it, Joe!”
“I’m going!” declared our hero, grimly.
He realized that he had a hard struggle ahead of him. Not only must he allow as few hits as possible, but, with his team-mates, he must help to gather in four more tallies.
And then the battle of the diamond began in earnest.
Joe pitched magnificently. The first man up was a notoriously heavy hitter, and Joe felt tempted to give him his base on balls. Instead he nerved himself to strike him out if it could be done. Working a cross-fire, varying it with his now famous fade-away ball, Joe managed to get to two balls and two strikes, both the latter being foul ones.
He had two more deliveries left, and the nextone he sent in with all the force at his command.
The bat met it, and for an instant Joe’s heart almost stopped a beat. Then he saw the ball sailing directly into the hands of Charlie Hall. The man was out.
Joe did not allow a hit that inning. Not a man got to first, and the last man up was struck out cleanly, never even fouling the ball.
“That’s the boy!” cried the crowd as Joe came in. “That’s the boy!”