CHAPTER XXII

VICTORY

Joe hardly knew what to do. He realized that all his efforts toward getting the old ball player back on the right road might go for naught if Pop went off with these loose companions.

And yet would he relish being interfered with by the young pitcher? Pop was much older than Joe, but so far he had shown a strong liking for the younger man, and had, half-humorously, done his bidding. Indeed Pop was under a deep debt not only of gratitude to Joe, but there had been a financial one as well, though most of that was now paid.

"But I don't want to see him slip back," mused Joe, as he walked along in the shadows, taking care to keep far enough back from the twain. But Pop never looked around. He seemed engrossed in his companion.

"What shall I do?" Joe asked himself.

He half hoped that some of the other members of the nine might come along, and accost Pop, perhaps taking him off with them, as they had done several times of late. For the old player was becoming more and more liked--he was, in a way, coming into his own again, and he had a fund of baseball stories to which the younger men never tired listening.

"If some of them would only come along!" whispered Joe, but none did.

He kept on following the two until he saw them go into one of the less disreputable lodging houses in a poor quarter of the city. It was a house where, though some respectable workingmen, temporarily embarrassed, made their homes for a time, there was more often a rowdy element, consisting of tramps, and, in some cases, criminals.

At election time it harbored "floaters" and "repeaters," and had been the scene of many a police raid.

"I wonder what he can want by going in there?" thought Joe. "It's a good thing Gregory can't see him, or he'd sure say my experiment was a failure. It may be, after all; but I'm not going to give up yet. Now, shall I go in, and pretend I happened by casually, or shall I wait outside?"

Joe debated the two propositions within himself. The first he soon gave up. He was not in the habit of going into such places, and the presence of a well-dressed youth, more or less known to the public as a member of the Pittston nine, would excite comment, if nothing else. Besides, it might arouse suspicion of one sort or another. Then, too, Pop might guess why Joe had followed him, and resent it.

"I'll just have to wait outside," decided Joe, "and see what I can do when Pop comes out."

It was a dreary wait. From time to time Joe saw men slouch into the place, and occasionally others shuffled out; but Pop did not come, nor did his ragged companion appear.

Joe was getting tired, when his attention was attracted to a detective whom he knew, sauntering rather aimlessly past on the opposite side of the street.

"Hello!" thought the young ball player, "I wonder what's up?" He eyed the officer closely, and was surprised, a moment later, to see him joined by a companion.

"Something sure is in the wind," decided Joe. "I'm going to find out."

He strolled across the highway and accosted the detective with whom he had a slight acquaintance.

"Oh, it's Matson, the Pittston pitcher!" exclaimed the officer.

"What's up, Regan?" asked Joe.

"Oh, nothing much. Do you know Farley, my side partner? Farley, this is Matson--Baseball Joe, they call him. Some nifty little pitcher, too, let me tell you."

"Thanks," laughed Joe, as he shook hands with the other detective.

"Why, we're looking for a certain party," went on Regan. "I don't mind telling you that. We'll probably pull that place soon," and he nodded toward the lodging house. "Some of the regulars will be along in a little while," he added.

"Pull," I may explain, is police language for "raid," or search a certain suspected place.

"Anything big?" asked Joe.

"Oh, nothing much. There's been some pocket-picking going on, and a few railroad jobs pulled off. A lot of baggage belonging to wealthy folks has been rifled on different lines, all over the country, and we think we're on the track of some of the gang. We're going to pull the place and see how many fish we can get in the net."

Joe did not know what to do. If the place was to be raided soon it might mean that his friend, the old pitcher, would be among those arrested. Joe was sure of his friend's innocence, but it would look bad for him, especially after the life he had led. It might also be discouraging to Pop, and send him back to his old companions again.

"How long before you'll make the raid?" asked Joe.

"In about half an hour, I guess," replied Regan. "Why, are you going to stick around and see it?"

"I might. But there's a friend of mine in there," spoke Joe, "and I wouldn't like him to get arrested."

"A friend of yours?" repeated Regan, wonderingly.

"Yes. Oh, he's not a hobo, though he once was, I'm afraid. But he's reformed. Only to-night, however, he went out with one of his old companions. I don't know what for. But I saw him go in there, and that's why I'm here. I'm waiting for him to come out."

"Then the sooner he does the better," observed Farley, grimly. "It's a bad place."

"Look here," said Joe, eagerly, "could you do me a favor, Mr. Regan?"

"Anything in reason, Joe."

"Could you go in there and warn my friend to get out. I could easily describe him to you. In fact, I guess you must know him--Pop Dutton."

"Is Old Pop in there?" demanded the officer, in surprise.

"Yes," responded Joe, "but I'm sure he's all right. I don't believe you want him."

"No, he's not on our list," agreed Regan. "Well, say, I guess I could do that for you, Joe. Only one thing, though. If Farley or I happen in there there may be a scare, and the birds we want will get away."

"How can we do it, then?" asked Joe.

A figure came shuffling up the dark street, and, at the sight of the two detectives and the young pitcher, hesitated near a gas lamp.

"Hello! There's Bulldog!" exclaimed Regan, but in a low voice. "He'll do. We'll send him in and have him tip Pop off to come out. Bulldog is on our staff," he added. "He tips us off to certain things. Here, Bulldog!" he called, and a short, squat man shuffled up. His face had a canine expression, which, Joe surmised, had gained him his name.

"Slip into Genty's place, Bulldog," said Regan in a low voice, "and tell a certain party to get out before the bulls come. Do you know Pop Dutton?"

"Sure. He and I----"

"Never mind about that part of it," interrupted the detective. "Just do as I tell you, and do it quietly. You can stay in. You might pick up something that would help us."

"What, me stay in there when the place is going to be pulled, and get pinched? Not on your life!" and the man turned away.

"Hold on!" cried Regan. "We'll get you out all right, same as we always do. You're too valuable to us to go to jail for long."

Then, as Bulldog started for the dark entrance to the lodging house, Joe realized that he had seen what is called a "stool-pigeon," a character hated by all criminals, and not very much respected by the police whom they serve. A "stool-pigeon" consorts with criminals, that he may overhear their plans, and betray them to the police. Often he is himself a petty criminal. In a sense he does a duty to the public, making it more easy for the authorities to arrest wrong-doers--but no one loves a "stool-pigeon." They are the decoy ducks of the criminal world.

I am making this explanation, and portraying this scene in Joe Matson's career, not because it is pleasant to write about, for it is not. I would much rather take you out on the clean diamond, where you could hear the "swat" of the ball. But as Joe's efforts to make a new man of the old pitcher took him into this place I can do no less than chronicle the events as they happened. And a little knowledge of the sadder, darker and unhappy side of life may be of value to boys, in deterring them from getting into a position where it would appeal to them--appeal wrongly, it is true, but none the less strongly.

The Bulldog had not been in the building more than a minute before the door opened again, and Pop Dutton, alone, and looking hastily around, came out. Joe got in a shadow where he could not be seen. He did not want his friend humiliated, now that he had seen him come out victorious.

For the young pitcher could see that Pop was the same straight and sober self he had been since getting back on the right road. His association with his former companions had evidently not tempted him.

"Oh, I'm glad!" exulted Joe.

Pop Dutton looked curiously at the two detectives.

"Thanks," he said briefly, as he passed them, and they knew that he understood. Not for a long time afterward did the former pitcher know that to Joe he owed so much. For, though his intention in going to the rendezvous of the unfortunates of the under-world was good, still it might have been misconstrued. Now there was no danger.

Afterward Joe learned that Pop had been urged by the man he met on the street to take part in a robbery. The old pitcher refused, but his false companion tried to lure him back to his old life, on the plea that only from his own lips would his associates believe that Pop had reformed. And Pop made them plainly understand that he had.

Pop Dutton passed on down the street, and, waiting a little while, Joe followed. He did not care to see the raid. The young pitcher soon reached his hotel, and he felt that Pop was safe in his own boarding house.

The next morning Joe read of the wholesale arrests in the lodging house, though it was said that the quarry the detectives most hoped to get escaped in the confusion.

"Baggage robbers, eh?" mused Joe. "I wonder if they were the ones who went through Reggie Varley's valise? If they could be caught it would clear me nicely, providing I could prove it was they."