CHAPTER XIX

WEAVING THE WEB

The four at the table put their heads together, and Fleming lowered his voice so that he might not be overheard by those in the adjacent chairs.

“Of course, I don’t know whether we can make the thing work,” commenced Fleming a little diffidently, “but it won’t do any harm to figure it out and see what there is in it.”

“Sure thing,” said Connelly, encouragingly.

“As you say, it won’t do to injure Matson physically,” Fleming went on. “Though nothing would suit me better,” he added with sudden savageness, as the stinging recollection of that afternoon’s events came back to him.

“I see that he isn’t exactly popular with you,” grinned Connelly. He reflected that this man might be a valuable aid to him, if he nourished a personal grudge.

But it was not in Fleming’s mind to betray himself, and he pulled up short.

“As I was saying,” he continued, without replying to Connelly’s suggestion, “the public wouldn’t stand for a minute for any rough work with Matson. But we can injure him in other ways.”

“Just how?” asked Connelly.

“Well,” asked Fleming in turn, “what do you think is the most important thing in the world to him just now?”

“The World Series,” replied Connelly, promptly.

“Exactly,” assented Fleming. “It means more to him just now than anything else on earth. It means money and reputation and a big future if he wins. Now if we could knock him out of winning, we could hit him in his pride, his prestige and his pocketbook all at the same time, and hit him hard.”

“No doubt of that,” admitted Connelly, “but I don’t see just yet what you’re driving at.”

“What I’m driving at is this,” explained Fleming. “We’ve got, in some way, to keep Matson from playing. You know as well as I do that he is the mainstay of the Giant team. That’s especially the case since Hughson was hurt. Matson’s the only reliable pitcher they have left. Markwith is as wild as a hawk and may go up in the air at any time. Barclay has the stuff, but he’s green and inexperienced.

“The Red Sox now have won two games to the Giants’ one. The New Yorks must take three more to win the Series. They’re counting on Matson to pull out two of them at least, perhaps all three. I tell you he’s the king pin in the Giant machine just now, and without him the whole team would go to pieces.”

“I see your point all right,” said Connelly, “but with the rough stuff barred I don’t exactly see how we are going to keep Matson from playing.” He pondered the problem for a moment with knitted brows. Then suddenly an idea came to him, and he brought his fist down on the table with a resounding thump. “Great Scott!” he cried. “I believe I’ve got the very thing!”

“Let’s have it,” demanded Fleming, eagerly.

“There’s a pal of mine in this burg,” explained Connelly, “that’s having all sorts of trouble with a nephew of his that’s going to the dogs as fast as he can. The boy has put over one or two phony checks already that my friend has had to settle for to keep the kid out of jail.

“My pal has the idea that if the boy could be shipped out of the country for a long voyage it would get him away from the gang he’s running with and might put him in the way of keeping straight. He was talking to me about it only yesterday and I promised to help him carry it through.

“You see, I happen to know an old sea captain who’s loading up now at a Boston wharf for a trip to South America. He’s a tough old nut, and he’ll do almost anything for me, especially if a little money is slipped to him to sweeten the job. I was going to propose to him to have this kid I’m telling you about bundled on board and carried away with him. But that matter can wait. Now suppose we’re able to get Matson on board in place of the other fellow.”

“Great!” cried Fleming excitedly.

“It’s too hot and crowded in here,” declared Connelly, rising. “Let’s get out somewhere and fix up the details.”

He dismissed his henchmen, and he and Fleming strolled down the street till they came to the Common. They chose a seat in a remote part, and began to figure out how they could carry their plan to success.

“It’s too bad that it’s too late to put the thing through to-night,” regretted Connelly. “I’d like to put him on the blink for to-morrow’s game.”

“We can’t do that of course,” replied Fleming. “But even if he wins to-morrow’s game, that will only even up the Series. There’ll have to be at least two more games played and maybe three. We’ll get him then.”

“I’ll go down and see the captain the first thing in the morning,” said Connelly. “I’m sure he’ll fall in with it all right. Then the only thing that remains to be done is to get Matson within his reach without rousing suspicion.”

“But that’s a mighty big thing,” returned Fleming doubtfully.

“What time does their train for New York leave to-morrow night?” asked Connelly.

“Somewhere between eleven and twelve, I believe,” answered Fleming.

“That’ll give us all the time we want,” declared Connelly confidently. “Now listen to me.”

“Not quite so loud,” admonished Fleming, looking around him nervously.

The conspirators lowered their voices and talked earnestly. It was nearly midnight when they parted.

The next morning dawned brightly and there was every promise of a glorious day.

“How are you feeling, Joe?” asked Jim, as the chums were getting ready to go down to breakfast.

“Fine and dandy and full of pitching,” replied Joe blithely.

“That sounds good,” rejoiced Jim. “Didn’t sprain your arm on Fleming yesterday?” he inquired with a grin.

“Not so that you could notice it,” laughed Joe. “In fact it was just the exercise I needed. It made up for having no other practice, kept me from going stale, as it were.”

“It took real friendship to stay around that curve when I was fairly aching to see you do that fellow up,” declared Jim.

“I’ll do as much for you some time,” Joe consoled him.

They had barely finished their meal when word was brought to Joe that there was somebody waiting in the lobby to see him.

He went out promptly and was surprised and pleased to find Mr. Anderson, the old G. A. R. man who had been knocked down by the automobile on the Long Island road.

They shook hands heartily.

“I’m mighty glad to see you!” exclaimed Joe. “I didn’t expect you’d be able to get back to Boston so soon. Those Islip doctors must have been right on the job.”

“They fixed me up fine,” agreed Louis Anderson. “Everybody’s been mighty good and kind to me since I was hurt. You especially, Mr. Matson. I want to thank you for the money you left for me with the doctors, and which they handed to me when I was coming away.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Joe, “and half of that was from Mr. Barclay, the young man who was with me. Here he comes now,” he added, as Jim sauntered out of the dining room and joined them.

He greeted the old man heartily, who thanked him also for his kindness. Jim waved it away as a trifle.

“Found out anything yet as to who those fellows were that ran you down?” he inquired.

“Not a thing,” said the old man sadly. “I only wish I could. I’d make them pay for what they did to me.”

“And we’d be witnesses for you,” declared Joe warmly. “It was one of the most brutal things I ever saw.”

“They ought to be made to pay up handsomely,” added Jim, “and they’d be mighty lucky to get off with that.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t much chance of ever finding them,” the old man said. “But it wasn’t that I came to see you especially about this morning, Mr. Matson. I heard something last night that I think you ought to know.”

“Is that so?” asked Joe pleasantly. “What is it?”

“I was on the Common last night,” Anderson replied. “It was so close and hot that I couldn’t sleep, and I thought it might do me good to get the air. I sat down at the foot of a big tree and I guess I must have gone to sleep. I was waked up by hearing voices and found that two men were sitting on a bench the other side of the tree.

“I didn’t pay much attention till I heard one of them mention your name. Even then I thought they were talking about baseball. But then I heard one of them say mean things about you. I perked up then and I heard enough to know that they were planning to harm you in some way.”

Both ball players were listening now with the utmost attention.

“Did you hear them call each other by name?” asked Joe.

“One of them spoke to the other as Mr. Fleming----”

“Fleming!” interrupted Jim, as he shot a quick glance at Joe.