CHAPTER XXII

A HOLE IN THE WEB

“It’s like this,” came the response. “I’m making a call on an old yachting friend of mine whom I always drop in to see when I’m in Boston. He’s a thirty-third degree fan, but he’s laid up with rheumatism and can’t get to the games. I’ve been bragging to him what a pitcher you are, and he wants to meet you. Would you mind running down just for a few minutes? It won’t take you long.”

“Of course I will,” answered Joe. “Where are you and just how can I get to you?”

“His yacht is lying off Spring Street wharf. He’ll have a motor boat there to meet you and bring you over. A taxi will bring you to the wharf in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be there,” said Joe.

“That’s bully. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Joe hung up the receiver and looked around for Jim to leave a message with him explaining his short absence. But Barclay was not in sight at the moment, and Joe hastily put on his hat, dashed out, hailed a taxicab, and a moment later was being whizzed uptown.

Not more than ten minutes had passed before the cab drew up at the end of the pier, which at that time was almost deserted.

“Here you are, sir,” announced the driver.

Joe stepped out and paid him.

A large motor boat lay at the pier. As Joe looked around, a man stepped forward.

“This Mr. Matson, sir?” he questioned respectfully.

“Yes,” answered Joe.

“Mr. McRae told us to wait for you here, sir. The yacht’s lying a little way out. Will you step on board, sir?”

Joe stepped into the boat, the moorings were cast off, and to the “chug chug” of the engine the boat darted out on the dark waters of the bay.

Joe took his seat on a padded cushion at the stern, noticing as he did so that there were several husky figures sprawling up near the bow.

The cool night air was very grateful after the heat of the day, and Joe took off his straw hat, so as to get the full benefit of the breeze.

Several minutes passed, and Joe began to wonder that they had not reached the yacht where McRae was waiting for him.

“How far out did you say the yacht was?” he asked casually of the man who was steering.

The man grunted, but made no intelligible reply.

“I asked you how far out the yacht was,” Joe repeated, a vague uneasiness beginning to take possession of him.

At this, a huge figure detached itself from the group forward and came toward him. It was Hennessy, a sour and evil smile upon his weather-beaten face.

“I never heard the old hooker called a yacht before,” he grinned, “but if you must know, it’s quite a tidy way down the bay before we come to it.”

“Why, Mr. McRae said it was lying just off the wharf!” exclaimed Joe.

“Perhaps Mr. McRae says more than his prayers,” was Hennessy’s surly reply.

The words, with all they implied, struck Joe with the force of a blow. Like a flash, the warning of Louis Anderson that morning came to his mind.

“Look here!” he cried, starting to his feet. “What does this mean? What game are you up to?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, my bucko,” answered Hennessy. “In the meantime you’d better take my tip and keep a civil tongue in your head. My temper’s rather short, as those who have sailed with me can tell you.”

“Don’t threaten me!” warned Joe, all his fighting blood coming to the surface.

At his menacing attitude, the men in front rose to their feet and moved forward. There were three of them, which made the combined force five in number, counting Hennessy and the man at the wheel.

Joe cast a swift glance around. There were no boats near at hand which could be reached by a shout. Nor did he have a ghost of a chance against the husky figures standing about him. For the moment the advantage was with the enemy.

An agony of self-reproach overwhelmed him. Why had he so lightly taken it for granted that it was McRae at the telephone? Why had he let the warning of Anderson slip from his mind?

He had fallen into a trap! Where were they taking him? What was their object? He thought of Mabel and his family. Into what dread and consternation they would be plunged by his disappearance! And his comrades on the team! What would they think of him?

Hennessy had been watching him keenly.

“Easy does it,” he remarked. “If you want a rough house you can have it, but take a fool’s advice and don’t go to starting it. We’re too many for you.”

There was sound sense in the advice, unpalatable as it was, and Joe recognized it. He must temporize. He wanted to dash his fist into the ugly face before him, and he promised himself that luxury later on. But just now he must depend on that nimble wit of his that had so often helped him to outguess an opponent.

He sank back in his seat with an affected resignation that was calculated to put his enemy off guard. It did so in the present case, as Hennessy chose to consider the action as a surrender.

“Now you’re acting sensible,” he grunted. “There ain’t no use butting your head against a stone wall.”

“Where are you taking me?” asked Joe in a lifeless tone.

“I don’t know as there’s any harm in telling you, now that we’ve got so far,” Hennessy answered. “I’m taking you on board my ship, the _Walrus_.”

“What for?”

“Just to give you a little sea air,” grinned Hennessy. “Your folks thought it would do you good to take a short v’yage down the coast.”

“Down the coast?”

“South American coast,” replied the captain shortly. “You’re on your way to Rio Janeiro.”

Rio Janeiro! Joe’s heart thumped violently.

“You say my folks are in on this,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Just what do you mean by that?”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about that gang you’re running with and those phony checks, and the like of that,” answered Hennessy.

“Phony checks?” gasped Joe.

“Don’t be playing innocent,” growled Hennessy roughly. “You know well enough what I mean.”

“But you’ve got the wrong man,” persisted Joe. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never ran with a gang or handled bad checks. You’ve picked me up, thinking I was somebody else. I’m a baseball player, a member of the New York Giants.”

“They told me you’d probably say something like that,” retorted Hennessy placidly. “But you can’t pull any wool over my eyes. I’m too old a hand for that.”

The man was obdurate, and Joe ceased his useless efforts to convince him. But he knew now that his case was desperate, and he summoned all his coolness to cope with the situation. One project after another raced through his brain, to be dismissed as useless.

While they had been talking, the motor boat had made rapid progress. But now a heavy haze was settling over the water and the engine slowed down a little.

“Look out, you swab!” shouted Hennessy angrily to the steersman as the end of a pier loomed up before them. “Do you want to smash the boat?”

The man veered off. But in that instant Joe had acted.

His fist shot out, knocking Hennessy off his seat. Like lightning, Joe jumped on the rail and leaped for the pier, six feet distant.

It was a long jump from an unstable footing, but Joe made it and clutched one of the spiles. It was slimy and slippery, but he held on with all the strength of his trained muscles. His feet, swinging wildly about, touched the rung of a ladder. In another moment he swarmed up it, and stood panting and breathless on the wharf.

“Back her! Back her!” screamed Hennessy from the fog. “Don’t let him get away!”

Joe chuckled, as he heard the wild splashing of the water and the pounding of the screw.

“Good-bye, Captain!” he sang out. “Hope I didn’t spoil your beauty. Give my regards to Rio Janeiro.”