CHAPTER XXVII

STEALING SIGNALS

Fleming sat in his chair, limp and sprawling, after the departure of the trio who had burst in on him so unexpectedly. So swept and exhausted was he by the tide of emotions aroused by their visit that he had forgotten all about the presence of Connelly in the adjoining room, and only became conscious of it when the fellow plumped himself down in the chair beside 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 certainly put the skids under you in great shape. That Matson is a bird and no mistake.”

“I’ll get even with him yet,” Fleming broke out stormily. “I won’t let him crow over me. I won’t pay that money.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” returned Connelly, calmly. “He’s got you where the hair is short in that matter of the jail. It mightn’t have been so bad if you’d kept your nerve and denied everything. But he got you so rattled that you admitted knocking that fellow down and then the gravy was 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 may have had only some half facts and made a bluff at the rest. He’s got nerve enough to do it. I have to hand it to him. But now you have admitted 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 knowing that 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 easy to use where others are concerned. “We’ll have our laugh later on. But you want to get that money paid right away, because if we put over on Matson what we’re planning, he’ll be so furious that he’ll send you to jail sure. But if the thing is settled, he’ll be helpless.

“Another thing, unless I’m very much mistaken, Matson himself has given us 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 that old 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 little game? It’s probably a poor neighborhood with the lights none too good and where a scrap wouldn’t attract much attention because it’s a common thing. Moriarity and his bunch could be on hand and the rest would be as easy as taking a dead mouse from a blind kitten.”

“By Jove, the very thing!” ejaculated Fleming, a look of malevolent delight 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 the neighborhood while you’re doing it.”

“Even if Markwith wins this afternoon and so ends the Series, I’d like to put this through on Matson just the same,” snarled Fleming, viciously.

“No we won’t,” declared Connelly, decidedly. “I’m out to keep him from winning 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 got a 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. The enormous seating accommodations were taxed to capacity. It was the last chance 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’s pennant was gone brought the excitement to a delirious pitch.

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

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

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

“I don’t understand it,” muttered McRae, uneasily. “Markwith never seemed 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’s Hartley just behind the screen whispering to Banks. I’ll bet that skunk is giving away Markwith’s signals!”

They looked in the direction indicated. Banks, the Boston second string pitcher, was lolling carelessly against the railing of the grandstand, idly chewing on a wisp of straw. Hartley’s face behind the screen was not two feet away from Banks’ ear.

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

“Great Scott!” cried McRae, leaping up from the bench. “They’re stealing our signals!”