CHAPTER XXIII

AN EVIL INFLUENCE

It was with a thrill that Joe gathered up his hand-baggage when the train rolled into the Union Station at St. Louis. Here was the city where he had first broken into the big league, where he had fought his first battles and won his spurs in fast company. If he had not played on the Cardinals, he might not have attracted the attention of McRae and been traded to the Giants; if he had not been on the Giants he would not have had his present chance of getting into the World’s Series; if he should get into that dreamed of Series there would be that neat little sum with which to start housekeeping--and here Joe put his hand into his breast pocket to touch that little glove.

His pleasant musings were interrupted by a vigorous clap on the shoulder and the sound of a well-remembered voice.

“Hello, Joe, old man!” it said, and the next instant Joe was shaking hands with good old Rad Chase, who had come down to meet him.

“Rad, old boy, there’s no man on earth I’d rather meet,” he declared, after introducing him to Jim. “How are things going in little old St. Louis?”

“Fine as silk,” grinned Rad. “The only thing we’re missing is the eminent Mr. Matson on our team. If we had him, we’d make a mighty strong bid for the flag. I see that you’ve been up to your old tricks in New York. They’re beginning to put your name and Hughson’s together when they talk of the Giants’ chances to win the pennant.”

“You mustn’t believe all you hear,” laughed Joe. “But I’m glad to see that you’re cleaning up things here in the West. Those three straight from Chicago last week was some ball playing.”

“Let’s hope it isn’t only a spurt,” said Rad. “We need some Giant scalps in our wigwam just now. About three out of four will do.”

“Guess again,” laughed Joe. “But tell me how are the old boys? How is Campbell? Has he got any new neckties this year?”

“Has he?” grinned Rad. “He showed me one yesterday that had a regular delirium-tremens effect. I’m afraid to go to sleep for fear I’ll dream of it.”

“Come up to the hotel with us and have dinner,” invited Joe, as he signaled for a taxi.

“You bet I will,” replied Rad, heartily. “I’ve got a hundred things I want to talk to you about and now that I’ve got my hooks on you, I’m not going to let go in a hurry.”

They had a royal meal and a delightful evening together, and about ten o’clock Rad rose to go.

“Barclay and I’ll go with you a way,” said Joe. “McRae doesn’t care, as long as we’re back by eleven.”

They strolled through the brilliantly lighted streets until they had reached Rad’s home and then Joe and Jim Barclay started to return.

Finding that they were a little later than they thought, they were making a short cut through a side street, when their attention was drawn to a man who emerged with unsteady steps from a saloon on the corner. There was something familiar about him, although they could not get a clear view of his face.

Suddenly Joe gave vent to a startled ejaculation:

“Great Scott, Jim!” he exclaimed, “it’s Bugs Hartley!”

“So it is,” replied Jim, looking more closely. “And he’s pretty well loaded. What’ll McRae say?”

“What he’ll say will be plenty,” returned Joe, “and he won’t stop with talking. He’ll fire him from the team. Look here, Jim, we’ve got to get him into the hotel without Mac seeing him.”

“How are we going to do it?” asked Jim.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to try. Hello, Hartley,” he called, coming up beside the man.

Hartley turned and looked at our hero sourly.

“Hello yourself,” he said with a lurch. “Whaz mazher?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” replied Joe, “except that you’d better come home with us right away. It’s nearly eleven o’clock and it’s time we were in bed. We don’t want McRae to make the rounds and find our rooms empty. Come along.”

Hartley, with an intoxicated man’s stubbornness, was inclined to argue the question, but Joe and Jim ranged themselves alongside and half urged, half dragged him along, until they drew near the hotel.

“You stay here,” directed Joe, who had thought out a way of smuggling his team-mate into the hotel, “while I go on and fix things up.”

He slipped in and found the head porter to whom he passed a bill, at the same time telling him what he wanted. The porter suggested that they go through the servant’s quarters in the rear of the hotel and upstairs by a freight elevator that he arranged to have in readiness. Joe went back to where he had left the others, and by dint of strenuous efforts he and Jim finally got Hartley up to his room without detection. There they surrendered him to the tender mercy of his room-mate, who helped him to get undressed and put him to bed.

Joe and Jim adjourned to their own room. They were flustered and distressed. They felt bitterly indignant at Hartley who, by his recklessness, was threatening to wreck the chances of the team. Yet they felt that they could not have acted differently from what they had.

“He’s a peach, isn’t he?” said Jim, indignantly.

“That’s what he is,” returned Joe. “And it’s his regular turn to go in the box tomorrow. He’ll be in fine condition to pitch. They’ll knock him all over the lot.”

“Just when the team was moving along so smoothly,” groaned Jim. “It’s like throwing a monkey wrench into a ship’s engines. Before you know it, the whole thing’s ready for the scrap heap.”

“It’s too bad,” assented Joe. “But all we can do is to hope that it won’t happen again. Perhaps when he comes to his senses, he’ll realize what a close call he’s had and cut out the liquor for good.”

As Joe had predicted, the Cardinals made merry with Hartley’s curves the next day and won the game with ease. Joe put the second game on the right side of the ledger, and Hughson accounted for the third. Markwith had a bad day, however, in the concluding game, and the team had to be satisfied with an even break, where they had fondly hoped for three out of four or possibly a clean sweep.

They were a trifle luckier in Chicago, where they won two out of three, rain preventing the last game. Cincinnati yielded three straight, though the Queen Cityites took the fourth, and in Pittsburgh, where they wound up their first Western invasion, they broke even.

“Not so bad for a road trip, nine out of fifteen,” said Larry Barrett, as he was talking it over with Joe. “As a matter of fact it’s better than we did at home. But the Giants always have been a good road team. But now you’ve had a chance to size up every team in the league. You’ve seen their weak points and their strong ones. Tell me straight, who do you think will win the pennant?”

“The Giants,” replied Joe, without a second’s hesitation.

“That listens good,” laughed Larry. “There’s nothing like feeling sure of a thing. I only hope you’re right.”

But a time was coming when Joe would have given a great deal to be half as sure as he was that afternoon.