CHAPTER XXIX

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

There was great hilarity in the Giants’ camp that night, and this feeling was shared by the entire city. Now the Chicagos would have to take all the remaining games to win, and with Joe and Hughson pitching two of them, this seemed altogether unlikely.

Joe was on his way to the grounds the next morning to get a little preliminary practice. He just wanted to “toss up a few” to make sure that his arm was in perfect working order for the game that afternoon. He wanted to settle the thing then and there, so that the long strain would be over and the two remaining games would be simply for the sake of finishing out the schedule.

He had plenty of time, and for the sake of the walk he left the elevated train two stations this side of the Polo Grounds and walked north through Eighth Avenue. There were many vacant lots in this locality, and there were not very many people on the avenue at that hour.

He glanced carelessly at a man who passed him with his hat drawn down over his face. It struck him that there was something about the fellow that was vaguely familiar. Where had he seen that lean, sharp-featured face?

Suddenly it came to him and he turned about like a flash.

The man was Talham Tabbs!

By this time the crazy man was nearly a block away, and he too was looking back as though the recognition had been mutual.

Joe did not hesitate for an instant. Fate had thrown this chance in his way and he might never have another. He started to run and then checked himself for fear of alarming his quarry and subsided into a swift walk.

But the cunning of the insane man had seen Joe’s first movement and interpreted it correctly. He turned into a vacant lot and broke into a run.

Joe hesitated no longer at following his example; and the next moment a lively chase was on.

By the time Joe turned into the lot, Tabbs was three hundred feet ahead and running hard. But he was no match for a young man who was in the pink of condition and who was able to circle the bases in fifteen seconds flat. In less than a minute Joe was close on his heels. Tabbs turned and twisted desperately and just as Joe reached out his hand to grasp him, he dodged under his arms and doubled on his tracks. Joe swung around as though on a pivot, and in another moment his hand was on the collar of the panting man. He dug his knuckles into Tabbs’ neck and the latter ceased to struggle.

For a moment neither spoke, each trying to regain his breath. Then, to Joe’s astonishment, Tabbs grinned affably and twiddled his fingers as he had done previously in the Riverside jail.

“Hello, brother,” greeted Tabbs. “That was a good game of tag, wasn’t it? I guess I’m it.”

There was such an utter absence of malice or resentment, that Joe, who had been bracing himself for a struggle, was taken aback, and his heart smote him a little as he saw Tabbs’ friendly signal. But he was quick to follow his lead.

“I guess you are,” he laughed. “It’s just the morning for a little run. You’re certainly a dandy sprinter.”

A look of gratified vanity came over Tabbs.

“Let’s try it again,” he suggested. “I’ll chase you this time and I’ll bet you can’t get away from me.”

“That’s a good idea,” agreed Joe, “but first I want to rest a little. It isn’t every one who can keep it up like you, you know. Suppose we go down to your rooms and have a little talk about lodge matters first. Where are you living?”

“Up here in Amsterdam Avenue,” replied Tabbs, promptly. “Come right along.”

They walked out to the avenue, Joe cudgeling his brains as to what the next step should be. As they reached the corner, he saw one of the policemen who had been assigned to duty at the Polo Grounds. He was in citizen’s clothes and bowed cordially to Joe.

“Excuse me just a moment, while I speak to this friend of mine,” said Joe to his companion.

“Certainly,” said Tabbs, politely.

Joe led Reardon, the policeman, aside.

“Reardon,” he said, hurriedly, and in a low voice, “this man is crazy. I want you to keep out of sight but follow us. When you see us go into a house, call up the Marlborough and tell a Mr. Varley there to come up right away. Then stand guard at the door until I turn this man over to you to be sent back to the asylum he escaped from.”

“All right,” said Reardon, who had been too long on the force to be surprised at anything.

A few minutes’ walk brought Joe and Tabbs to a comfortable old-fashioned boarding house.

“Here we are,” the crazy man said, and led the way to a large room on the second floor. Joe noted in a corner a large valise with Tabbs’ initials on it.

They sat down and chatted about various things, and except for an occasional foolish remark that had no bearing on the subject, Joe would not have known that he was talking to a lunatic. Tabbs had evidently been a man of keen intelligence and wide observation. Joe kept leading him on, trying desperately to kill time till Reggie should arrive.

“If you’re rested enough now, we’ll go out and finish that game of tag,” Tabbs had just remarked, when a taxi whirled up to the door. Joe flung open the door of the room and Reggie came flying up the stairs and dashed in, followed by Reardon, who carefully closed the door and put his broad shoulders against it.

Tabbs looked in surprise at this sudden invasion of his rooms. Then he recognized Reggie and smiled genially.

“How do you do, Mr. Varley?” he said.

“Where are my securities?” demanded Reggie, breathless with excitement.

“Your securities?” repeated Tabbs. “Let me see. Perhaps I have them over here.”

He walked over to the valise, unlocked it, took out a package and looked it over.

“These must be the ones,” he continued. “They’ve been in my way for some time and I’ve thought more than once of throwing them away. I was trying to remember how I got hold of them.”

With trembling fingers Reggie thumbed the papers. Then he gave an exclamation of delight.

“Every one of them here!” he cried. “Joe, I can never thank you enough for getting them back for me.”

“Well, now,” said Tabbs, blandly, “let’s go and have that game of tag.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to let that go just now,” said Joe, rising to go. “But this friend of mine will take my place,” pointing to Reardon.

Tabbs assented cheerfully and waved a gay farewell to Joe and Reggie, as they went downstairs to the taxi, leaving him in Reardon’s custody.

“Poor old fellow!” sighed Joe, as he looked for the last time on the wreck of what had been a splendid man.

Reggie was eager to share his rejoicing with Mabel and Joe would have gone with him if he could. But so much time had been consumed that the young pitcher had no more than time to get a light lunch and hurry off to the Polo Grounds.

But when he reached the clubhouse, distressing news awaited him. A disaster had come upon the New York camp.

The great Hughson had had his arm twisted in an auto accident and was out of the game for the series!

Joe was knocked off his balance by the news. He realized at once the far reaching consequences of the calamity. He knew the panic it would create in the New York camp and the renewal of heart and hope that would come to the enemy now that their most dreaded foe was out of the running.

McRae was stamping about the clubhouse like a crazy man. Robson sat moodily in one corner, his arms folded on his breast. The players, in various conditions of undress, were white and shaken at the report that had just come over the telephone from Hughson’s house.

It was not advisable to approach McRae in his present frantic condition and Joe made his way over to Robson.

“How did it happen?” he asked. “And how bad is it?”

“So bad that it may knock us out of winning the pennant,” groaned Robson. “I don’t know anything about how it happened. Mrs. Hughson, who called us up, was so excited that she couldn’t tell us very clearly. Mac has sent for a taxi, and as soon as it comes we’re going up to Hughson’s house.”

At that moment word was brought that the taxicab was waiting, and McRae and Robson hurried toward the door.

McRae caught sight of Joe standing near.

“You come along with us,” he ordered. “Even if Hughson’s arm is hurt, his tongue and brain are probably all right, and he may be able to give you some fresh pointers on those Chicago sluggers after facing them yesterday.”

Joe was only too willing, and they bundled in. The driver, under the promise of a generous tip, made fast time on his way to Hughson’s house.

They found the great pitcher reclining on a lounge with his arm in bandages and his face drawn with pain. He greeted them with a smile that was evidently an effort.

“Come up to look at the wreck?” he inquired, as they crowded anxiously around him. “Well, I’m worth a dozen dead men yet, even if this arm of mine is on the blink.”

“In the name of hard luck,” moaned McRae, “how did it all happen?”

“Got caught between two trolley cars,” replied Hughson. “I was in a taxi on Eighth Avenue on my way to the grounds and the driver tried to cross the tracks. Thought he could just slip by between cars coming in opposite directions, but missed his guess. I might just as well have been killed as not, but all hands did their best, and I got off with a wrenched back and a strained arm.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing broken?” inquired Joe anxiously.

“Dead sure,” was the reply. “The doctor’s just got through fixing me up, and he says that there are no bones or ligaments broken. But I’ll be on the shelf for two or three weeks.”

“Two or three weeks!” groaned McRae. “And this series will be over in two or three days!”

“It’s tough luck,” said Hughson bitterly. “I’d have given my share of the World’s Series money not to have had this thing happen.”

“Just when we had those fellows on the run, too,” remarked Robson gloomily. “That beating you gave them yesterday took a good deal of vim out of them and we’d probably have cleaned ’em up today. But when they hear of this they’ll be like wild men and there’ll be no holding them.”

“I’ll trust Matson to tame them,” was Hughson’s comforting remark. “He’s as good a man at this moment as I ever dared to be.”

“Nobody’s as good as you are, Hughson,” was Joe’s answer to this generous praise. “But you can do an awful lot for me just now in giving me pointers on what to feed those fellows,” he added.

“And you’ll have to hurry,” broke in McRae, looking at his watch. “We haven’t much more than time now to get back to the grounds.”

For five minutes there was an animated discussion, and then, with a cordial goodby to Hughson, the three entered the waiting taxicab and were whirled back to the Polo Grounds.