CHAPTER XII.

THE PLAN OF MELVIN M’GANN.

Two men sat talking in the room back of the Hotel Imperial bar, New York City. The slim, dark-eyed man, with the tiny mustache, was Melvin McGann, until recently a partial owner of the Philadelphia Athletics. The stout, sandy man, with the red face and red necktie, was Robert Gowan, at one time interested in the New York Giants.

“I’m afraid it’s a wild scheme, McGann,” said the latter, in a husky voice, which seemed choked and somewhat smothered in the speaker’s thick throat. “You’re looking for revenge, regardless of consequences, that’s what’s the matter.”

“I’m looking for revenge,” admitted McGann; “I admit that. But I’m no fool. The plan is practical. Hurley convinced me of that. We can’t lose much, and we may open up a field that will revolutionize baseball.”

“I’m not a revolutionist,” wheezed Gowan. “If there’s money in it, I may be interested, not otherwise.”

“Well, there’s a prospect of money in it. It might mean the forming of a new league, with you and me at its head.”

“Huah!” grunted Gowan noncommittally.

“Why not?” exclaimed McGann. “You know, as well as I, that every year the big leagues ‘try out’ a lot of good men who are not kept simply because there is not room for them. These men are held until after the season is fairly under way and then are dropped. They go to the minor leagues and to independent teams. Many times they are fast enough for the major-league teams, but they fail to land because old-stagers pan out and hold their jobs for another season. I’ll guarantee that this year the two big leagues will drop enough cracking good youngsters to form another fast six-team league. It has been done already.”

“And most of the men have secured positions on minor leagues.”

“I’m not talking about forming a league—this year. I’m talking about getting together one team, made up of outcasts, that can trim anything playing baseball.”

“Can it be done?”

“Sure.”

“You’ll have to show me.”

“Wait till Hurley comes,” nodded McGann, looking at his watch. “He should be here now. He’ll tell you what men he can get hold of.”

“He’s a sorehead.”

“Yes, he’s sore, and you can’t blame him. He had every reason to suppose he’d make the Cleveland team. He’s one of the greatest stickers in the country. Not even Lajoie can swat the ball harder or oftener. And he’s a great first baseman. As an organizer and captain he ranks with Collins.”

“Then why didn’t he get there?”

“Jealousy—that’s what he says.”

“That’s what he says,” wheezed Gowan. “They all have some such tale to tell after they’re dropped.”

“I happen to know he tells the truth. He came on from the West and spent all the spring getting into condition. He seemed to have a cinch. There was talk of farming him, and holding him over for next year, but a certain power prevented, and he suddenly found himself out in the cold, cold world. Jersey City wants him; Los Angeles wants him; Fort Worth wants him. But he wants revenge. He was the man who talked me into the idea of getting together a team of outcasts and showing up some of the big teams.”

“How do you propose to show them up?”

“Beat them at their own game.”

“That’s easy enough—to talk about.”

“It can be done.”

“They won’t play you. At this time of the year they are pretty busy among themselves, with no open dates.”

“You forget Sundays. Sunday baseball is not played in Boston, New York, and several other places. Every Sunday a number of big-league teams rest, while others play. On week days we can get games with the best independent teams.”

“And lose money right along.”

“No. Hurley says he knows a dozen men who have been dropped, and who will go into the scheme heartily if they see a chance to get up against one or two of the big teams, so they can demonstrate what they can do. These men are enthusiastic, and they’ll play for expenses up to the time that the team makes money. They will sign with the understanding that they are to be paid certain salaries if the receipts justify it. You see there is no probability of any great loss, and there is a possibility of big profits.”

Gowan meditated.

“After showing me that a team of fast players can be made up,” he finally wheezed, “you’ll have to show me that such a team can get at least one game with some of the majors.”

“Will you take hold of it then?”

“I—I may,” answered the stout man cautiously.

“Well, here, I have a pull with two managers who will favor me. Look at these letters. Here’s one from Collins, of Boston, and this from McGraw. Both promise to give me a game if I get the team and they find an open date.”

Gowan adjusted a pair of spectacles and examined the letters placed before him, while McGann lighted a cigarette.

“All very friendly and fine,” admitted the stout man, as he refolded the letters; “but neither man makes a definite promise.”

“As far as possible, both do. I know they’ll keep their word. I’ll guarantee to get a game with one of those teams, if we can make up a bunch that is fast enough. I can get the field in Hoboken for almost any Sunday if I arrange for it in advance. We can draw a mob. I tell you, Bob, we’ll make money, sure as fate. If we succeed with one team made up from outcasts this year, we can keep our little scheme quiet, and next season we can begin early to make arrangements, and we can spring the Outcasts League, which will come pretty near rating with the National or the American. Of course we’ll be outsiders for a season; but we may be able to show the country some baseball that will make the National Association recognize us. In two or three years, if we plan properly and carry out our schemes, we may be pushing the two top-notchers for leadership. That would give me all the revenge I want for being crowded out in Philadelphia.”

“It’s a visionary scheme, Mel. I doubt if it can be done this year with a bunch of outcasts. I’d like to hear what Hurley has to say. Why doesn’t he show up?”

“Here he comes now,” said McGann.

Hurley was a well set-up young chap, with a businesslike air. His face was pleasant yet grave. He had the chin and nose of a commander, while his eye was quick and penetrating. He advanced and greeted Melvin McGann, who shook hands with him and then introduced him to Gowan.

The stout man shook hands without rising. There was little polish about him.

“Hope you’ve not been waiting for me a great while, gentlemen,” said Hurley. “I’ve been talking with Mat O’Neill, who was just thinking of starting for Hartford, where he has a chance to get into the Connecticut State League. I induced him to stop over until to-night. Told him there was something in the wind, and outlined enough of the scheme to interest him, without letting him into all the details. I had to do it, for O’Neill is just the man we want. You know him, Mr. McGann. He pitched in the Northern New York League last season and made a wonderful record. Collins picked him out, and gave him a trial in New Orleans. He lost the game, and he hasn’t been given another chance. The other pitchers panned out, and Collins dropped him. He had hard luck in New Orleans. If they’d tried him again I’m sure he would have opened their eyes. I’d like to run him against the champs.”

Hurley was a man of enthusiasm. He expressed it in his manner of speech, yet there was that about him which indicated that he was not headstrong and reckless.

“Sit down, Hurley,” invited McGann. “Tell us who you have on the string.”

The ballplayer took a chair and the three drew close together around one of the little tables.

“Is it a go?” asked Hurley. “Can you raise the backing, Mr. McGann?”

“If Mr. Gowan sees that the prospect is encouraging, I think he will come into the deal with me.”

“Good! He won’t regret it. There’s money in it, as sure as you’re a living man. If we don’t last more than three weeks, we can make money while we do last, providing, of course, that you’re able to keep your part of the agreement, and get a game in Hoboken with one of the three big-league teams we’ve mentioned; either New York team or the Boston champs. Why, we can pack ’em into the field over at Hoboken like sardines in a box!”

“I know I can make good what I’ve promised.”

“Tell us what players you can gather up, Mr. Hurley,” urged Gowan. “I’m rather skeptical in regard to the strength of the team.”

“Don’t you be skeptical for a moment. Listen. I have O’Neill for the principal pitcher, with Boliver Bimm for change pitcher and the outfield. The Athletics let Bimm go because their sore-armed men came round all right and their list of pitchers was complete. Bimm can hit at a three-hundred clip, and they were dopey over in Quakertown when they let him slide. I can get Bill Brackett, who came so near making the Brooklyn team. He’s a good utility man, as well as a fair pitcher. We can keep him on the bench and use him in the box against ordinary teams. He can pitch three games a week right along—four, if necessary. How is that for a pitching staff?”

“Huah!” grunted Gowan, in his usual noncommittal manner. “Go on. Who’s behind the plate?”

“Cy Swatt.”

“Why, I thought he had signed with Chicago.”

“He’s been cast adrift on the cold world.”

“I don’t understand why!” exclaimed McGann.

“Nobody else. I’ve got him on the string. We can land him, and he’ll make ’em go some. He’s one of the handsomest throwers to bases I ever saw. I played with him out on the Coast two years ago.”

“Go on,” wheezed Gowan, showing some signs of interest.

“I’ll be on first.”

“And that corner of the diamond will be well covered,” nodded McGann.

“Thank you,” said Hurley quietly. “We’ll have Jack Roden at second. The Yankees gave him a show in one game. He accepted seven chances without an error and made a three-bagger out of three times at bat. He drew a pass once and was hit by a pitched ball once. He stole two bases. But there wasn’t room for him on the team, and he never got another show.”

“Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it, Gowan?” asked McGann.

“Uh-huh,” grunted Gowan.

“For third,” continued Hurley, “I can land Hoke Marcey, who threw his arm out in practice while the Giants were on their Southern trip. His arm is back in shape again, but that accident lost him a chance to make the team.”

“Marcey’s my own particular pet,” wheezed Gowan. “I recommended him to McGraw. Mugsey didn’t treat him right.”

“He’ll be with us if we start right away,” declared Hurley. “In the outfield, besides Bimm, we’ll have Cal Grimley, of Detroit, for left, and Tip Creel, who’s been benching it with the Washington Americans, for centre. Now, gentlemen, if that aggregation can’t play ball I don’t know a thing about the game. I believe I can make a bunch of hustlers out of them. Give me a week of playing with independent teams, and I’ll be ready to tackle anything in the two big leagues. I’ll show you some chaps who will work for every game as if their lives depended on the result. I’ll get them working together in a week.”

“Do you know for sure that you can land every man you have named?” wheezingly inquired Gowan.

“Well, I have the promise of almost every one of them. If we get the backing now, I’ll have them together and practicing so soon it will make you gasp.”

“You haven’t named your shortstop,” reminded McGann.

“Haven’t settled on the man for the position. Can get any one of three. Don’t worry about that.”

“What do you say, Gowan?” asked McGann. “Are you ready to go in with me to back this team on the terms stated?”

“Yes,” answered the stout man, “I’m with you.”

* * * * *

Shortly after this the baseball world was given a sensation. McGann and Gowan’s Outcasts made their first appearance in Ridgewood, N.J., easily defeating the locals. The next day they played in Hoboken and secured another easy victory. Their first Sunday game was with the Jersey City team of the Eastern League, and the score was eight to five in their favor. Then followed five games with the strongest independent teams in the East, and five more “scalps” were garnered to their glory. On the second Sunday they played the Giants of New York in Hoboken before a mob of people that simply overran the grounds. The score was three to one in favor of the Outcasts, and their reputation was made. They sought games with the New York Yankees and the Boston champs, but the managers of these two teams seemed attacked with a sudden severe case of “cold feet.” Although they had given McGann reasons to believe they would play his team, this happened before the Outcasts were organized and had made such a bewildering record. After this happened they couldn’t seem to find any open dates. Manager McGann challenged any and all teams in both the big leagues, the winners to take the entire gate receipts after expenses were deducted.

The Outcasts had arrived.