CHAPTER XI
McCarthy in Disgrace
Events crowded upon each other rapidly the following day. The first was a telephone call soon after breakfast that summoned Manager Clancy to the Metropolis Café.
"Hello, Mac," said Clancy gladly. "How you hittin' em? Haven't seen you in an age. How's tricks?"
"Pretty good, Bill. You're looking fine," replied McMahon, manager of the café, who in his youth had played ball on the team with the now famous Clancy. "I was worried about something I heard this morning and thought I'd send for you. I couldn't come up."
"What is it? Let's have a drink—make mine grape juice."
"When I came down this morning Johnny, the night man, told me one of your players was in here until after midnight last night," said the old ball player.
"Which one?" demanded the manager angrily.
"He didn't know him, except that he was a ball player. He was a sandy-haired fellow, rather slender and wiry looking."
"McCarthy—maybe," said the manager thoughtfully and worried. "I didn't think that bird would do it. Something funny."
He had leaped at the identification.
"That isn't the worst of it, Bill," continued McMahon, "that fellow was with Easy Ed Edwards and a big fat guy in a dress suit."
"What?" demanded Clancy, starting indignantly. "Sure of that?"
"Johnny knows Ed Edwards. They sat in the booth over there and had four quarts of wine, and the player was pretty well lighted up when they got out."
"Thanks, Mac," said Clancy worriedly. "This is tough news at this stage of the game. I'll have to take a look into it."
Clancy, his weather-beaten face furrowed with a heavy frown, walked slowly back to the hotel.
President Bannard, of the Bears, was waiting for him in the lobby.
"Good morning, Bill," he said. "You're out early. I wanted to see you."
"Had some business downtown and went out an hour or so ago," replied the manager. "What's the woe?"
"Who's going to pitch to-day?" asked the president.
"I don't know. I never decide in advance," responded the manager carelessly. "Guess it will be either Wilcox or Williams—whichever one looks best warming up."
"If it's all the same to you," said the president diplomatically, "I wish you'd let Williams work."
"Why?" demanded Clancy, on the defensive in an instant.
"It's this way, Bill," explained the president. "You know I don't own this club. I've got most of my money in it, but another fellow has control of the stock. He is going to the game and he asked me to let Williams pitch, as he never has seen him work."
"Williams hasn't been very steady in his last three games," remarked the manager thoughtfully. "I don't want to risk this pennant to please anyone, no matter if he owns the whole league."
"Well, you said yourself that your choice was between Williams and Wilcox, so I can't see it makes any difference."
"You know I don't like to announce pitchers ahead of time," said the manager.
"It seems to me the owner ought to have a right"——
"Now look here, Bannard," said Clancy sharply, "when I signed this contract it was with the agreement that I was to run the business on the ball field and let your end of it alone. I'm perfectly willing to oblige a stockholder, but I'm going to win this pennant, and I'll do what I please with the playing end of the game. If Adonis looks good warming up he'll go in, if he don't I'll send someone else to the slab—and that goes."
"Well—have it your own way"; the president had surrendered entirely to the aggressive manager. "Put him in if you can, and if you can't I'll explain that he wasn't right—twisted himself or something."
Clancy went to his room puzzled and annoyed and, as usual, he sought advice and enlightenment by consulting Mrs. Clancy, whose abundant good nature and portliness formed a striking contrast with his seriousness and slenderness.
"Willie," she said, laying down her sewing after Clancy had stood at the window, whistling and gazing out for ten minutes without saying a word. "Well, Willie—who has broken a leg or sprung a Charlie horse now?"
"Nothing much, mother," said the big manager quietly. "Nothing much—just worrying a little over the way things are going."
"Bill Clancy," she ejaculated indignantly. "Do you think you can fool anyone with that talk? Do you think I could live with you eighteen years, come next Martinmas, and not know when you're in trouble? Tell your old lady what it is."
"Sure, mother," he said fondly, coming to put his arm around her waist. "Haven't you enough troubles of your own?"
"Me have troubles?" She was indignant. "Nothing troubles me but worrying over those pesky boys of yours. What's wrong now, Willie?"
"One of the boys out skylarking last night—and drinking."
"Saints forgive him," she said piously, but with a note of relief. "Sure you'll not be fining the poor boy? Perhaps he needed a drink or two to keep up his courage."
"Nothing like that, mother," he replied seriously. "This was one of the young fellows out with some gamblers drinking wine till past midnight. It looks serious."
"Now, Bill Clancy, you just send for that boy to come right up here and talk it over. Tell him he must behave and explain what it means to all the boys. Then you'll shame him and he'll be a good boy. They're all good boys," she protested earnestly, "only they do try a poor woman."
"I guess that's the best plan, mother," he said. "You trot over into the other room and I'll have him up."
"Which one is it this time, Willie?"
"McCarthy!"
"McCarthy—why, Willie, he wouldn't—there's some mistake. That poor boy wouldn't do such a thing. And him grieving his heart out because Betty Tabor won't treat him well any more. That's what's the trouble, Willie."
"We'll see what it is," said the manager, checking her flow of defense curtly. "I'll have him up. You run into the other room with the sewing and—don't listen."
His telephone call found McCarthy in his room, and the young third baseman promptly ascended to the manager's apartment and entered innocently.
"Good morning, Boss," he said, following the burlesque style of greeting used by the Bears to their manager.
"Good morning," said Clancy curtly, as he scrutinized the face of the player for signs of a debauch and found the blue eyes clear and fresh.
"You wanted to see me?" inquired McCarthy, thrown a little off his easy bearing.
"Yes—where were you last night?"
"I—in my room"—he suddenly remembered the excursion with Swanson. "I was out for a while," he concluded lamely.
"Were you in the café of the Metropolis Hotel late?"
"Yes," confessed McCarthy, bridling at the tone employed by the manager. "I was in there."
"Drinking?"
"Yes—lemonade."
"Nothing stronger?"
"No."
"No wine?"
"No—I'm not in the wine class."
"Who were you with?"
"You're the manager," said McCarthy quietly, although he was rebellious inwardly. "You may ask me anything you want to about myself or my actions—but you surely don't expect me to tell on anyone else?"
"I don't want you to tell on any ball player—but who were you with?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell."
"You needn't tell me—I know," said the manager angrily. "You got up out of bed to go there to meet Easy Ed Edwards—and you were with him while three of you drank four quarts of wine."
For an instant McCarthy clenched his hands until the nails bit into the palms, and a flood of angry color flashed into his face. With an effort he controlled himself.
"You've got everything backwards," he said at last, gazing straight at the angry manager. "I can't explain just now—but you'll find out some day—and apologize."
He turned without another word and left the room. Clancy, who had expected angry denials, threats, perhaps a personal encounter, sat gazing at the closed door, and then to himself he said:
"It looks bad, but hanged if I don't believe him. No fellow could lie and look like that."