CHAPTER XXVIII
Williams Stands Exposed
"Now here's a bally nice mess of figures," said Kennedy, holding half a dozen much-marked-upon sheets of writing paper in his inky fingers, and looking across the table at Swanson, Norton and Holleran.
"What are you figuring, Ken?" asked Holleran.
"I've been trying to figure out this pennant race," said Kennedy irritably. "Here we seem to be half a game ahead of the Panthers, and yet, just because it rained on them yesterday, and they didn't have to play but one game of their doubleheader, we've got to win two games to beat them out if they win their one game to-day."
He handed across a sheet of paper upon which was written:
W. L. P.C.
Bears.......... 89 59 .600
Panthers....... 91 61 .599
"Well, ain't we ahead of them?" asked Swanson, studying the figures.
"Yes, but look here. Supposing they win to-day and we win, we'll still be ahead. But supposing they win to-day and we win, and then we lose to-morrow. Look at this."
He handed over another slip of paper, upon which was written:
W. L. P.C.
Panthers....... 92 61 .601
Bears.......... 90 60 .600
"If we don't win both these games, or if it don't rain here to-day, or up home to-morrow, and keep us from playing, they beat us out by ten thousandths, or thirteen hundred thousandths. Didn't I always say thirteen was an unlucky number?"
"I wonder who Clancy will send in to pitch to-day?" asked Kennedy, idly. "Wilcox hasn't had enough rest. I suppose he'll be saved for to-morrow. Jacobson isn't right, and Morgan worked yesterday and got his trimmings. I suppose it'll be Williams."
An ugly laugh greeted his sarcastic remark, and Norton opened his lips as if to speak, but, thinking better of it, closed them again.
At that moment a bell boy came into the writing room, paging Williams. A quick exchange of glances between the players resulted and Swanson asked, "Who wants Mr. Williams?"
"Mr. Clancy, sir," said the boy. "He wants Mr. Williams in his room at once."
"Didn't I tell you?" said Kennedy, in mock triumph.
"Say, fellows," added Swanson. "I'd give a month's pay to hear what comes off up in that room. Clancy was on his ear this morning when I came down. He'd been awake half the night, trying to get some word from Kohinoor, and he was pretty well worked up. You know when he gets started to telling a fellow what he thinks of him he does it so the fellow believes it himself."
"He sure can explain a fellow's shortcomings," said Kennedy. "Look, the boy has found Williams and he is going up. He looks scared to death."
"Mamma, but I'd like to be among those present," said Swanson. "There will be several developments. Hadn't we better put mattresses under Clancy's window for Williams to light on?"
Meantime, in Manager Clancy's room a scene was being staged that fulfilled all the expectations of the players. Williams entered the room with a swaggering pretense of ignorance of the nature of the summons.
"Morning, Manager," he said with an effort at innocent playfulness. "How's things?"
"Sit down, you crook!"
Clancy had arisen as Williams entered. He shot the order at the pitcher viciously and without warning, and, as he spoke, he stepped past the player, and locked the door.
Williams had gone pale. His mouth dropped open. He started to say something, choked and sat down.
"What—what do you mean?" he managed to stammer as Clancy came close and stood over him threateningly.
After his first outburst of rage Clancy was strangely quiet, speaking in low tones, vibrating with repressed feeling. From the moment Barney Baldwin had revealed to him his ownership of the Bears, and had issued his positive orders that Williams should pitch the game, Clancy had been fighting within himself, studying to find some plan of vengeance that would strike all the plotters. Never for an instant had he considered the thought of permitting the championship to be surrendered by the orders of the owner.
"Williams," he said, "you're a never-to-be-sufficiently-spit-upon cur. You're the lowest, yellowest dog in the world. I've known for two weeks that you have been trying to lose the pennant for us."
"Shut up!" he snapped, lifting his voice sharply as the pitcher attempted to speak. "I know what you've done and what you plan to do. I know who is back of you"——
The pitcher cowered under the scathing denunciation and started as if to rise.
"Who—who's been telling you this stuff?" he quavered, terror-stricken.
"You—you rat." Clancy's scorn stung like a lash and Williams quivered. "I know everything. I've waited and watched when you thought you were putting something over. I've waited for a chance to get you"——
He paused a moment, while Williams, palsied with terror, sat unable to answer.
"And I've got you, Williams!"
He shot the sentence at the pitcher, who half started from his seat, lifting his hands as if to protect himself from attack.
"I'm not going to choke you to death, I wouldn't soil my hands on you," said the manager with a scornful laugh.
"What are you going to do, Bill?" William's voice quivered.
"I'm going to make you pitch to-day's game," said the manager quietly.
A gasp of amazement and relief came from Williams.
"You're going to pitch to-day's game, Williams," the manager repeated. "And you're going to win it. You're going to win it, or if you don't win I'll tell the crowd you were bribed, and I'll let the crowd handle you. They'll tear you to pieces, Williams, and kick the pieces around the diamond—and I'll help them do it."
"You won't do anything to me if I win?" pleaded the pitcher.
"No; I won't do a thing to you," said Clancy, and he spat as if to relieve himself of a bad taste, as he turned and went out, locking the door.
"Good God, look at Clancy," whispered Swanson in awed tones as the manager stepped out of the elevator a minute or two later. "He's in his blackest form. I honestly pity Williams."
"Swanson," said Clancy sharply.
"What is it, Boss?" asked Swanson anxiously.
"Nothing," snapped Clancy, "I want you to do something."
"All right."
"Williams is locked in my room. You watch the door. If he breaks out kill him."
He turned and stalked away like a man in a trance, leaving the big shortstop staring after him.