CHAPTER XXXI
The Plotters Foiled
The gasp of astonishment with which the crowd greeted the announcement that Williams would pitch gave way quickly to a cry of surprise that rose to a roar of applause when Bill Tascott announced that McCarthy would play third base.
He walked slowly out toward third base, the huge arm of Swanson, who with a bellow of gladness had raced to meet and embrace him, around his shoulders, while the great crowd stood and howled with excitement and hummed with curiosity as to the explanation of his reappearance. Had Clancy tricked the Blues and produced his third baseman at the dramatic instant, hoping to unnerve them? Had McCarthy been hurt? A thousand conjectures and questions flashed around the field.
The announcement by Bill Tascott was a double shock to two persons sitting in one of the front boxes near the Bears' bench. Barney Baldwin brought his fat hand down with a thump upon the shoulders of the rat-faced, cold-eyed man who sat next to him, and shouted, "I told you so!"
Easy Ed Edwards, paler than usual, turned angrily toward the politician, restrained himself, and resumed his steady scrutiny of the field. When the umpire announced McCarthy playing third, Baldwin, in his astonishment, half arose and Edwards started quickly.
"Sit down, you fool," he said sharply. "We're in enough trouble without you giving us away. Clancy was watching us from the bench. They're wise to you."
"To me!" ejaculated Baldwin. "I like your nerve"——
"You're the only one they can connect with McCarthy's—accident," he said coldly. "There'll be h—— to pay at home."
McCarthy's head was bandaged afresh, strips of court-plaster decorated his face, and even from the stands the black bruises around his eyes were visible.
Nearly forty thousand persons were watching, unaware of the full meaning of the complex drama they were witnessing. McCarthy was so astonished at hearing that Williams was pitching that he turned to Swanson.
"What does it mean, Silent?" he asked anxiously.
"Clancy made him pitch," whispered Swanson rapidly as they went toward the bench. "He has had him locked in his room all day and Williams is scared stiff. Look at him."
The pitcher was white to the mouth, and he licked his lips nervously as if in a fever, as he sat during the first inning while his own team endeavored to make a run. Clancy, his face hard, sat next to him, terrible in his rigidity.
Three of the Bears retired in rapid order and the team raced for the field. A roar of applause greeted them, and as McCarthy ran along in front of the stands, the applause followed him like a wave. It was clear some hint of the truth was spreading through the crowd. Williams hung back when the team started for the field.
"I can't, Bill. Oh, God, I can't," he wailed. "Please"——
"Get out there and pitch! Pitch whatever Kennedy signals for, and if you don't"——
"I'll try, Bill. But if"——
"There are no ifs," snarled the manager, half rising.
Williams walked to his position, a glare of terror in his eyes, as if he contemplated flight. He was wild and erratic at the start. Two balls sailed wide from the plate, and Swanson ran to him.
"Get that next one over or I'll signal Clancy," he said.
Williams put every ounce of power into his throwing arm, and the ball cut the heart of the plate, jumping.
"The old hop on it!" yelled McCarthy. "That's pitching, Adonis; that's pitching."
Williams stood staring toward him as if dumfounded. A grateful look came into his eyes.
"Now the old hook, Adonis," yelled McCarthy. "Something on every one to-day, remember!"
An outburst of cheering arose from the crowd. Those who had heard or read the stories and rumors of the enmity between the two thought they recognized the magnanimity of the third baseman and admired him. Another strike whizzed over the plate, and a fast ball hopped while the batter swung. The strike out was greeted with a howl of applause. Williams glanced toward the stands. His eyes met those of Edwards fixed upon him, and his nerve broke. He pitched without looking to see what Kennedy signaled, and "Sacred" White, the center fielder of the Blues, drove the ball to left center for three bases. Kennedy gave a quick glance at Clancy, who sat staring straight ahead. Swanson rushed upon Williams, who, trembling with fear, waved him back. He pitched desperately, but Wertheim hit a long fly to center and "Sacred" White scampered home.
"I didn't do it, Bill. Honestly, I didn't," pleaded Williams, as he returned to the bench and resumed his seat next to the manager.
"Williams," said Clancy coldly, "you pitched without a signal. I've got men in the stands to pass circulars telling exactly what you have done. If that happens again I'll signal them, and when the crowd gets you, may the Lord have mercy"——
"I'll pitch—I was trying," begged the pitcher. "Don't turn the crowd loose on me. They'll kill me."
"Then win," ordered Clancy.
The fifth came with the score 1 to 0 and Wiley pitching at his best. Williams had lost some of his nervousness. Either he had made up his mind to betray Edwards, and strive to win, or he was pitching, as he thought, for his life. His fast ball was cutting the plate, and even when the Blues hit it they popped the ball into the air for easy outs. The last half of the fifth started. Williams, glancing toward the stand as he walked out to the slab, saw Edwards. Edwards made a quick signal with his hand and turned his face away. Williams went to the slab entirely unnerved. He was wild, and a base on balls gave the Blues another opening. Instantly Swanson charged upon him and renewed his threats, and Williams, after pitching two more balls wild, got one over the plate, and Henderson sacrificed, putting Hickman on second. Kirkpatrick drove a hard bounder at Norton, who fumbled, recovered, threw wild and Malone scored.
McCarthy was feeling deadly weary. The racking ride in the automobile, the injuries received at the hands of Edwards and his prize-fighter employe, the loss of sleep and the anxiety, added to the strain of the game, had sapped his youthful vitality. Williams, under the dire threats of Clancy, Kennedy and Swanson, was pitching steadily. He was inspired now by a new hope: That he might lose the game and not be blamed for defeat and at the same time escape the vengeance of Edwards by pretending he lost it purposely.
"We ought to get at him this time, boys," called Swanson, as the Bears opened their eighth inning. "We've got to. Look out there—at the score board—the Panthers are winning, 4 to 1, and it means the pennant."
Suddenly Noisy Norton, the silent man, sprang to his feet and rushed to the coaching lines.
"Wow! Little of the old pep, boys!" he yelled.
"Whoop! We've got it won now. Noisy is coaching. Come on, boys—get at them!" yelled Swanson.
Out by first base, Norton, who had never been on the coaching lines in the five years he had played with the Bears, was ranting and screaming like a wild man. The spirit of the thing came over the Bears. Kennedy, rushing to the bat, cracked the first ball that Wiley pitched to center for a single. A moment later little McBeth, who had been fretting his soul out on the bench for three months, leaped toward the bat like a hound unleashed. He never had played in a major league game before, and Wiley teased him into swinging at two slow twisters, then attempted to waste a curve high and outside the plate. The boy, his teeth set, waded into the ball, drove it over third for a base hit, and, with runners on first and third, Swanson came rushing up and drove a line single to left that scored Kennedy and sent the speedy little McBeth scurrying around to third.
McCarthy was coming to bat. He swung two bats, testing their weight, and walked toward the plate. The excitement of the rally had revived his waning strength and stirred his jaded nerves. Swanson signaled his intention to steal on the first ball pitched. McCarthy crouched, and as the ball came he swung viciously at it, not intending to hit it, but to give Swanson the advantage by hampering the catcher. The strike was wasted, as the catcher, knowing the speed of McBeth, bluffed at throwing, and held the ball, hoping to lure the substitute off third base and let Swanson reach second without trouble.
The next ball McCarthy fouled against the stands for a second strike. A great dread came over him as he heard the roar of the crowd. He turned to watch the Blue's catcher recover the ball, and at that instant he saw the face of Betty Tabor, strained, white, beseeching, as the girl, still mud-splattered and stained from the long race, leaned forward. Her face revealed all the hopes and fears that surged within her. As McCarthy's heart leaped with grim resolve he saw another face that caused him to step back out of the batter's box and, while pretending to rub dirt upon his hands, to glance again.
James Lawrence, his uncle and guardian, was sitting in the box next to that in which Betty Tabor was voicelessly beseeching him to win the game.
"Hit it, Larry—hit it!"
The sound of the name called by the familiar voice, the sight of the agony in the girl's face, spurred him to desperation. He delayed, wiped his hands carefully, stepped into position and waited. Wiley wound up. A fast curve flashed toward the plate. McCarthy took one step forward, snapped his bat against the ball. The Blues' third baseman leaped wildly, stuck up one hand, the ball went on, struck two feet inside the foul line, and before it ceased rolling around the stands two runs were across the plate. McCarthy was on third, and the Bears were in the lead.
The inning ended with McCarthy still on third, and the score 3 to 2 in favor of the Bears.
Wilcox, who had been kept warmed up during the entire game, ready to rush to the slab if Williams weakened, went in to pitch and held the Blues in the eighth, and in their ninth the Bears drew a blank.
McCarthy knew he was very weary. Only by his will power did he make his tired, aching limbs obey his brain. He ached in every muscle, and his brain seemed dulled. Gallagher hit a long fly to Pardridge. Swanson was still shouting, urging Wilcox to cinch the victory, encouraging, leading, fighting with every nerve for the victory. Henderson drove a two-base hit to center field, and Swanson redoubled his efforts to brace the team against a rally that might rob them of their victory. Kirkpatrick, a dangerous hitter at any time, drove a fast bounder at Norton. The little second baseman set himself for the ball. It took a bad bounce, struck his wrist and rolled away only a few feet. He was after it in an instant, but he knew that Kirkpatrick's terrific speed would get him to first ahead of the ball. As Norton's fingers gripped the ball he thought of another play. Henderson would go to third on the fumble, turn the base, look to see where the ball was, and if it had broken through the infield far enough, he would try to score. For an instant, Norton knew, the runner would halt, undecided, six feet from third, and if the ball was there—— Without looking, Norton hurled the ball toward third. McCarthy saw it coming. He realized the play that Norton had attempted to make to save the day. He grabbed the ball and dived desperately between the runner and the bag. Henderson, trapped, leaped back toward the base, feet first. McCarthy felt the shock of the collision, felt the spikes bite into his arm, and he held his ground, blocking the runner away. He heard Bill Tascott's cry of "Out!" and, dazed, hurt and dizzy, he arose slowly and tossed the ball back to Wilcox. Trentman, the great pinch hitter of the Blues, was sent in to attempt to snatch victory from defeat. Twice he drove fierce line fouls past third base, then he lifted a high foul and, as the ball settled into Kennedy's mitt, McCarthy swayed upon his feet.
"Help me, Silent; I'm all in."
Through the eddying, shouting, scrambling crowd that had swarmed cheering upon the field, Swanson half led, half carried his exhausted mate.
They had pressed close to the exit to the club dressing rooms, when suddenly a great shout smote the air. A tremor of fresh excitement ran through the crowd.
"What is it, Silent?" asked McCarthy anxiously.
"It's the Scoreboard!" yelled Swanson. "Look! The Jackrabbits scored five in the eighth inning and beat the Panthers out, 6 to 4. Boy, we're champions!"
McCarthy did an odd thing. He slid quietly to the ground in a faint, and they carried him to the dressing rooms.