"I have a premonition," responded the reporter solemnly, "or what Mr. Swanson so graphically expresses as a 'hunch,' that the story at the other end is bigger than the story of the contest. Besides, Mr. Hardner has kindly consented to report the game of to-day for my paper as well as his own."
"What's your theory, Technicalities?" asked Clancy gratefully.
"Only one of two things are probable," explained Feehan. "Either McCarthy left of his own accord or because of threats made to him or else he has been kidnapped by certain—ah—interests, let us say, desirous of preventing the Bears from winning the championship emblem."
"Ah, Kohinoor wouldn't quit, and they couldn't scare him," growled Swanson.
"Precisely, Mr. Swanson. The statistics prove beyond doubt that he is not concerned in the losing of games, putting aside the fact that the young man undoubtedly is honest and sincere. That leaves us only one premise, the other having been found untenable. Mr. McCarthy has been kidnapped."
"I can't figure how they could take him in a public street or from a street car," interposed Clancy.
"I have calculated that," said the reporter. "Either he is in the Baldwin home and Miss Baldwin ah—er—falsified or he was attacked between her uncle's home and the street car line two and one-half blocks distant."
"How do you propose finding him?" asked Clancy.
"I shall arrive at 5.11," replied the peculiar little man of news quietly. "Before six o'clock I shall have one of the best detective agencies in the world scouring the city."
The train came steaming into the station on time and the shortstop and the reporter crowded closer to the gates, watching the stream of hurrying passengers rushing through the narrow gates and spreading, fan-like, across the great floor. Suddenly Swanson's elbow jarred against the reporter's body, causing the frail statistician to wince.