"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.