"Yes," she said. "I must hurry."
Again and again Feehan urged the telephone girl to try to get a reply to the call for the mayor. Beads of sweat stood upon his face, as he begged her to try again and summoned the manager to his assistance. He glanced at his watch. It was eight minutes to six o'clock.
"I must get him," he told the telephone girl for the dozenth time.
"Sorry—no one will answer," she said wearily. "I've tried—wait a minute, there's someone now."
"Hello," said a hearty voice.
"Your Honor"—Feehan's voice was pregnant with pleading—"this is Feehan, the baseball writer."
"Hello, Feehan," came the quick response. "Why aren't you with the team, or did you just get in to honor me with this early call?"
"Your Honor," pleaded Feehan, recalling suddenly that the mayor was an ardent baseball "fan." "I've been searching for McCarthy. He's in the North Ninetieth Street Station, held without being booked. I've been trying for hours to get him out so he can join the team."
"What charge?" demanded the mayor sharply.
"No charge. He is being held to keep him from playing. If he doesn't catch this morning's train the pennant is lost."