"Why didn't you tell me before?" demanded Kennedy. "I'd kick his head off"——
"We hadn't the goods on him," explained Swanson. "That's what I want you for. If we can prove he's up to some crooked work"——
The big Swede menacingly folded his ponderous paw into a fist and flexed his biceps.
"Do you think he's trying to throw games? He's been pitching funny ball lately," asked Kennedy. "I've had to fight him in every game to get him to pitch fast."
"What I think and what I can prove are different things," growled the shortstop. "I've got my suspicions. Now we're after proof. Come on. If he was to meet anyone there the one he was to meet is in ahead of him."
The players walked to the corner, crossed the street and went into the saloon without an effort at concealment. The place appeared empty, save for a bartender who was washing glasses behind the bar, and a heavy, coarse-featured man lounging near the end of the bar with a half-consumed high ball before him.
"Gimme a beer," ordered Swanson, throwing a coin onto the bar; "what you have, Ben?"
"Make it two," replied Kennedy.
There was no sign of Williams, and only a narrow doorway, leading somewhere toward the rear, gave a clue as to his probable egress from the barroom.
The bartender, having rung up the amount of the sale on the cash register, exchanged a few words in a low tone with the man at the end. Then he strolled back and stood near where Swanson and Kennedy were wasting time over their drinks.