“But there’s one little thing in the way,” Joe went on; “and that is that I’m already signed up with the Giants for the next two years.”
Westland saw that he was in for a tussle and braced himself.
“Of course, of course,” he said, with the tolerant smile of a man of the world. “I didn’t think for a minute that McRae would let his kingpin run around loose without being signed up. But you know what baseball contracts are. They’re so jug handled that no court would uphold them for a minute. In fact, McRae wouldn’t dare to bring it into court. He may threaten and bluster, but that will be the end of it. That ten-day clause alone would kill it with any judge.”
“Even admitting that I could break my contract with the Giants and get away with it,” said Joe, leading him on, “what guarantee would you have that I wouldn’t do the same thing with you if I should want to?”
“The guarantee of your own self-interest,” 26 replied Westland, flicking the ash from his cigar. “We’d make it so much worth your while to stay with us that there wouldn’t be any inducement to go anywhere else.”
“In other words,” said Joe, with a touch of sarcasm, “if you once bought me you’d rely on your money to see that I’d stay bought.”
“Now, now, Mr. Matson,” put in Westland deprecatingly, “there’s no use putting it in so harsh a way as that. This is simply business I’m talking to you, and in this world every man has got to look out for Number One. Now I don’t know how much money McRae pays you, but I make a guess that it’s about five thousand a year, a little more or a little less. Now I’ll tell you what we’re prepared to do. We’ll hand you twenty thousand dollars the day you put your signature to a contract with us. Then we’ll agree to pay you fifteen thousand dollars a year for a three-years’ term. And to make the whole thing copper riveted, we’ll put the whole amount in the bank now, subject to your order as you go along. So that even if the new league should break up, you could loaf for three years and be sixty-five thousand dollars to the good.”
With the air of one who had played his trump card and felt sure of taking the trick, Westland from out his pocket drew a fountain pen.
“Put up your pen, Mr. Westland,” said Joe 27 calmly, “unless you want to write to those who sent you here that there’s nothing doing.”
Jim brought his fist down on the arm of his chair with a bang.