“Now, now!” said Westland, spots of color coming into his cheeks. 30
“And more than that,” went on Joe, not heeding the interruption, “you want to make me a tool to lead others to break their contracts, too. I’m to be the bellwether of the flock. You figure that if it’s once spread abroad that Matson has jumped into the new league, it will start a stampede of contract breakers. I tell you straight, Westland, it’s dirty business. If you want to start a new league, go ahead and do it in a decent way. Get new players and develop them, or get star players whose contracts have expired. Play the game, but do it without marked cards or loaded dice.”
Westland saw that he had lost, and he threw diplomacy to the winds.
“Keep your advice till it’s asked for!” he snarled, snatching up the money and jamming it viciously into his pocket. “I didn’t come to this jay town to be lectured by a hick——”
“What’s that?” cried Joe, springing to his feet.
Westland was so startled by the sudden motion that he almost swallowed his cigar. Before Joe’s sinewy figure he stepped back and mumbled an apology. Then he reached for his hat, and without another word stalked out of the house, his features convulsed with anger and chagrin.
As he flung himself out of the gate, he almost collided with a messenger boy bringing a telegram to Joe. 31
The latter signed for it and tore it open hastily. It was from the Giants’ manager and read:
“I hear the new league is coming after you hotfoot. But I’m betting on you, Joe.
“McRae.”