“I don’t think he has a Chinaman’s chance, 76 though, of staying in big league company,” observed Jim. “After the way he tried to give away our signals in that game at Boston, the Nationals wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole, and I don’t think the American has any use for him either. You might forgive him for being a drunkard, but not for being a traitor.”
Hartley had caught sight of the group, and at first seemed rather undecided whether to go on or stop. The bitter feeling he had for Joe, however, was too strong to resist, and he came over to where they were. He paid no attention to Jim, and gave a curt nod to Hughson and fixed a malignant stare on Joe.
“All dolled up,” he said, with a sneer, as he noted the quiet but handsome suit that Joe was wearing. “I could have glad rags, too, if you hadn’t bilked me out of four thousand dollars.”
“Cut out that talk, Bugs,” said Joe, though not unkindly. “I never did you out of anything and you know it.”
“Yes, you did,” snarled Hartley. “You got me fired from the Giants and did me out of my share of the World’s Series money.”
“You did yourself out of it, Bugs,” said Joe, patiently. “I did my best to have Mac hold on to you. I never was anything but your friend. Do you remember how Jim and I put you to bed that night in St. Louis when you were drunk? We 77 took you up the back way so Mac wouldn’t get next. Take a fool’s advice, Bugs—cut out the liquor and play the game.”
“I don’t want any advice from you!” sneered Hartley. “And take it from me, I’ll get you yet.”
“Beat it, Bugs!” Jim broke in sternly, “while the going’s good. Roll your hoop now, or I’ll help you.”
Hartley hesitated a moment, but took Jim’s advice and with a muttered threat went on his way.
“Mad as a March hare,” murmured Jim, as they watched the retreating figure.