“Haven’t heard you complain of it before,” remarked Joe, dryly. “For the rest of this game I’ll play center, and you shift over to left.”
The change was made accordingly. In the eighth inning another fly came to Bowen and again he dropped it while the crowd booed. The error let in what proved to be the winning run for the Bostons.
“I want to see you fellows after the game,” said Joe, curtly, to the two men. “Wait around the clubhouse after the others have gone.”
When the clubhouse was finally deserted by all but the three, Joe turned to them sternly.
“I’m fed up with this mystery stuff,” he said. “It’s got to end right here. It lost the game for us this afternoon, but it isn’t going to lose another. Come across now and make a clean breast of it.”
The two men looked at each other uncertainly.
“You heard me,” said Joe. “Out with it now, or I’ll see that you’re fired off the team.”
“All right, Mr. Matson,” Jackwell spoke up with sudden resolution. “I’ll tell you just what the trouble is. Ben and I are afraid that detectives are after us.”
“Detectives!” ejaculated Joe, with a start. “What are they after you for? What have you been doing?”