“What does this mean?” the manager of the hotel asked sternly.
“Ask him,” said Joe coolly, motioning toward Harrish.
“It means—” began the latter savagely, then checked himself.
“Why don’t you go on?” asked Joe amusedly, knowing full well how difficult it would be for the crooks to explain.
“I’ll wait and see what the doctor says first,” muttered Harrish, his face flushing.
In the meanwhile the policeman had moved over to Joe’s side.
“If you’ve done this—” he began grimly.
Then his face lighted up as he recognized the culprit.
“Why, it’s Baseball Joe!” he exclaimed delightedly. “How are you, Mr. Matson? ’Tis glad I am to see you. Many’s the time I’ve watched you pitch and seen you paste the ball over the fince.”