“Are you going to tell McRae about your fight with those fellows?” asked Jim.
“Surely,” answered Joe. “It’s a matter that concerns the club too nearly to keep from him. When there’s any underhand work going on, he ought to be the first one to know about it.”
“That’s right,” agreed Jim.
“Then, too,” Joe went on, “McRae knows practically everybody in New York. There isn’t anybody in the Police Department, for instance, that wouldn’t do anything in reason that he wanted. He can get them to look up these fellows, find out just what their standing is, and learn if the cops have anything on them. Information of that kind may stand us in good stead if it comes to a showdown.”
There was no game scheduled for the next day, and Joe telephoned down to McRae’s home and made an appointment with him.
“What’s up, Joe?” asked the manager as he came into the room where Joe had been shown by the maid.
“Plenty, Mac,” replied Joe, and then went on to tell him of the events of the night before.
McRae listened with a frown that grew ever deeper and was only lightened when Joe described the blow that knocked Tompkinson down.
“I’d have given a thousand dollars to have seen that,” he cried. “The low-down sneaks! I’d like to run them out of town, and, by thunder, I will if there’s any way to do it!”
He looked up their office addresses in the directory and then took up the telephone and called for a certain extension number at police headquarters.