“Not I!” replied Jim. “But I can guess who did!”
“Who?”
“Fleming.”
The two friends looked fixedly at each other.
“Do you mean,” asked Joe, after a moment in which surprise and indignation struggled for the mastery, “that that lemonade was doped?”
“Doped or poisoned, I’ll bet my life,” affirmed Jim. “Let’s get to the bottom of this thing. Quick, old man! Perhaps Fleming is still somewhere in the hotel.”
“Not a chance,” replied Joe, jumping to his feet. “If he’s mixed up in this, he’s getting away as fast as his legs or a car can carry him. But we’ll go down and see what we can learn from the clerk.”
They went to the head clerk, whom they knew very well. He was an ardent fan, and his face lighted up as he saw the friends approaching.
“Saw you play to-day, gentlemen,” he said. “Those two home runs of yours were whales, Mr. Matson. And your pitching, Mr. Barclay, was all to the mustard.”
“Sorry to beat your Chicago boys, but we needed that game in our business,” laughed Joe. “But what I want to see you about just now is a personal matter. Did you get an order from me or from my room to send up any lemonade?”