“I see you all right,” replied Hartley, as his eye took in Joe’s well-dressed form. “All dolled up too. The man who took the bread and butter out of my mouth. Oh, I see you all right, worse luck.”
Bugs Hartley had been a well known character in baseball for some years. He had gained his nickname from his erratic habits. He had never been any too strong mentally, and his addiction to liquor had still further contributed to throw him off his balance. But he had been a remarkable pitcher, with a throwing arm that made up for some of his mental deficiencies, and had played in several major league clubs. For some years he had been a member of the Giants, and was still a member when Joe joined the team. His vicious habits and utter failure to obey the rules of discipline had made him a thorn in his manager’s side, but McRae had tolerated him because of his unusual skill in the box.
Joe had felt sorry for the man, and had done all he could to help him along. Once he had found him wandering intoxicated in the streets on the eve of an important game, and had got him off quietly to bed so as to hide the matter from McRae. But there was no gratitude in Hartley’s disposition, and besides he was consumed with envy at seeing Joe’s rapid progress in his profession, while he himself, owing to his dissipation, was going backward.
On one occasion, he had tried to queer Joe by doping his coffee just before the latter was scheduled to pitch in a game with Philadelphia. His hatred was increased when, after being knocked out of the box during a game, Joe had taken his place and won out. McRae at last lost patience with him and gave him his walking papers. Hartley’s twisted brain attributed this to Joe, though as a matter of fact Joe had asked McRae to give Bugs another chance.
Hartley’s reputation was so bad as a man and it was so generally understood that he was through as a pitcher that no other club cared to engage him. This increased his bitterness against the supposed author of his misfortunes. On one occasion he had tried to injure Joe in a dark street by hurling a jagged bolt of iron at his head, and the only thing that saved Baseball Joe was that at the moment he had stooped to adjust his shoelace. At that time Joe might have handed him over to the police, but instead he let him go with a warning. Now he had again met this dangerous semi-lunatic in the streets of New York.
“Now look here, Bugs,” said Joe quietly and decidedly. “I’m just about tired of that kind of talk. I’ve done everything I could for you, and in return you’ve doped me and otherwise tried to hurt me. You’ve been your own worst enemy. I’m sorry if you’re hard up, and if you need money I’ll give it to you. But I want you to keep away from me, and if there’s any more funny business you won’t get off as easily as you did last time.”
“I don’t want your money,” snapped Bugs. “I’m after you, and I’ll get you yet.”
“I don’t think you’d better try it. It won’t get you anywhere, except perhaps in jail.”
“There’s ways of doing it,” growled Hartley. “Ways that you ain’t dreamin’ of.”