Fleming could have told him better than any one else just how good that stalwart arm was. Not four hours had passed since he had tested its strength. And he knew that it was good for something besides baseball.
But not for the world would he have had that beating come to light. It would make him the laughing stock of the clubs. He was sure that Joe himself would not tell of it nor would Reggie, because of their desire to prevent Mabel’s name being dragged into the affair. So that his secret was safe, unless he himself should reveal it while he was in his cups.
“He’s a false alarm,” he growled. “Lots of these fellows start out as though they were going to set the league afire, but after a year or two you find them back again in the minors. They go up like a rocket and come down like the stick.”
“Well, if he’s a false alarm, he’s deceived a good many people,” answered Bixby with a diminished respect for his friend’s judgment. “All the dope is that he’s going to be another Hughson.”
They drained their glasses and ordered more liquor. While they were waiting for it to come, Bixby glanced around the café. His eye rested on a table in the further corner of the room where three men were sitting.
“Do you see that big fellow over there with the other two?” he asked Fleming.
“I see him,” replied Fleming, shortly.
“Well, that’s Big Connelly the notorious Chicago sporting man,” returned Bixby.
“Well, what if it is?” said Fleming, indifferently.
“Oh, nothing special, except that he seems to feel a good deal the same way about Matson that you do. I was sitting near him just before I came over here to join you and he was grouching to beat the band.”