Connelly’s shrewd eyes appraised Fleming as one of the “idle rich,” the plucking of whom had often feathered his nest, and his greeting was cordial.
“Won’t you sit down and have something with us?” he inquired, introducing the two men who were with him and making room at the table.
“We’d be glad to if we’re not intruding,” replied Bixby.
“Not at all,” said Connelly, and to seal the acquaintance he ordered a bottle of champagne.
It was not long before they were talking freely, and it goes without saying that in the one engrossing thought that prevailed everywhere they fell to discussing the World Series.
Connelly—“Big” Connelly, to give him the name by which he was usually referred to—was, as his name implied, a ponderous man with a hard, smooth-shaven face and cold, calculating eyes. He was a hardened “sport” and a shrewd politician, with strings out everywhere in the underworld that he could pull when he felt so inclined. He was wholly unscrupulous and stopped at nothing to achieve his ends.
“I hear you’re expecting Boston to win the Series, Mr. Connelly,” remarked Bixby.
“I’ve picked ’em to win,” agreed Connelly, “and I think they would to a dead certainty if it weren’t for one thing, or perhaps I ought to say one man.”
“And that one man is Matson, I suppose?” put in Fleming.