The four at the table put their heads together, and Fleming lowered his voice so that he might not be overheard by those in the adjacent chairs.
“Of course, I don’t know whether we can make the thing work,” commenced Fleming a little diffidently, “but it won’t do any harm to figure it out and see what there is in it.”
“Sure thing,” said Connelly, encouragingly.
“As you say, it won’t do to injure Matson physically,” Fleming went on. “Though nothing would suit me better,” he added with sudden savageness, as the stinging recollection of that afternoon’s events came back to him.
“I see that he isn’t exactly popular with you,” grinned Connelly. He reflected that this man might be a valuable aid to him, if he nourished a personal grudge.
But it was not in Fleming’s mind to betray himself, and he pulled up short.
“As I was saying,” he continued, without replying to Connelly’s suggestion, “the public wouldn’t stand for a minute for any rough work with Matson. But we can injure him in other ways.”
“Just how?” asked Connelly.
“Well,” asked Fleming in turn, “what do you think is the most important thing in the world to him just now?”
“The World Series,” replied Connelly, promptly.