“It not only sounded good but it was good,” replied Fleming. “You know as well as I do that we only missed putting it over by an eyelash.”
“I haven’t got over wondering yet how Matson slipped out of that net,” Connelly ruminated. “It seemed a dead open and shut certainty that we had him.”
“He’s a slippery customer,” said Fleming, “but because we didn’t get him once doesn’t say that we won’t the next time. But whatever we do, we’ll have to do in a hurry. He’s to be in Boston only one more day.”
“What was it you were telling me about that Hartley?” asked Connelly.
“I don’t know how much there may be in that,” answered Fleming, thoughtfully. “The fellow’s fearfully sore on Matson for some reason or other that I can’t just make out. He’d like well enough to do him a personal injury, too, if he could.
“I got him away from the gang he was ranting to and had a little talk with him. But I wouldn’t dare trust him to do any rough work. He’s half full all the time; and then, too, I think he’s a little crazy. He’d be apt to spill the beans in anything he might undertake.
“There’s only one thing, though, in which he may be of some help to us. He’s on to the signals used by the Giant pitchers and he offered to give them away. That might help some in a close game.”
“It might,” reflected Connelly. “But it isn’t sure enough. The pitchers might tumble to the game and change their signals. Still, we’ll use him, on the off chance that it may help if we don’t think of anything better.”
“The only sure way of beating Matson,” observed Fleming, “is to see that he doesn’t go on the field at all.”