Connelly looked up quickly.
“Nothing like that,” he grunted. “I’ve told you already that I wouldn’t stand for any rough stuff. America wouldn’t be big enough to hold a man who’d do that.”
“Hold your horses,” retorted Fleming. “Who’s talking about injuring or killing him? I’m no more anxious to go to the electric chair than you are.”
“Well, what’s the game then?” asked Connelly.
“Here’s the dope,” answered Fleming. “You see by the score that Barclay pitched for the New Yorks to-day?”
“Yes,” agreed Connelly.
“That gives McRae a little margin to go on,” continued Fleming. “He could afford to lose to-morrow’s game and still be even on the Series. Then he’d still have Matson as his ace for Saturday’s game in New York.
“Now suppose it works out that way. Markwith pitches, we’ll say, and loses.”
“I’m listening,” said Connelly.