“Then the deciding game will be played on Saturday at the Polo Grounds. The Giants will be before their home crowd. Matson goes in to pitch. What’s the answer?”
“A victory for New York,” replied Connelly, grinding his teeth.
“Probably,” agreed Fleming. “Now there’s just one thing to be done. When the Giant team leaves Boston to-morrow night for New York, Matson mustn’t go with them.”
He almost hissed the last words, all the venom he felt toward Joe showing in his eyes.
Connelly thumped the table with his ponderous fist.
“You mean that he must be kidnapped?” he exclaimed. “You think we may put it over better on land than we did on the water?”
“That’s rather an ugly word,” warned Fleming, looking around to see that they were not overheard, “and perhaps it would be better not to use it. What I mean is that in some way he must be kept from taking the train late Friday night or the early train Saturday morning. After that it doesn’t matter what he does.
“You see,” he went on, “there wouldn’t be any come-back in a thing like that. There’d be no need to hurt him. The whole thing would only cover about twelve hours. After nine o’clock on Saturday morning he could be set at liberty and be free as air. But he’d be in Boston and he couldn’t possibly get a train then that would land him in New York in time for the game.”
“It might work,” reflected Connelly. “It’s worth trying, anyhow, unless we think of something better. But it’s going to take a good deal of neat work to carry it through.”