“He might have died in the road for all they cared,” declared Reggie indignantly. “A good long jail sentence would teach those bounders a little decency, by Jove!”
“I’d like to have them soaked heavily for damages,” observed Joe. “I don’t think the old man would have much trouble in getting a heavy verdict in his favor from a jury. And I guess the poor old fellow needs all he can get.”
The knowledge, however, that the accident would not prove fatal and the consciousness that they had done all they could to help, served to dissipate the shock caused by the affair, and before long they were chatting as merrily as ever. So that when at last they parted at the doors of the Marlborough their only feeling of regret was that the day was ended. As for Joe and Mabel, snugly ensconced in the tonneau, they would have been willing to ride on forever. Joe said as much, and Mabel had acquiesced with her eyes if not in words.
It was a discordant note, therefore, when as the chums were going toward their rooms they almost ran into “Bugs” Hartley, the former pitcher of the Giants, who had been released earlier in the season for dissipation.
That erratic individual, whose venom against Joe had once led him to drug his coffee so that our hero might be unable to pitch, had rapidly gone from bad to worse. He had exceptional ability when he kept sober, and even after his release by McRae he could have found some other manager willing to give him a chance if he had kept away from drink. But he had gone steadily downhill until he was now a saloon lounger and hanger-on.
He had been drinking heavily now, as was evident by a glance at his bleared face, and had reached the ugly stage of intoxication. His former team mates stepped back as he lurched against them.
“Hello, Hartley,” said Joe not unkindly, for despite his just cause for resentment, he was shocked and sorry to see how low “Bugs” had fallen.
“Don’t you talk to me!” snarled Hartley viciously. “You got me off the team and knocked me out of my chance of World Series money.”
“You’re wrong there, Bugs,” returned Joe, keeping his temper. “I did everything I could to help you. When you were drunk in St. Louis, Jim and I smuggled you off to bed so that McRae wouldn’t find it out. You’re your own worst enemy, Bugs.”
“Why don’t you brace up, Bugs, and cut out the booze?” broke in Jim. “You’ve got lots of good pitching left in you yet.”