“You’re right there,” grinned Reggie, who could take a joke. “But you can bet if I get that bunch of securities back, it’ll have to be more than an artist who’ll get it away from me again. It’ll have to be a magician, at the very least.”
“I’ve been wondering what we’ll do,” he continued, “if the fellow refuses to talk.”
“I don’t think he’ll do that,” answered Joe. “He’ll probably realize that the jig is up and make a clean breast of the whole thing. If he doesn’t I’ll try my ‘secret society’ gag and see if it will work the second time. It worked like a charm once and may again.”
They had to pass the hotel, and Sol Cramer, who was standing just inside the door, motioned them to come in.
“Haven’t a minute to stop, Sol,” explained Joe, as they stepped inside. “I’m going down to the jail with this friend of mine who has special business with that crazy man. We may stop for a minute on our way back. We’ll have a little time to spare then. What’s up?”
“I won’t keep you long,” said Sol, after acknowledging Joe’s introduction of Reggie. “I just thought you might like to take a squint at the New York papers. They’ve just got in, and the sporting pages are full of that deal that puts you on the Giants.”
Joe was getting used by this time to having his picture and his name in the papers, but it was with an especial thrill that he noted how much space was bestowed on him and the flattering terms that the reporters had used in describing his prowess as a pitcher.
Flaring headlines headed each article in the various papers: