[CHAPTER XXVIII]
A COUNCIL OF WAR
“This sort of thing has gone far enough!” exclaimed the Giants’ manager, pounding on a table with his fist. “No bunch of tin-horn gamblers can play ducks and drakes with my ball team and get away with it. If their dirty plans had gone through, both Joe and Jim would have been out of the game for good, branded as crooks, and the Giant team would be so shot to pieces you’d need a vacuum cleaner to clear up the remains. I’m going to turn this thing over to the police right here and now,” and he started for a telephone in the corner of the room.
“Easy there, Mac, easy,” warned Robson, who was also one of the party. “Take a little time to think this thing over before you go to making any bad breaks.”
“What do you mean—bad breaks?” queried the fiery manager. “If somebody lifts your watch, is it a bad break to go to the police about it? What are the cops for, anyway?”
“That’s all right, as far as the crooked gamblers are concerned,” said Robson. “But how about the crooked ball players we’ve got on the team right now? That’s a matter for organized baseball, more than for the police.”
“The crooked ball players will get theirs to-morrow, don’t doubt that for a minute!” growled McRae. “I’ll settle their hash for good, but I don’t see yet why we can’t put the police on the track of the gang that captured my two pitchers. We know their hangouts now, and the cops ought to be able to round them up easily enough.”
“Not a chance in the world,” said Robson, shaking his head. “You don’t suppose those birds will sit around in their nests and wait for the patrol wagon to come and get them, do you? I’ll bet any money that if you went to either of their hangouts right now you’d find them first cousins to the deserted village.”
McRae thought a moment.