“That’s right,” nodded Uriah Blackington. “If this thing gets out, you’ll be driven out of Rockford, Fernald. There’s only one thing for you to do.” “I hope you’re not chump enough,” said Fernald, “to think I meant it when I offered to throw the final games this season. I did that in order to lead this fellow into the bargain with me about the game to-morrow.”
“I wouldn’t believe you under oath!” retorted Blackington. “You’re a thoroughly untrustworthy scoundrel! As president of this league, I demand your instant resignation from the position you hold.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose you intend to become manager again?”
“Perhaps I do. You forced me out of it by your trickery, and if I’m asked to take the position again I may consent.”
“Consent!” snarled Fernald. “You’ll jump at it!”
“Sit down right here and now,” commanded the president of the league sternly, “and write your resignation. I’ll furnish the pen.”
“And I’ll furnish the paper,” laughed Dick, stepping into his own room and returning in a moment with a sheet. “Here it is.”
“That’s bub-bub-bub-bub-business!” chattered Jolliby. “We’ll gug-gug-gug-get rid of one crook! If we could catch old Hammerswell the same way it would be a mighty gug-gug-good thing for baseball in these parts!”
Fernald seemed undecided. He took a cigarette case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette, which he slowly rolled between his fingers. All the while he was thinking, but in vain he sought some loophole of escape. He had fallen into the trap, and the only way out of it was to assent to the demand made upon him.
“I want to tell you people one thing,” he finally observed, having struck a match and lighted the cigarette. “No man up to date has ever played me a trick like this and not lived to repent it. This fool boy will repent it, too.”
“Listen to the wind,” chuckled Brad. “How it blows!”
Without another word Fernald sat down and wrote the resignation demanded by Blackington.
“There,” he said, having signed his name, “now go ahead and blow on me, the whole of you. I want to tell you something more. You’ve put me in a bad hole. I have a few friends here who will stick by me. Some of them are bad men to have for enemies. I will find out who goes from this room and tells what has happened here. From the moment he opens his mouth to blow on me, the man who does so will be in constant danger. Night and day, asleep or awake, he’ll be in danger.”
“Better keep your threats to yourself, Fernald,” advised Blackington. “If anything serious should happen your words will be remembered and will rise to accuse you.”
Fernald laughed disdainfully as he turned toward the door.
“If any of you think I’m disposed of in this manner he will live to discover the mistake,” declared the man, pausing with his hand on the knob. “You will still find me and my influence effectual in baseball in this league. Good night!”
“Well,” said Brad, when the rascal had departed, “this is the first time any galoot ever tried to buy me. I sure reckon he didn’t know who he was dealing with. Chip, you followed instructions a whole lot clever. I didn’t expect you’d be able to get hold of Mr. Blackington, but I’m right glad you did. Only for the fact that Mr. Blackington heard the whole thing, Fernald would have made a fight before resigning as manager.”
“He forced me to resign some time ago,” said Blackington; “but the tables were turned on him to-night. I may not be reappointed as manager of the Rockford team. In fact, I am not anxious for the position, as it entails no end of worry and work. Nevertheless, it’s pretty certain that whoever is now appointed to fill the place will be an honest man, and baseball will be benefited by it. With a man like Henry Duncan in Benton Hammerswell’s place at Maplewood the patrons of this league would get a chance to see honest games.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to fuf-fuf-fuf-force old Ham out, is there?” asked Chip, who was quite exultant over what had taken place.
“It’s doubtful if he can be forced out,” said Blackington. “He has everything in his hands up there. He’s the sole backer of the team, and thus far it has cost him a fat little sum of money.”
For a short time they talked over Fernald’s trickery; but finally Blackington departed, having stated his intention of at once calling together the directors of the Rockford team in order that a new manager might be appointed. Although Tom Fernald had seemed to recover his nerve ere leaving room 37, he was quivering with rage as he descended the stairs. He hurried through the office and made his way directly to the small barroom in the basement of the Corndike.
Several persons were patronizing the bar, while in the corner sat a ragged young man, who seemed to be sleeping off the effects of too much drink. This chap had not purchased a drink since entering the place, but had slipped in quietly and apparently had fallen asleep on the chair almost as soon as he sat down.
“Whisky,” growled Fernald, as he found a place at the bar.
“Hello!” exclaimed a man, whose elbow he happened to jostle. “Is it you, Tom? What’s the matter? Sore because we took a fall out of you to-day?”
To Fernald’s surprise he recognized Benton Hammerswell, the Maplewood manager.
“What are you doing down here, Hammerswell?” he inquired.
“Oh, I just run down to see how the baseball fans were feeling. Have been looking for you. Inquired at the office. They said you were around a short time ago, but I couldn’t discover a sign of you. I thought it possible you might drift in here some time this evening. Taking whisky, are you? That’s hardly hot-weather drink, and it’s hot enough to-night.”
“Yes, it’s hot enough,” nodded Fernald. “Too thundering hot! I’ve been given quite a sweat to-night.”
Again Hammerswell eyed his companion closely.
“Dropping that game to us must have made you sore,” he said, with a pantherish grin. “Never mind that, old boy. We’ll take a fall out of Seaslope to-morrow. It’s up to you to down Fairhaven and land the islanders at the bottom. That’s where they belong. After we get Seaslope into third place and Fairhaven into fourth, we’ll fight it out between us for the pennant. I’ve got the team to win games now. There’s only one trouble with my bunch: Arlington is sore. I was compelled to promise that he should remain as captain of the team, but it wouldn’t work.
“After getting my new men here a whole lot of them threatened to leave unless their regular captain was retained at their head. I had to agree to that. I have done my best to pacify Arlington by explaining that a man who pitches should not play in any game unless he is on the slab, and, therefore, it’s not policy to keep him as captain of the team when he will play in no more than one-third of the games. I honestly believe the fellow’d rather be captain and not pitch at all. He’s a good player, but has a mighty nasty disposition. Drink up, Tom. Here’s luck for both of us to-morrow.”
Fernald had poured a brimming glass of whisky, and he dashed it off at a gulp.
“There,” he said, “perhaps that’ll make me feel better. I’ll tell you something that will surprise you, Benton.”
“Go ahead! Surprises are coming thick lately.”
“I am not manager of the Rockford team now.”
Hammerswell was surprised indeed.
“What are you giving me?” he cried.
“Straight goods.”
“You’re not manager now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I resigned to-night.”
“Resigned?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, why in blazes did you resign?”
“Step over here,” invited Fernald, drawing the Maplewood man toward the corner where the tramp sat sleeping on his chair. “I’ll tell you about it. Don’t want to let every one hear.”
“Go on!” urged Hammerswell. “They are paying no attention to us. This fellow is snoozing off a jag.”
Fernald lowered his voice almost to a whisper. Swiftly he explained how he had attempted to clinch the coming game for Rockford by making a bargain with Brad Buckhart.
“Without Buckhart at his best,” he said, “I was confident we could beat the islanders easily.”
“Sure thing,” nodded Hammerswell. “He’s the only catcher they have, and the only man who can hold Dick Merriwell. Of course, they might get hold of Brodie, the fellow I let go when I engaged my new team; but Brodie can’t handle Merriwell’s combination ball. It would fool him just the same as it fools batters. You were right, Fernald; with Buckhart out of the game, or with him bought up, it would be a simple thing to down Fairhaven. One thing that led me down here to-night was to see you about this business. I wondered if there was no way it could be fixed so Rockford would have the game nailed to-morrow.”
“It must be fixed,” nodded Fernald. “Either that or I’ll be compelled to hedge.”
“Then you’ve bet on the game already?”
“Yes. I didn’t tell this fellow, Buckhart, about it, but I’ve backed Rockford to win. I hate to hedge on this game. I’d almost as leave see Rockford beaten.”
“No! no!” exclaimed Hammerswell, “not that! If Fairhaven loses she’ll go to the bottom of the list. I know how you feel. I know you’d like to see Rockford lose her first game under another manager; but you can’t have any friendly sentiment toward Fairhaven and this chap Buckhart, who trapped you.”
The Rockford man shook his head.
“I am between two fires,” he confessed. “I’d like to fix Buckhart, somehow. I’ll do it, too! I don’t know just how to get at him.”
“A little dope in his coffee,” whispered Hammerswell.
“He doesn’t take coffee. Those chaps over there are temperance cranks. Every man on the team drinks water.”
“Then a little dope in a glass of water—that’ll do it.”
“I believe I can get a drug into him all right,” said Fernald. “I stand in with the head waiter here at the Corndike. He’s a poker player, and I have divided winnings with him in more than one game we have played together. I did the crooked dealing and gave him the hands to win.”
“Then it’s a simple matter,” whispered Hammerswell eagerly. “If you can fix it with the head waiter, I will provide the drug.”
“What sort of a drug?” asked Fernald. “I don’t like to monkey with stuff unless I know how it is going to work. I don’t want to poison any one.”
“Don’t worry about that. I know a drug that will do the work, and it’s perfectly tasteless.”
“Where do you get it?”
“I’ll get it. Leave that to me. If you will fix it with the head waiter, I’ll provide the powder.”
“Explain how the stuff works on a man who takes it,” urged Fernald.
“It takes the life and judgment out of him. He loses his strength.”
“Then it doesn’t knock him flat? It doesn’t put him down and out?”
“Not a bit of that. He’ll keep on his feet, but he’ll be useless as a ball player.”
“Get me the dope,” hissed Fernald. “I will guarantee to reach Buckhart. I’ll soak that fellow, and I hope he makes a holy show of himself to-morrow.”
“He will,” chuckled Hammerswell.
“How long will it take you to get the powder?”
“There’s plenty of time. I will find a man to purchase it here in Rockford at a drug store. Don’t want to do it myself. Leave it all to me. You shall have it to-night, but you’re not to use it until to-morrow noon. Understand that? If you use it before that time he might recover from the effect in time to play all right. He will feel it for four or five hours after taking the stuff.”
“Then it’s a go,” said Fernald. “I’ll make a big winning on Rockford to-morrow. After that I hope Rockford will get it in the neck regularly. Have another drink with me. Come on!”
They again stood up to the bar and called for drinks.
While they were drinking one of the bartenders noticed the sleeping fellow in the corner. Immediately he came from behind the bar and gave the sleeper a poke in the ribs.
“Here! here! what are you doing?” he demanded. “This is no lodging house.”
Apparently the fellow was undisturbed. A second poke toppled him from his chair to the floor, where he sprawled awkwardly.
“Thunder and guns!” he muttered thickly; “that was an awful shock! Thought I was riding on the truck of a freight car. Lost my hold and fell off. The whole train went over me.”
“This is no place for bums,” said the bartender, surveying the fellow’s ragged clothes. “When did you blow in here?”
“Beg your pardon, boss,” said the young tramp, slowly and unsteadily rising to his feet. “Just arrived in your beautiful town. Came in my own parlor car. Brought an awful thirst with me, too. Open a bottle of Mumm’s for me, and mark it down on a cake of ice.”
The bartender called a boy.
“Open the basement door, Joe,” he said. “Can’t have this fellow strolling out through the office.”
The basement door was quickly opened, and then, without a moment’s delay, the bartender hustled the young tramp out and thrust him into the street, giving him a push that caused him to lose his feet and sit down heavily on the sidewalk.
“Too bad!” muttered the hobo, as he sat there and looked round over his shoulder at the door, which had closed behind him. “I didn’t hear all of that. They whispered too low for me to catch the whole of it. They’re up to something that interests me a great deal, as a chap by the name of Buckhart is concerned. I will keep my eyes open.”