Fullerton Hugh Stuart
Jimmy Kirkland and the Plot for a Pennant
CHAPTER XXIX
Found
Technicalities Feehan was directing the hunt for Kohinoor McCarthy, the missing third baseman of the Bears, even though it appeared to the two women that he was wasting time. His easy confidence and certainty that McCarthy would be found inspired something of the same spirit in Mrs. Clancy and in Betty Tabor, and they found themselves enjoying the light summer opera to which he had taken them, and later had laughed at his quaint, droll tales of baseball and stories of his own experiences during his long years of travel with the team.
Feehan had found an appreciative audience at last, and it was half after eleven before he broke off suddenly and announced that at midnight he was to get reports of the results of the search and offer his own services in the effort to find the missing player.
"I will telephone you when I reach the office whether anything has been ascertained," he promised, as he left them at their apartments. "After that I will not disturb you until seven o'clock, unless McCarthy is found. We must find him and get him to the station to catch the train at 6.35 or our effort is wasted in so far as baseball is concerned, although, of course, that will not cause us to cease our efforts."
"You'll telephone me the moment you have news?" asked Miss Tabor. "Any time – I shall not sleep much, any news – good – or bad."
Feehan found the office force in the throes of getting out an edition, and he sidled through the hurrying, jostling office force to the city editor.
"Any news?" he asked quietly.
"Hello, Technicalities. Nothing yet. You take the case."
Feehan hurried to his desk, instructed the telephone girls to connect all reporters working on the McCarthy case with his desk, then extracted a mass of papers from various pockets and commenced to study and compile his unending statistics.
The reporters engaged in the search were under instructions to report at once any trace of the missing player and to report once an hour their whereabouts and progress. Every five or ten minutes one reported, and Feehan, laying aside his work, answered the call and suggested new lines of investigations.
Two o'clock came. The office was growing quieter. Weary news gatherers slipped into their coats and departed quietly. Copy readers and editors completed their tasks and went away.
Three o'clock came, and Feehan was busy tabulating the statistics of some player in a far-off league, when the telephone rang. By some inspiration he knew a trail had been found and he reached for the instrument with more haste than he had shown, his seventh sense spurring him on.
"Hello! Yes – that you, Jimmy?"
"I've hit a trail."
The voice was that of little Jimmy Eames, the most tireless and persistent member of the force of news hounds employed by the paper.
"Where?" Feehan was as calm as if only recording a fly out.
"North Ninetieth Street Police Station," said Eames rapidly. "I picked up a clue over on the other side of the city – inside police dope. Man taken there last night in taxi. I'm off for there."
Feehan pocketed his statistics and prepared for action. His voice had ceased to drag. He uttered commands in sharp, quick words. Briefly he detailed to each man as he called on the telephone the nature of Eames's discovery. "Get to North Ninetieth Street Station."
Thirty-five minutes after Eames flashed the first word to the office, Cramer, the star police reporter, announced over the telephone.
"McCarthy is in the black hole at North Ninetieth street. Orders from captain. No one permitted to see him. Not booked. Sergeant in charge don't know what he is accused of."
"Get him out. Report in ten minutes."
"Two hours and a half to get him out and put him on that train," Feehan muttered.
It was twelve minutes before Cramer called again.
"Sergeant says he dares not turn the fellow loose. Don't know he is McCarthy. Says orders are strict to keep him and to keep everyone away from him."
"Is he hurt?"
"Turnkey says he has cut in head and bruised, but all right."
"Pound him – pound the sergeant; make him act. Scare him! Who is the captain?"
"Raferty."
"I'll reach him by 'phone." Feehan hung up the receiver. "Joe," he said to the night man, "raise Minette, the office lawyer. Lives somewhere up that way. His home is only a short distance from Judge Manasse's house. Ask him for a writ of habeas corpus or something."
Feehan was rapidly calling numbers. In fifteen minutes he had aroused Captain Raferty.
"Raferty," said the little man, "sorry to disturb you, but you've got a man in the black hole in your station that we want."
"Can't be done. Orders to hold him."
"Orders from whom?"
"Higher up."
"How high?"
"None of your business."
"Raferty, I'm going to the top," said Feehan quickly. "If that man isn't out by six o'clock, you'll be broken."
"What's all this fuss about some skate?" Raferty was alarmed. "It ain't any of my business. I'm told to hold him and not book him and I do it. What have you got it in for me for?"
"You'd better get to the station and get that man out or you'll have this sheet all over you," threatened Feehan, transformed. "I'm going higher now."
He cut off the spluttering police captain in the midst of a snarling complaint, half whine, half defiance.
Half an hour of hard work brought the indignant superintendent of police to the telephone. He curtly declined to interfere, denied all knowledge of any such prisoner, and hung up the receiver while Feehan was expostulating with him.
The mild mannered, gentle little reporter was rising to the emergency. He wiped his forehead free from the beads of sweat and looked at his watch. It was two minutes to five when the night man reported again.
"Minette's on his way to the station," he said. "He'll try to get Judge Manasse to order the release, and he is carrying ten thousand dollars in securities as a bond."
"Good," said Feehan rapidly. "Give me Gracemont 1328," he called quickly.
"Going after the mayor?" inquired the night man casually. "He'll be sore as a boil. Orders are not to disturb him after midnight."
"I've got to get him," said Feehan. "We can't fall down now after we've located McCarthy."
There was no reply to the call for the mayor's telephone number, and while waiting, Feehan slipped to another telephone and called the hotel at which the ball players lived, asking for the Clancy apartments. Betty Tabor answered the summons.
"We've found him," said Feehan. "He's alive and well."
"Where is he?" asked the girl breathlessly.
"He's in a cell at the North Ninetieth Street Police Station – about half a mile from your hotel. I want you to do something."
"What is it?" she asked. "Hurry – I haven't undressed. Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes," he said. "He's locked up and we're tearing the town to pieces trying to get him out of the station. It may be an hour – and he must catch that train. Can you arrange at your hotel to have a fast taxi to take him to the railroad station when he gets out, if there is a chance to catch the train?"
"Wait – yes, yes," she said eagerly. "The manager here has a fast machine that he has been letting me use. I'll get it. The garage is only a few doors."
"You'll take him yourself?" he said in surprise.
"Yes," she said. "I must hurry."
Again and again Feehan urged the telephone girl to try to get a reply to the call for the mayor. Beads of sweat stood upon his face, as he begged her to try again and summoned the manager to his assistance. He glanced at his watch. It was eight minutes to six o'clock.
"I must get him," he told the telephone girl for the dozenth time.
"Sorry – no one will answer," she said wearily. "I've tried – wait a minute, there's someone now."
"Hello," said a hearty voice.
"Your Honor" – Feehan's voice was pregnant with pleading – "this is Feehan, the baseball writer."
"Hello, Feehan," came the quick response. "Why aren't you with the team, or did you just get in to honor me with this early call?"
"Your Honor," pleaded Feehan, recalling suddenly that the mayor was an ardent baseball "fan." "I've been searching for McCarthy. He's in the North Ninetieth Street Station, held without being booked. I've been trying for hours to get him out so he can join the team."
"What charge?" demanded the mayor sharply.
"No charge. He is being held to keep him from playing. If he doesn't catch this morning's train the pennant is lost."
"Here's where I make a pinch hit, then," said the mayor sharply.
Feehan heard the receiver bang down. With a sigh of relief he hung up his receiver and grinned at Joe.
"He's a baseball fan," was all the explanation he offered.
An anxious wait ensued, then Cramer telephones:
"McCarthy just got out, mayor's orders. Pretty well bunged up, but says he can play. He's gone with some girl in an auto. She was waiting for him."
Feehan glanced at his watch. It was 6.23.
"Twelve minutes for two and a half miles," he muttered. "They'll just make it."
And with a sigh he picked up his scattered sheets and muttered:
"Let's see, what did this fellow Houseman hit last season?"
CHAPTER XXX
A Race to Save the Day
Kohinoor McCarthy, emerging from his cell into the fetid atmosphere of the receiving room of the police station, was met by Cramer, who broke from the group of reporters, lawyers and police officials stirred to activity at that early hour by the frantic efforts of Technicalities Feehan. His head was rudely bandaged and his discolored face was swollen and cut.
There was no time for questionings.
"Hurry, McCarthy," said Cramer. "There is an automobile outside waiting to take you to the station. You have about a quarter of an hour to catch the train."
McCarthy, with a word of thanks, hastened through the station, leaped down the steps with an agility that proved his injuries did not affect his speed, and sprang to the car.
The morning sun was just commencing to reach down into the cavern of the street into which the car leaped, and it shone directly in their eyes. The car lurched around a corner and swung into the avenue for the race to the station. At that instant the girl's veil flapped back, revealing her face.
"Betty!" exclaimed McCarthy. "You" —
"You didn't know me?" she asked as she steadied the car and increased its pace over the smooth asphalt.
"Why are you here? What are you doing?" he asked in astonishment.
"I had to come," she replied swiftly. "There was no one else. We must catch the train. Don't talk, please."
He leaned back wearily and watched the street as it seemed to flow past them.
"How much time have we?" he asked above the roaring of the wind.
"The train leaves at 6.35," she called back, without lifting her eyes. "Watch for clocks."
She had increased the speed gradually and the light car jumped as it struck a cross-town street-car track. Suddenly the car jolted, slid to a quick stop and with an exclamation of despair the girl strove to reverse and killed the engine.
"The street is closed below," she said. "Crank up, the engine is dead."
McCarthy leaped from the car and cranked rapidly. A precious minute was lost before the engine throbbed and the girl, turning the car quickly, ran back a block, swung across to a side street and raced for the station.
"The captain of the bell boys is waiting with the tickets. I sent him before I left the hotel," she said without lifting her eyes. "Jump from the car the moment I stop. He'll meet you at the gate."
"Two minutes – can we make it?" he asked.
"We'll try." Her face was set and white. She whirled the corner of the avenue onto the side street at full speed. A block and a half away was the station. The car was at racing speed now. The girl kept the siren screaming, hoping for a clear way. They tore toward the intersection of the streets – and directly ahead a lumbering team of horses, drawing a heavy wagon, trundled across their path. With a sudden swerve, a grinding of the emergency and a sickening lurch, the car checked its mad flight, scraped past the rear of the wagon, and gathering speed renewed the race against time.
"Goodbye," he said, leaning suddenly inward as the car commenced to lose momentum. "When I come back" —
"Hurry, hurry," she pleaded. "Run" —
He leaped before the car stopped and, with one glance back toward her, sprinted down the long passageway.
The gate was closing. He cried aloud, and ran faster. The gate clanged. A boy in uniform ran to him and shoved tickets into his hands as they ran side by side.
"Open it! Let me through!" he screamed at the gateman, just starting to lock the gate.
McCarthy was sprinting desperately in pursuit of the train already half way down the long train shed. He ran until his heart pounded audibly against his ribs, straining every muscle, and crying for the train to stop. Faster and faster it went, and, near the end of the station, McCarthy realized he had lost the race and, stopping, he stood dejectedly looking after the rapidly disappearing observation car.
The gateman let him out with a sympathetic word, but he did not raise his head. He knew that, 235 miles away, twenty men were hoping for his arrival. He would hire a special train. He whirled at the thought – and then remembered he was without money.
He felt a hand touch his arm and, turning quickly, he saw Betty Tabor.
"I missed it," he said, hopelessly.
"I know, I know," she responded quickly. "The boy who had the tickets told me. There is no time to lose. I have a plan."
"A special train?" he asked. "I have no money."
"The auto," she replied quickly. "I will drive it. I've driven it hundreds of miles" —
"Betty," he expostulated, using her name unconsciously. "You cannot – maybe we can find a driver."
"I can and I will," she said decisively; "it is only 235 miles. We have eight hours. We can make it. The car is fast and easy to handle."
Still arguing, she led him back to the car, and they rode quickly back to the hotel over part of the route they had traversed during their wild flight. They breakfasted while the car was being prepared for the run, studying road maps while they ate.
"Betty, how can I ever thank you," he said, leaning forward over the table.
"By calling me Miss Tabor and winning the game to-day," she said, coolly, without looking up from the maps.
"The car is ready," the head waiter announced. "A good trip to you, Miss Tabor."
"You have a good driver, McCarthy," said the manager, who alone knew the object of the trip. "She handles that car better than I do. I have given her permission to tear it to pieces to get you through."
The start was undramatic. The car rolled easily along to the drive and presently was lifting and dropping over the hills of the splendid speedway. A gentle breeze from the river fanned them as they rushed through it.
In five minutes they were clear of the congested traffic on the bridge and the car, gathering speed, rushed into the hills on the opposite side of the river. Five minutes later the car was quivering with its increasing speed and McCarthy, looking at the gauge, saw that it registered forty-seven miles, and was still sliding forward. Fourteen miles across the rolling plateau the car raced with sustained speed, the engine humming in perfect tune and only the heavier vibration of the tires attesting the speed. At slower pace the car climbed among the ridge of hills that had been rising ahead, and after five miles of rougher going it turned into the old stage road.
"It's five minutes past nine," said the girl, "and we've done more than forty miles already. The next forty is good and we'll try to gain time."
"We ought to make it easily," he responded brightly. "You're a heroine."
"I do not know what the roads are beyond Hedgeport," she interrupted anxiously. "It is hill country. It rained two days ago."
She had steadily increased the speed again until the indicator kept constantly around the forty-five mile mark. The speed was terrific and made conversation almost impossible.
"Hadn't you better rest? You must be tired," he screamed above the noise of the car.
"Arms are cramped," she replied, without lifting her eyes from the road ahead. "We'll take gas at Hedgeport and walk around. We will lunch somewhere near Hilton. We'll be over the worst of the road then."
"I wish I could help you," called McCarthy, after a long silence.
She shook her head, and, after the car had throbbed up the next incline and was sailing, hawklike, down the opposite side, she said:
"You'll need your strength for the game. There's Hedgeport now."
Before them, set on the hillside, lay the little city. It seemed as if the houses grew by magic as they rushed upon it. They flashed past a few market wagons, passed another auto chugging along busily, and slackened the pace as the car rolled upon the brick pavements and toward the heart of the city.
"A hundred and thirty-one miles in a little over three hours," said McCarthy, elated. "That leaves us one hundred and four miles and more than four hours to make it in. We've won."
"The road has been perfect," Betty Tabor said. "For the next fifty miles it is marked bad."
She turned quietly to ask questions of the mechanician, who was overhauling and examining every part of the machine, and examining the feed pipes. Another man was filling the tanks and using oil plentifully.
"My hands and wrists are cramped and numb," she remarked, turning to McCarthy.
"Let the man drive the rest of the way. He knows the road," he urged.
"And leave me – to miss the game?" she asked. "Not much. Rub my hands, please."
She extended her strong, firm hand and McCarthy, bending over it, massaged and slapped it vigorously.
"Don't break it, please," she said, laughing. "Take the other one."
"Both," he whispered, his voice full of meaning.
"All ready," announced the garage keeper. "I think she'll stand it now."
"It's 11.10," said McCarthy. "If we get there by three."
"If we get there at all," she said, "even if you are late, you can get into the game."
For five miles they sped along over perfect roads, then suddenly a long stretch of new macadam loomed ahead. For three miles they lurched and struggled, and were free again, but the road was heavy and slow. Up hill and down they fought the road, at times slipping, lurching and skidding while the girl coaxed the car onward. The road grew worse and worse. The hills were steeper. The rain-guttered mud at times almost stalled the car.
"Twenty miles in an hour and ten minutes," groaned McCarthy. "This won't do."
The next hour was even worse. The girl was showing signs of weariness and the strain of holding the machine in the rough going. Three miles of good road across a hill-top plateau raised their courage, then they encountered sand.
It was twenty minutes to two o'clock, when, mud splattered, they raced into Hilton, with the car missing fire in one cylinder, the engine smoking and gasoline almost exhausted.
McCarthy almost lifted Betty Tabor from the car as they stopped at the garage and she gave rapid directions to the manager, explaining the need of haste.
"I'm afraid the car won't get you through," he said, "but we'll try."
"Have it ready at two o'clock," she ordered quickly. "We must get through somehow."
"It's thirty-four miles," he said. "But the roads are fair. If the car was in shape it would be easy."
"We'll eat lunch while you overhaul it," she replied.
McCarthy secured the lunch from the car and they spread it upon the grass in the yard and ate. The girl was too weary for conversation, but as she ate she seemed to gain strength and courage.
"We'll get there before the game is over, anyhow," she said quietly. "I want to see Williams's face when you come onto the field."
"I thought you and he" —
"I never have liked him," she interrupted quickly.
Three minutes before the town clock chimed the hour of two in Hilton, the machine, again running smoothly, shot out from the garage. Its occupants, refreshed and more cheerful, faced the final stretch of the long race.
"Fourteen miles in twenty-one minutes," cried McCarthy, as the mile posts flashed by. "We'll be there."
Ten minutes later the smoke haze that hangs eternally over the great city of the Blues was visible. The country homes along the road over which they sped were closer and closer together.
"Only ten more miles," McCarthy shouted triumphantly.
"We can cut across to the west here," she said as she swung the car into an avenue. "This goes near the ball park and we'll save three miles."
"Hurray," he shouted. "Then it's only seven miles."
The girl did not reply. She was weary and her fair face showed haggard lines. Their progress became slower, although two or three times policemen turned to watch them, as if to interfere.
The grandstand was close now. The steady roar of the huge crowd inside pulsed and beat upon them. A bell rang.
"That's either game time or last fielding practice," screamed McCarthy. "Hurry, please, hurry."
The car suddenly swung out of the line, sent a swarm of pedestrians scurrying, and jarred to a stop at the entrance marked "Players."
"Betty," said McCarthy, as he started to lift her from the car —
"Hurry," she said, faint from weariness and the reaction. "You must dress."
He ran stiffly toward the dressing room under the stand. Bill Tascott, the umpire, was just starting toward the field.
"McCarthy!" he exclaimed at sight of the specter covered with mud and with cut and bruised features.
"Bill, don't start the game yet," panted McCarthy beseechingly. "Wait till I dress. Please tell Clancy I'm here."
"I'll tell him. I'll delay the game. Can you play?" said the umpire rapidly.
"Yes – give me time to dress."
Jack, the trainer, quiet after his first outburst of surprise, was preparing the hot shower and working like mad over the weary player and when Clancy, summoned by a quiet word from the umpire, rushed into the player's room, McCarthy was sighing luxuriously as the trainer soaked his weary, cramped limbs with witch hazel.
"Hurry, Jack," ordered Clancy as he squeezed McCarthy's hands. "I knew you'd come, Kohinoor."
"Am I in time?" asked the player. "Get my uniform out, please."
"Just in time. Good old Bill Tascott is delaying the game. You ought to see him raising cain over his mask being lost. He hid it in our bench and is accusing the Blues of stealing it. He won't start the game until you are ready."
In five minutes they rushed him toward the little gate by which the players enter the field from under the stands, just in time to hear Bill Tascott announce:
"Batteries for to-day's game – Wiley and Kirkpatrick for the Blues; Williams and Kennedy for the Bears." He glanced toward the group emerging from under the stands and his voice rang with gladness as he yelled, in louder tones:
"McCarthy will play third base."