Fullerton Hugh Stuart
Jimmy Kirkland and the Plot for a Pennant
CHAPTER III
Hope for the Bears
The Bears were joyous again. They scuffled, joked, laughed and romped joyously as the team gathered in the railway station to make a hurried departure for the city of the Pilgrims on the evening after the final game of the series with the Panthers. Three victories out of four games played with the Panthers instead of the dreaded three defeats had lifted the Bears back practically to even terms with their rivals. All they had hoped for after the injury of Carson was to divide the series with the Panthers, and it was due to the sudden appearance of Kohinoor McCarthy that the victories were made possible.
All the notoriety that suddenly was thrust upon McCarthy had failed to affect him, although Manager Clancy watched his "find" anxiously, and pleaded with the newspaper men not to spoil him. No trace of the dreaded affliction known as "swelled head" had revealed itself, and because McCarthy was able to laugh over the wild stories printed concerning him, Clancy breathed more easily.
During the celebration McCarthy, who had made it possible, stood apart from the others, feeling a little lonely. McCarthy stood watching them, smiling at their antics with a feeling that he was an intruder. The truth was that the Bears had welcomed him from the start. He had won their admiration on the field and the undying friendship of Silent Swanson by his conduct in the club house on the afternoon after the close of his first game. It was that incident that made for him a chum and an enemy, who were destined to play a big part in his career.
When the players raced off the field after that victory, striving to escape being engulfed in the torrent of humanity that poured from the stands, McCarthy was caught, with a few others, and delayed. When he reached the club house the substitutes and the reserve pitchers already were splashing and spluttering under the showers. McCarthy walked to where Adonis Williams, already stripped to the waist, was preparing to take his shower, and without a word he kicked the pitcher on the shins, a mere rap, but administered so as to leave no doubt as to its purpose.
"Here – . What did you do that for?" demanded Williams.
"I told you in the hotel, when you insulted me, that I'd do it. Will you fight?"
McCarthy's blue eyes had grown narrower, and a colder blue tint came into them.
"I'll break you in pieces, you – you," Williams spluttered with rage.
"Drop that talk and fight," challenged McCarthy, stepping into a fighting attitude.
Just then McCarthy received help from an unexpected source. Swanson, the giant of the team, broke through the circle of players that had formed in expectation of seeing a fight.
"You're all right, Bo," he roared, throwing his huge arm around the shoulders of the recruit. "You're perfectly all right, but he won't fight you."
"I'll smash" —
"Naw, you won't, Adonis," said the giant, contemptuously. "I think he can lick you, anyhow, but you had it coming. Now kick his other shin, and after that Adonis will apologize."
The suggestion raised a laugh, and eased the situation. The battle light in McCarthy's face changed to a smile.
"I'll forego the kick," he said. "I had to make good after what I told you in the hotel. I'm perfectly willing to let it drop and be friends."
He extended his hand frankly, but Williams, still scowling, did not take it.
"Never mind the being friends part of it," he said. "But if you don't want trouble, just lay away from me after this."
"Here, young fellow," said Clancy, who had arrived at the club house in time to see the finish of the altercation; "I'll do all the fighting for this club. Understand?"
"Yes," replied McCarthy, slowly, without attempting to explain.
"What do you think of my gamecock, Bill?" asked Swanson, enthusiastically. "Adonis insulted him in the hotel last night and the kid promised to kick him on the shins. He was just making good. He offered to shake hands and call it all off, but Adonis wouldn't do it. He's my roommate from now on. I'll have to take him to keep him from fighting every one."
The giant's remark caused another laugh, as his record for fights during his earlier career as a ball player had given him a reputation which obviated all necessity of fighting.
The majority of the Bears had accepted McCarthy as one of their own kind after that, and Swanson adopted him. With Swanson he seemed at home, but the others found him a trifle shy and retiring. He was friendly with all excepting Williams and Pardridge, who resented his occupation of third base while pretending to be pleased. Yet with the exception of Swanson and Kennedy he made no close friends. The admiration of the rough, big-hearted Swede shortstop for the recruit approached adoration and he was loud and insistent in voicing his praises of McCarthy.
The train which was bearing the Bears away from the city of the Panthers drew slowly out of the great station, plunged through a series of tunnel-like arches under the streets, and rattled out into the suburbs, gathering speed for the long night run. Inside the cars the players were settling themselves for an evening of recreation. Card games were starting, the chess players were resuming their six-month-long contest, and McCarthy sought his berth and sat alone, striving to read. In the berth just ahead of his seat the quartette commenced to sing.
The Bears possessed a quartette with some musical merit and musical knowledge. Kennedy, the quiet, big catcher, had a good baritone voice and it showed training. Norton, who seldom spoke, but always was ready to sing, led, and Swanson was the bass, his voice deep and organ-like, making up in power and richness much that it lost in lack of training. Madden, the tenor, was weak and uncertain yet, as Swanson remarked, "He can't sing much, but he is a glutton for punishment."
When the quartette started to sing, McCarthy dropped his book and sat gazing out into the gathering twilight, listening to the strong, healthy voices. Lights commenced to flash out from the farm houses and the haze settled in waving curtains over the ponds and the lowlands. He was lonely, homesick at thought of other voices and other scenes and the joyousness of his new comrades seemed to depress rather than to lift his spirits.
Berths were being prepared for the night. Already in several the weary and the lame were reclining, reading. Others, worn by the strain of the day's game, were getting ready to draw their curtains. The trainer and his assistant were passing quietly from berth to berth, working upon aching arms and bruised muscles, striving to keep their valuable live stock in condition to continue the struggle.
The quartette sang on and on, regardless of the lack of an audience, for no one in the car appeared to be listening. They sang tawdry "popular" songs for the most part, breaking into a ribald ragtime ditty, followed by a sickly sentimental ballad.
Kennedy's voice, without warning, rose strong and clear almost before the final chord of the song over which the quartette had been in travail had died away. Kennedy had a habit, when he wearied of the songs they sang, of singing alone some song the others did not know; some quaint old ballad, or oftener a song of higher class. For a moment the others strove vainly to follow. Then silence fell over them as Kennedy's voice rose, clearer and stronger, as he sang the old words of Eileen Aroon.
"Dear were her charms to me."
His voice was pregnant with feeling.
"Dearer her laughter – free."
Kennedy was singing as if to himself, but as he sang a voice, strong and fresh, like a clear bell striking into the music of chimes, joined his and sang with him the words:
"Dearer her constancy."
The card players suddenly lost interest in their game, dropped their hands and turned to see who was singing. Players who had been reading and those who had been vainly striving to sleep poked their heads between curtains of the berths, the better to listen.
On and on through the haunting, half-pathetic minors of the old song the clear, sweet tenor and the strong, well-modulated voice of Kennedy carried the listeners. McCarthy, leaning toward the window and gazing out upon the moonlight as if under its spell, sang on in ignorance of the interest his voice had aroused in the car.
The song ended. For a moment the silence in the car was so complete that the clicking of the wheels upon the fish plates sounded sharply. Then Swanson, with a yell, broke the spell. Hurdling the back of the berth he descended upon the startled McCarthy, who seemed dazed and bewildered by the outburst and the pattering applause that it started.
"Yeh, Bo," yelled Swanson, giving his diamond war cry. "Yeh, Bo, you're a bear. Hey, you folks, throw Maddy out of the window and make room for this red-headed Caruso. Why didn't you tell me you could sing? The quartette is filled at last!"
Flushed and laughing in his embarrassment, McCarthy was borne up the aisle and deposited in the place of honor in the quartette.
Suddenly the scuffling and boisterous laughter ceased, and the players drew aside, apologetically, to make room for an eager, bright-eyed girl, whose face was flushed with pleasure, but who advanced toward McCarthy without a trace of embarrassment. McCarthy, glancing at her, recognized the girl who had directed him to Manager Clancy on the evening of his first appearance in the Bear camp.
"I was coming to say good-night to father," she said quickly, "and I heard you sing. I want to thank you."
She extended her hand and smiled. McCarthy stared at her in a bewilderment. Some memory of long ago stirred within him. He recalled in a flash where he had seen the face before; the face that had come into his boyhood at one of its unhappiest hours. He had dreamed of the face, and the memory of the kind brown eyes, filled with sympathetic tenderness, never had left him. She was the same girl. He realized suddenly that he was staring rudely and strove to stammer some reply to her impulsive thanks.
"Oh, I say," he protested. "It was nothing – I wasn't thinking" —
"You sang it beautifully," she interrupted.
"The song is one of my favorites. I did not know Mr. Kennedy knew it."
"Used to sing it at home," said Kennedy, as if indifferent.
"Thank you," McCarthy stammered, partly recovering his poise. "It is good of you to like it. I seldom sing at all. The song made me forget where I was."
"You must sing for us," she said simply. "The boys will make you. I am certain that after you feel more at home among us you will give us that pleasure. Good-night – and thank you again."
The girl smiled and McCarthy, stuttering in his effort to reply, managed to mutter good-night as she passed into the next car.
"It's a pink Kohinoor now," said the relentless Swanson, as he observed the flushed face of the recruit. "All fussed up, isn't he?"
"Oh, cut it out," retorted McCarthy, striving to cover his embarrassment by ball field conversational methods. "A fellow might be expected to be a little bit embarrassed with a lot of big stiffs like you standing around and never offering to introduce a fellow."
"I forgot it, Kohinoor," said Kennedy quickly. "I forgot you never had met her. She is Betty Tabor, Sec's daughter, and one of the best little women in the world. Even Silent is a gentleman when she is with the team."
"I'm always a gent, Bo," declared Swanson indignantly. "I took a night school course in etiquette once. Any one that ain't a gent when she is around I'll teach to be a gent – and this is the perfessor."
He exhibited a huge, red fist and smote the cushions of the berth with a convincing thud.
"I'll introduce you properly to-morrow," volunteered Kennedy. "Come on and get into the quartette. We'll try you out."
McCarthy surrendered more to conceal his agitation than because he felt like singing.
The quartette sang until the bridge players grew weary of the game and the tired athletes who preferred sleep to the melody howled imprecations upon the vocalists.
For a long time after McCarthy climbed into his berth he remained staring into the darkness, striving to recall the outlines of a face set with a pair of friendly brown eyes that lighted with a look of eager appreciation. He remembered the little dimples at the corners of the mouth, and the wealth of soft, brown hair that framed the oval of her face. He blushed hotly in the darkness at the thought of his own rather threadbare raiment, and he decided that he would evade an introduction until he could secure money from Manager Clancy and recover the clothes he had left in an express office.
He found himself striving to compare her face with that of another.
"She is not as pretty as Helen is," he told himself. "But it's different somehow. Helen never seemed to feel anything or to understand a fellow, and I'm sure Betty – Betty? I wonder if that is her real name – I'll sing for her as often as she will listen."
And, after a long reviewing of the past that was proving such a mystery and which the baseball reporters were striving in vain to explore, McCarthy muttered: "I've made a fool of myself," and turned over and slept.
CHAPTER IV
"Kohinoor" Meets Betty
The train was speeding along through the upper reaches of a beautiful valley when McCarthy awoke. As he splashed and scraped his face in the washroom he found himself torn between desire to hasten the introduction which Kennedy had promised and to avoid meeting the girl. He glanced down at his worn garments, wondering whether or not the girl had observed them. He went forward to the dining car with sudden determination to avoid the introduction. The dining car was crowded, and the table at which Swanson was eating was filled. McCarthy stopped, looked around for a vacant seat. There seemed to be only one – and at that table Miss Betty Tabor was breakfasting with Manager Clancy and his wife.
"Good morning," said the girl, smiling brightly. "There is a seat here. My father had to hurry away. Mr. Clancy will introduce us."
Clancy suspended his operations with his ham and eggs long enough to say:
"Miss Taber, Mr. McCarthy. Kohinoor, this is the old lady."
"I heard Mr. McCarthy sing last night," said the girl, acknowledging the informal presentation. "He sings well."
"So I should guess," remarked Clancy dryly. "Swanson has been bellowing his praise of it until everyone on the train thinks we have grabbed a grand opera star who can hit 400."
McCarthy found himself talking with Miss Taber and Mrs. Clancy and laughing at the quaint half brogue of the manager's buxom wife as if they had known each other all their lives. Clancy himself had little to say. The conversation had drifted to discussion of the country through which the train was running and McCarthy suddenly ceased talking.
"I always have loved this part of the valley," said Miss Taber. "When I was a little girl father brought me on a trip and I remember then picking out a spot on the hills across the river where, some day, I wanted to live. I never pass it without feeling the old desire. Have you been through this country before?"
The question was entirely natural, but McCarthy reddened as he admitted it was his first trip.
"And what part of the world do you come from?" asked Mrs. Clancy.
"I'm from the West," he responded. "Probably that is why I admire this green country so much."
"What is your home town?" persisted Mrs. Clancy.
Miss Taber, scenting an embarrassing situation, strove to change the subject, but Mrs. Clancy refused to be put off.
"Why is it you are ashamed of your home and play under another name, boy?" she demanded.
"Why do you think my name isn't McCarthy?" he parried.
"The McCarthys aren't a red-headed race," she said, her brogue broadening. "Ye have Irish in ye, but ye're not Irish. Is baseball such a disgraceful business ye are ashamed to use your name?"
"Of course not, Mrs. Clancy," he responded indignantly. "It is a good enough business – but – but – Oh, I can't explain."
"This mystery business is a big drawing card," remarked Manager Clancy, endeavoring to ease the situation. "They flock to see him because each one can make up his own story. Let him alone, mother. Don't spoil the gate receipts."
"Let him alone, is it?" she asked, turning upon her husband. "'Tis for his own sake I'm speaking. They'll be saying you've done something bad and wicked and are afraid to use your own name."
"What isn't true cannot hurt anyone," he replied quickly. "I have not committed any crimes."
"Mother is a good deal right about it," remarked Clancy quietly. "A baseball player is a public person. The fans are likely to say anything about a player, and the less they know the more they will invent."
"I believe Mother Clancy is right," said Miss Taber, seeing that her effort to turn the conversation had failed.
"But there really isn't anything to tell – anything any one would be interested in. It's a private matter," protested McCarthy.
"Listen, boy," said the manager's wife. "I've been with the boys these many years. They are all my boys, even the bad ones, and I don't want any of them talked about."
"There is nothing to talk about," he contended, irritated by the persistency of the manager's wife.
"They're already saying things," she responded, leaning forward. "They're a saying that you've done something crooked – that you've thrown ball games – "
"Oh," ejaculated Miss Taber. "They wouldn't dare!"
"I'd like to have someone say that to me," McCarthy said, flushing with anger.
"Hold on, mother," interrupted Clancy. "I'm managing this team – Let up on him. Where do you hear that kind of talk?"
"I heard it in the stands," she argued earnestly. "They were saying you knew all about it. If you deny it they'll tell another story and if you keep quiet they'll think its a confession. Tell them what you are and where you came from, boy."
Her voice was pleading and her interest in his welfare was too real not to affect him.
"I'm sorry, Mother Clancy," he said gratefully, unconsciously adopting the term he had heard Betty Tabor use. "There is nothing I can tell them – or anyone – now."
"It's sorry I am, Jimmy," she responded sadly. "If it's anything ye can tell me come to me."
"I see I have another adopted son," remarked Clancy teasingly as he winked at Miss Tabor. "Ellen mothers them all, as soon as she learns their first names – even the Swede."
"'Tis proud I'd be to have a son like Sven," she said, defendingly.
The breakfast ended rather quietly and McCarthy returned to his seat in the players' car dispirited. In his heart he knew that Mrs. Clancy had spoken the truth. He knew, too, that Betty Tabor held the same opinion and, somehow, her opinion of him counted more than that of all the others.
"If I only could explain," he kept thinking. "They have no right to ask," he argued with himself. "Why do they suspect a man just because he refuses to tell them all his private affairs?"
McCarthy was settling himself to resume reading when Adonis Williams came down the aisle and sat down in the other half of the seat. Williams looked at him patronizingly for an instant, and in a rather sneering tone said:
"Just a friendly little tip, young fellow. Keep off my preserves and you'll get along better with this club."
"I don't quite understand you," replied McCarthy, his eyes narrowing with the anger aroused by the air of superiority assumed by the pitcher.
"I was watching you during breakfast," said Williams. "Don't get it into your head that because you happened to play a couple of good games of ball you can run this club and do as you please."
"Hold on a minute," retorted McCarthy, flushing with anger. "If you have any grievance against me say so. Don't beat around the bush. I don't know what you are talking about."
"I wanted to tip you off to keep away from the young woman you ate breakfast with."
McCarthy's eyes flashed angrily, and he started to rise, but controlled himself with an effort.
"Only muckers discuss such things," he said, coldly.
"Well, we're going to discuss it," retorted Williams, who rapidly was working himself into a rage. "That young lady is going to be my wife, and I don't care to have her associating with every hobo ball player that joins the team."
McCarthy clenched his fists and started to his feet, but gritted his teeth and kept control of his temper. "You're to be congratulated – if it is true," he said slowly, his tone an insult. "Men cannot fight over a woman and not have her name dragged into it. Drop that part of it and to-night I'll insult you and give you a chance to fight."
"Any time you please," replied Williams, rather taken aback. "I think you're yellow and won't dare fight."
He swaggered down the aisle, leaving McCarthy angry, helpless and raging. He was boiling with inward anger when Swanson slid down into the seat with him as the train entered the suburbs of the Pilgrim City.
"Smatter, Bo?" asked Swanson, quickly observing that something was wrong. "I saw Williams talking with you. Has he been trying to bluff you? Don't mind him. He has been as sore as a Charley horse ever since you joined the team, and he won't overlook a chance to start trouble."
"He has started it all right," replied McCarthy, savagely. "We're going to fight to-night and I'll" —
"Steady, Bo, steady," warned Swanson, dropping his voice. "That's his game, is it? He won't fight any one. He heard Clancy warn you not to fight and he is trying to get you in bad. I know his way."
"I told him I'd fight," responded McCarthy, worriedly. "Now I'll have to. I don't know anything I'd enjoy better."
"I'd like to second you and make you do it," responded the giant. "But it would be playing into his hands if you punched him. Leave him to me. I'll fix his clock."
Swanson's methods were all his own. The repairing of Williams's timepiece took place in the big auto 'bus that carried the players from the train to their hotel. Swanson, wise with long experience in such matters, secured a seat across the 'bus from Williams, and when the vehicle rolled onto smoother streets he addressed the pitcher.
"Hey, Adonis," he said in tones Manager Clancy could not fail to hear, "trying to take out your grouch on Kohinoor, eh? You lay off him or count me in on anything that comes off."
"That sneak been tattling and crying for help, eh?" sneered Williams. "I wasn't going to hurt him."
"You're right, you're not," retorted Swanson. "He didn't tell me. I saw you trying to start something with him, and I've seen you do it to too many other kids not to know what you were up to."
"Who's talking fight?" demanded Clancy sharply, turning to scan the players until his eyes rested upon Williams's flushed and angry face.
"Nobody is going to fight," said Swanson easily. "Adonis has been trying to bully Kohinoor and stir him up. I guess he thought he could put over his bluff because you told Kohinoor not to fight."
"Adonis, you cut that stuff out or I'll take a hand in it myself," said Clancy, whose ability and willingness to fight had earned him a reputation during his playing days. "You've had a grouch for a week or more. As for you, Kohinoor, don't think you can fight your way through this league. The first thing you have to do is to learn to stand punishment and keep your temper."
"No fresh prison pup can swell up and try to cut into my affairs," muttered Williams, sullen under the rebuke.
McCarthy sprang up to avenge the fresh insult, but before he could act or speak he was forestalled.
"Oh," said Clancy sharply. "So you're the fellow who has been making that kind of talk? I've been trying to find out where it came from. One more bit of that kind of conversation will cost you a bunch of salary."
"I've heard it everywhere," muttered Williams, taken aback by the sudden defense of the recruit by the manager.
"Well, don't hear any more of it," snapped Clancy, and McCarthy, feeling he had emerged with the honors, discretely maintained silence.
"What started Adonis after you this morning?" asked Swanson, as he hurled garments around the room and wrought disaster to the order of his trunk as he hunted pajamas.
"Guess he was just trying to start something," responded McCarthy, still reading.
"Girl?" inquired Swanson.
"What makes you think that?"
"He was mad when he saw you at breakfast with Betty. He's jealous of everyone who talks to her."
"She's a dandy girl," said McCarthy, generously. "I don't much blame a fellow for being jealous when he is engaged to a girl like that."
"Engaged to Betty Tabor? That stiff?" ejaculated Swanson. "Say, did he spring a line of talk like that on you? Why, he has been crazy about her for three years, but she knows what he is, and she won't talk to him any more than to be polite."
"I thought it was odd," commented McCarthy, his heart becoming strangely lighter.
"Don't make any mistake, though," added Swanson earnestly, as he turned out the lights. "You've stirred up a bad enemy. He won't fight you openly; but keep an eye on him."
Swanson's warning fell upon deaf ears. McCarthy's attack of blues was cured, and he fell asleep to the music of street car wheels that seemed to say: "She isn't engaged, she isn't engaged," as they rolled past the hotel.