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Baseball Joe in the Central League

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<h2>CHAPTER XXIV ON THE TRACK</h2> “Well, are you comin’?” demanded the tramp, as Dutton did not answer. “I said I want to see you, an’ I’m dead broke! Took all I had t’ git a seat on th’ bleachers t’ see de bloomin’ game.” “Well, you saw a good game—I’ll say that,” commented the old player, though his voice was a bit husky. He seemed to be laboring under some nervous strain. “Huh! I didn’t come to see th’ game. I want t’ see you. Are you comin’?” Pop did not answer at once. About him and Joe, who still stood at his side, surged the other players and a section of the crowd. Some of the members of the team looked curiously at Pop and the ragged individual who had accosted him. Collin, the pitcher, sneered openly, and laughed in Joe’s face. “Who’s your swell friend?” he asked, nodding toward the tramp. Joe flushed, but did not answer. “Well, I’m waitin’ fer youse,” spoke the tramp,[192] and his tone was surly. “Come on, I ain’t got all day.” “Nothing doing,” said Pop, shortly. “I’m not coming with you, Hogan.” “You’re not!” There was the hint of a threat in the husky tones, and the glance from the blood-shot eyes was anything but genial. “No, I’m not coming,” went on Pop, easily. He seemed to have recovered his nerve now, and glanced more composedly at Joe. “Huh! Well, I like that!” sneered the tramp. “You’re gettin’ mighty high-toned, all of a sudden! It didn’t used to be this way.” “I’ve changed—you might as well know that, Hogan,” went on Pop. There were not so many about them now. All the other players had passed on. “Well, then, if you won’t come with me, come across with some coin!” demanded the other. “I need money.” “You’ll not get any out of me.” “What!” There was indignant protest in the husky voice. “I said you’ll not get any out of me.” “Huh! We’ll see about that. Now look here, Pop Dutton, either you help me out, or——” Dutton turned to one of the officers who kept order on the ball field. [193] “Jim, see that this fellow gets out,” the old player said, quietly. “All right, Pop. What you say goes,” was the reply. “Now then, move on out of here. We want to clean up for to-morrow’s game,” spoke the officer shortly to the man whom Pop had addressed as Hogan. “Ho! So that’s your game is it—Mister Dutton,” and the ragged fellow sneered as he emphasized the “Mister.” “If you want to call it a game—yes,” answered Dutton, calmly. “I’m done with you and yours. I’m done with that railroad business. I don’t want to see you again, and I’m not going to give you any more money.” “You’re not!” “I am not. You’ve bled me enough.” “Oh, I’ve bled you enough; have I? I’ve bled you enough, my fine bird! Well then, you wait! You’ll see how much more I’ll bleed you! You’ll sing another tune soon or I’m mistaken. I’ve bled you enough; eh? Well you listen here! I ain’t bled you half as much as I’m goin’ to. And some of the others are goin’ t’ come in on the game! You wait! That’s all!” And he uttered a lot of strong expressions that the ground officer hushed by hustling him off the field. Joe took no part in this. He stood quietly at[194] the side of Pop as though to show, by his presence, that he believed in him, trusted him and would help him, in spite of this seeming disgrace. They were alone—those two. The young and promising pitcher, and the old and almost broken down “has-been.” And yet the “has-been” had won a hard-fought victory. Pop Dutton glanced curiously at Joe. “Well?” he asked, as if in self-defence. “What’s the answer?” inquired Joe, trying to make his tones natural. “Was it a hold-up?” “Sort of. That’s one of the fellows I used to trail in with, before you helped me out of the ditch.” “Is he a railroad man?” asked Joe. “I thought he said something about the railroad.” “He pretends to be,” said Dutton. “But he isn’t any more. He used to be, I believe; but he went wrong, just as I did. Just as I might be now, but for you, Joe.” His voice broke, and there was a hint of tears in his eyes. “Oh, forget it!” said Joe, easily. “I didn’t do anything. But what sort of a fellow is this one, anyhow?” The man had been hustled off the grounds by the officer. “Oh, he’s just a plain tramp, the same as I was. Only he hasn’t anything to do with the railroad[195] any more, except to rob baggage. That’s his specialty. He hangs around the depots, and opens valises and such when he gets a chance.” “He does!” cried Joe, with sudden interest. “Is he the fellow the detectives wanted to get the time they raided the Keystone Lodging House?” Pop Dutton flushed red. “What—what do you know about that?” he asked. “Oh—I—er—I happened to be around there when the police were getting ready to close in,” answered Joe, truthfully enough. He did not want to embarrass his friend by going into details. “Oh,” said Pop, evidently in relief. “Yes, I think he was one of the gang they wanted to get. But they didn’t.” “He’s taking a chance—coming here now.” “Oh, he’s let his whiskers grow, and I suppose he thinks that disguises him. He’s had a hold over me, Joe, but I’m glad to say he hasn’t any longer. I won’t go into details, but I will say that he had me in his power. Now I’m out.” “So he used to rob travelers’ baggage, did he?” “Yes, and he does yet I guess, when he gets the chance. Jewelry is his specialty. I remember once he was telling me of a job he did. “It was at a small station. I forget just where. Anyhow this fellow—Hogan is one of his names—he[196] pretended to be a railroad freight brakeman. You know they are rather roughly dressed, for their work is not very clean. Well, he got a chance to open a certain valise. I remember it because he said it was such an odd bag.” Joe felt a queer sensation. It was as though he had heard this same story years before. Yet he knew what it meant—what it was leading to—as well as if it had all been printed out. “Hogan made a good haul, as he called it,” went on Pop. “He thought he was going to have a lot of trouble opening the bag when he came into the station pretending he wanted a drink of water. It was a foreign-make valise, he said, but it opened easier than he thought and he got a watch and a lot of trinkets that ladies like.” “He did?” asked Joe, and his voice sounded strange, even to himself. “Yes. Why, do you know anything about it?” asked Pop in some surprise. “I might,” said Joe, trying to speak calmly. “Would you remember how this bag looked if I told you?” “I think so.” “Was it a yellow one, of a kind of leather that looked like walrus hide, and did it have two leather handles, and brass clips in the shape of lions’ heads?” [197] “Yes—that’s exactly how Hogan described it,” said Pop. “But—why——” “And would you remember the name of the station at which the robbery took place?” asked Joe. “That is if you heard it?” “I think so.” “Was it Fairfield?” “That’s it! Why, Joe, what does this mean? How did you know all this? What is Hogan to you?” “Nothing much, Pop, unless he proves to be the fellow who took the stuff I was accused of taking,” answered Joe, trying to speak calmly. “Do you know where we could find this man again?” “You mean Hogan?” “Yes. I’m going to tackle him. Of course it’s only a chance, but I believe it’s a good one.” “Oh, I guess we can easily locate him,” said Pop. “He hasn’t any money to get far away.” “Then come on!” cried Joe, eagerly. “I think I’m at last on the track of the man who took the stuff from Reggie Varley’s valise. Pop, this means more to me than you can imagine. I believe I’m going to be cleared at last!” “Cleared! You cleared? What of?” asked the old ball player in bewilderment. “I’ll tell you,” said Joe, greatly excited. “Come on!” <hr class="chap" /> [198] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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