"Oh, it's Matson, the Pittston pitcher!" exclaimed the officer.
"What's up, Regan?" asked Joe.
"Oh, nothing much. Do you know Farley, my side partner? Farley, this is Matson--Baseball Joe, they call him. Some nifty little pitcher, too, let me tell you."
"Thanks," laughed Joe, as he shook hands with the other detective.
"Why, we're looking for a certain party," went on Regan. "I don't mind telling you that. We'll probably pull that place soon," and he nodded toward the lodging house. "Some of the regulars will be along in a little while," he added.
"Pull," I may explain, is police language for "raid," or search a certain suspected place.
"Anything big?" asked Joe.
"Oh, nothing much. There's been some pocket-picking going on, and a few railroad jobs pulled off. A lot of baggage belonging to wealthy folks has been rifled on different lines, all over the country, and we think we're on the track of some of the gang. We're going to pull the place and see how many fish we can get in the net."
Joe did not know what to do. If the place was to be raided soon it might mean that his friend, the old pitcher, would be among those arrested.
Joe was sure of his friend's innocence, but it would look bad for him, especially after the life he had led. It might also be discouraging to Pop, and send him back to his old companions again.
"How long before you'll make the raid?" asked Joe.
"In about half an hour, I guess," replied Regan. "Why, are you going to stick around and see it?"
"I might. But there's a friend of mine in there," spoke Joe, "and I wouldn't like him to get arrested."
"A friend of yours?" repeated Regan, wonderingly.
"Yes. Oh, he's not a hobo, though he once was, I'm afraid. But he's reformed. Only to-night, however, he went out with one of his old companions. I don't know what for. But I saw him go in there, and that's why I'm here. I'm waiting for him to come out."
"Then the sooner he does the better," observed Farley, grimly. "It's a bad place."
"Look here," said Joe, eagerly, "could you do me a favor, Mr. Regan?"
"Anything in reason, Joe."
"Could you go in there and warn my friend to get out. I could easily describe him to you. In fact, I guess you must know him--Pop Dutton."
"Is Old Pop in there?" demanded the officer, in surprise.
"Yes," responded Joe, "but I'm sure he's all right. I don't believe you want him."
"No, he's not on our list," agreed Regan. "Well, say, I guess I could do that for you, Joe. Only one thing, though. If Farley or I happen in there there may be a scare, and the birds we want will get away."
"How can we do it, then?" asked Joe.
A figure came shuffling up the dark street, and, at the sight of the two detectives and the young pitcher, hesitated near a gas lamp.
"Hello! There's Bulldog!" exclaimed Regan, but in a low voice. "He'll do. We'll send him in and have him tip Pop off to come out. Bulldog is on our staff," he added. "He tips us off to certain things. Here, Bulldog!" he called, and a short, squat man shuffled up. His face had a canine expression, which, Joe surmised, had gained him his name.
"Slip into Genty's place, Bulldog," said Regan in a low voice, "and tell a certain party to get out before the bulls come. Do you know Pop Dutton?"
"Sure. He and I----"
"Never mind about that part of it," interrupted the detective. "Just do as I tell you, and do it quietly. You can stay in. You might pick up something that would help us."
"What, me stay in there when the place is going to be pulled, and get pinched? Not on your life!" and the man turned away.
"Hold on!" cried Regan. "We'll get you out all right, same as we always do. You're too valuable to us to go to jail for long."
Then, as Bulldog started for the dark entrance to the lodging house, Joe realized that he had seen what is called a "stool-pigeon," a character hated by all criminals, and not very much respected by the police whom they serve. A "stool-pigeon" consorts with criminals, that he may overhear their plans, and betray them to the police. Often he is himself a petty criminal. In a sense he does a duty to the public, making it more easy for the authorities to arrest wrong-doers--but no one loves a "stool-pigeon." They are the decoy ducks of the criminal world.
I am making this explanation, and portraying this scene in Joe Matson's career, not because it is pleasant to write about, for it is not. I would much rather take you out on the clean diamond, where you could hear the "swat" of the ball. But as Joe's efforts to make a new man of the old pitcher took him into this place I can do no less than chronicle the events as they happened. And a little knowledge of the sadder, darker and unhappy side of life may be of value to boys, in deterring them from getting into a position where it would appeal to them--appeal wrongly, it is true, but none the less strongly.
The Bulldog had not been in the building more than a minute before the door opened again, and Pop Dutton, alone, and looking hastily around, came out. Joe got in a shadow where he could not be seen. He did not want his friend humiliated, now that he had seen him come out victorious.
For the young pitcher could see that Pop was the same straight and sober self he had been since getting back on the right road. His association with his former companions had evidently not tempted him.
"Oh, I'm glad!" exulted Joe.
Pop Dutton looked curiously at the two detectives.
"Thanks," he said briefly, as he passed them, and they knew that he understood. Not for a long time afterward did the former pitcher know that to Joe he owed so much. For, though his intention in going to the rendezvous of the unfortunates of the under-world was good, still it might have been misconstrued. Now there was no danger.
Afterward Joe learned that Pop had been urged by the man he met on the street to take part in a robbery. The old pitcher refused, but his false companion tried to lure him back to his old life, on the plea that only from his own lips would his associates believe that Pop had reformed.
And Pop made them plainly understand that he had.
Pop Dutton passed on down the street, and, waiting a little while, Joe followed. He did not care to see the raid. The young pitcher soon reached his hotel, and he felt that Pop was safe in his own boarding house.
The next morning Joe read of the wholesale arrests in the lodging house, though it was said that the quarry the detectives most hoped to get escaped in the confusion.
"Baggage robbers, eh?" mused Joe. "I wonder if they were the ones who went through Reggie Varley's valise? If they could be caught it would clear me nicely, providing I could prove it was they."
CHAPTER XXIII
THE TRAMP AGAIN
Baseball again claimed the attention of Joe and his mates. They were working hard, for the end of the season was in sight, and the pennant ownership was not yet decided.
Clevefield was still at the top of the list, but Pittston was crowding her hard, and was slowly creeping up. Sometimes this would be the result of her players' own good work, and again it would be because some other team had a streak of bad luck which automatically put Joe's team ahead.
The young pitcher was more like himself than at any time since he had joined the club. He was really pitching "great" ball, and Gregory did not hesitate to tell him so. And, more than this, Joe was doing some good work with the bat. His average was slowly but steadily mounting.
Joe would never be a great performer in this line, and none realized it better than himself. No clubs would be clamoring for his services as a pinch hitter. On the other hand many a pitcher in the big leagues had not Joe's batting average, though of course this might have been because they were such phenomenal twirlers, and saved all their abilities for the mound.
Also did Joe pay attention to the bases. He wished he was a south-paw, at times, or a left-hand pitcher, for then he could more easily have thrown to first. But it was too late to change now, and he made up his mind to be content to work up his reputation with his good right arm.