It was evident that the man had recognized them also, for he stopped suddenly, as though debating whether to advance or retreat. He decided on the former course, and with an air of bravado came toward them. Joe and Jim would have passed him without speaking, but he planted himself squarely in their path, a malignant look glowing in his bleary eyes.

"So here you are again," he snarled, addressing himself to Joe.

"Sure thing," answered Joe coolly. "You see me, don't you?"

"I see you all right," replied Hartley, as his eye took in Joe's well-dressed form. "All dolled up too. The man who took the bread and butter out of my mouth. Oh, I see you all right, worse luck."

Bugs Hartley had been a well known character in baseball for some years. He had gained his nickname from his erratic habits. He had never been any too strong mentally, and his addiction to liquor had still further contributed to throw him off his balance. But he had been a remarkable pitcher, with a throwing arm that made up for some of his mental deficiencies, and had played in several major league clubs. For some years he had been a member of the Giants, and was still a member when Joe joined the team. His vicious habits and utter failure to obey the rules of discipline had made him a thorn in his manager's side, but McRae had tolerated him because of his unusual skill in the box.

Joe had felt sorry for the man, and had done all he could to help him along. Once he had found him wandering intoxicated in the streets on the eve of an important game, and had got him off quietly to bed so as to hide the matter from McRae. But there was no gratitude in Hartley's disposition, and besides he was consumed with envy at seeing Joe's rapid progress in his profession, while he himself, owing to his dissipation, was going backward.

On one occasion, he had tried to queer Joe by doping his coffee just before the latter was scheduled to pitch in a game with Philadelphia. His hatred was increased when, after being knocked out of the box during a game, Joe had taken his place and won out. McRae at last lost patience with him and gave him his walking papers. Hartley's twisted brain attributed this to Joe, though as a matter of fact Joe had asked McRae to give Bugs another chance.

Hartley's reputation was so bad as a man and it was so generally understood that he was through as a pitcher that no other club cared to engage him. This increased his bitterness against the supposed author of his misfortunes. On one occasion he had tried to injure Joe in a dark street by hurling a jagged bolt of iron at his head, and the only thing that saved Baseball Joe was that at the moment he had stooped to adjust his shoelace. At that time Joe might have handed him over to the police, but instead he let him go with a warning. Now he had again met this dangerous semi-lunatic in the streets of New York.

"Now look here, Bugs," said Joe quietly and decidedly. "I'm just about tired of that kind of talk. I've done everything I could for you, and in return you've doped me and otherwise tried to hurt me. You've been your own worst enemy. I'm sorry if you're hard up, and if you need money I'll give it to you. But I want you to keep away from me, and if there's any more funny business you won't get off as easily as you did last time."

"I don't want your money," snapped Bugs. "I'm after you, and I'll get you yet."

"I don't think you'd better try it. It won't get you anywhere, except perhaps in jail."

"There's ways of doing it," growled Hartley. "Ways that you ain't dreamin' of."

A sudden thought struck Joe.

"Do you mean anonymous letters?" he asked, looking keenly into Hartley's eyes.

"Anon-non-what do you mean?" the man asked sullenly. He was an illiterate man and had probably never heard the word before.

"Letters without any name signed to them," persisted Joe.

"Aw! what are you giving me?" snapped Hartley. "I don't know what you're talking about."

His mystification was so genuine that Joe knew that his shot, fired at random, had missed the mark. He could eliminate Hartley at once as a possible author of the anonymous letter Mabel had received.

"Never mind," said Joe. "Now one last word, Bugs. Twice you've tried to do me up and twice you've failed. Don't let it happen a third time. It will be three strikes and out for you if you do."

He made a move to pass on. Hartley seemed for a moment as though he would bar the way, but the steely look in Joe's eyes made him think better of it. With a muttered imprecation he stepped aside, and the two friends moved on.

"A bad egg," remarked Jim, as they walked along.

"I don't know whether he's just bad or is mad," replied Joe regretfully. "A combination of both I suppose. He's got the fixed idea that I've done him a wrong of some kind and his poor brain hasn't room for anything else. It's too bad to see a man that was once a great pitcher go to the dogs the way he has. I suppose he picks up a few dollars now and then by pitching for semi-professional teams. But most of that I suppose is dissipated."

"Well, you want to keep on your guard against him, Joe," warned Jim, in some anxiety. "A crazy man makes a dangerous enemy."

"Oh, I don't think there's any need of worrying about Bugs," rejoined Joe carelessly. "The chances are ten to one we'll never run across him again."

The encounter had rather spoiled their morning, and they hailed a taxicab to take them back to their hotel. There they had lunch and then rode up to the Polo Grounds for the game.

As Joe had predicted, the Bostons that afternoon were out for blood and they evened up the score. Markwith pitched a good game except for one bad inning when he lost control, and hits, sandwiched in with passes and a wild pitch, let in three runs. He braced up after that, but it was too late, and the Giants had to take the little end of the score.

In the next two weeks the Giants met the rest of the Eastern teams, and, taking it as a whole, the result was satisfactory. They had no trouble in taking the Phillies into camp, for that once great team had been shot to pieces. The majority of the Boston games also went to the Giants' credit. They met a snag, however, in Brooklyn, and the team from over the bridge took four games out of six from their Manhattan rivals. But then the Brooklyns always had been a hoodoo for the Giants, and in this season, as in many others, they lived up to the tradition.

Still the Giants wound up their first Eastern series with a percentage of 610, which was respectable if not brilliant. But now their real test was coming. They were about to make their first invasion of the West, where the teams were much stronger than those of the East. Cincinnati was going strong under the great leader who had once piloted the Phillies to a championship. Chicago was quite as formidable as in the year before, when the Giants had just nosed them out at the finish. St. Louis, though perhaps the least to be feared, was developing sluggers that would put the Giants' pitchers on their mettle. But most of all to be feared was Pittsburgh, which had been going through the rest of the Western teams like a prairie fire.

"Pittsburgh's the enemy," McRae told his men, and Robbie agreed with him. "Beat those birds and you'll cop the flag!"

* * *

Chapter 9 AN OLD ENEMY

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