"By George, Mr. Matson," he said, "this town has fallen for you all right.

The whole place is buzzing with that affair of last night, and I don't wonder. If it hadn't been for you, the coroner and undertaker would be busy this morning."

"Oh, I don't know," responded Joe. "If I hadn't got to it someone else would. It wasn't much of a blaze anyway, and ten to one it would have gone out of itself."

"Modest I see," laughed Westland. "They say that all great men are. But you can't get anyone in this town to take such a slighting view of it as you do yourself."

"You said last night that you had a business matter you wanted to see me about," suggested Joe, in order to change the subject.

"So I have," replied Westland, "and I've traveled over a thousand miles to talk to you personally about it."

He lighted a fresh cigar while Joe waited indifferently. He had been interviewed so much in the last year or two on all conceivable subjects that his curiosity was scarcely awakened.

"Of course, Mr. Matson," began Westland, "you've heard of the new major league that has just been organized and----"

Joe's bored feeling vanished and he was wide-awake in an instant. So this was what the visit meant! Jim's prediction was coming true sooner than he had expected.

"Pardon me, Mr. Westland," he interrupted, "but if this is about baseball, I have a friend visiting me who is as much interested in the game as I am.

In fact, he's a player himself. It's Jim Barclay of the Giants. You've heard of him, of course. h.e.l.lo there, Jim!" he called, as he threw open the door into the adjoining room, where Jim was watching a distracting dimple come and go in Clara's cheek as they chatted together.

"Really, Mr. Matson," said Westland, visibly fl.u.s.tered, "much as I would like to meet Mr. Barclay, I would rather----"

But just then Jim came strolling in, and Joe hastened to introduce him. He had used the stratagem in order to have a witness at hand. He was determined that no false or twisted version of the interview should be given out broadcast in the interest of the new league.

Despite his annoyance, Westland was diplomat enough to make the best of the situation, and he acknowledged the introduction graciously.

"Mr. Westland called in connection with the new league we were reading about yesterday, Jim," explained Joe, "and I knew that you would be interested and so I called you in."

Jim's jaw set a trifle, but he only nodded and Westland went on:

"I'm a business man, Mr. Matson, and so are you. So I won't beat around the bush, but come straight to the point. You're the greatest pitcher in the country, and we want to secure your services for the new league. We've got oceans of money behind us, and we're prepared to let you name your own terms. We'll give you anything in reason--or out of reason for that matter--if you'll sign up with us."

He delivered himself of this with the air of a man sure of having his offer accepted. But if he had expected Joe to gasp with astonishment and delight, he was disappointed.

"Well," said Joe quietly, after a moment's pause, "that's certainly a very liberal proposition----"

"Oh, we're no pikers," put in Westland complacently.

"But there's one little thing in the way," Joe went on; "and that is that I'm already signed up with the Giants for the next two years."

Westland saw that he was in for a tussle and braced himself.

"Of course, of course," he said, with the tolerant smile of a man of the world. "I didn't think for a minute that McRae would let his kingpin run around loose without being signed up. But you know what baseball contracts are. They're so jug handled that no court would uphold them for a minute.

In fact, McRae wouldn't dare to bring it into court. He may threaten and bl.u.s.ter, but that will be the end of it. That ten-day clause alone would kill it with any judge."

"Even admitting that I could break my contract with the Giants and get away with it," said Joe, leading him on, "what guarantee would you have that I wouldn't do the same thing with you if I should want to?"

"The guarantee of your own self-interest," replied Westland, flicking the ash from his cigar. "We'd make it so much worth your while to stay with us that there wouldn't be any inducement to go anywhere else."

"In other words," said Joe, with a touch of sarcasm, "if you once bought me you'd rely on your money to see that I'd stay bought."

"Now, now, Mr. Matson," put in Westland deprecatingly, "there's no use putting it in so harsh a way as that. This is simply business I'm talking to you, and in this world every man has got to look out for Number One.

Now I don't know how much money McRae pays you, but I make a guess that it's about five thousand a year, a little more or a little less. Now I'll tell you what we're prepared to do. We'll hand you twenty thousand dollars the day you put your signature to a contract with us. Then we'll agree to pay you fifteen thousand dollars a year for a three-years' term. And to make the whole thing copper riveted, we'll put the whole amount in the bank now, subject to your order as you go along. So that even if the new league should break up, you could loaf for three years and be sixty-five thousand dollars to the good."

With the air of one who had played his trump card and felt sure of taking the trick, Westland from out his pocket drew a fountain pen.

"Put up your pen, Mr. Westland," said Joe calmly, "unless you want to write to those who sent you here that there's nothing doing."

Jim brought his fist down on the arm of his chair with a bang.

"That's the stuff, Joe!" he cried jubilantly. "You knocked a home run that time."

A look of blended astonishment and vexation came into Westland's eyes. He seemed to doubt the evidence of his ears.

"Surely you're joking, Mr. Matson," he said. "No man in his senses would turn down such an offer as that."

"I must be out of my senses then," replied Joe, "for that's exactly what I'm doing."

"Perhaps you think we're bluffing," said Westland, "but money talks, and here is where it fairly shouts."

He drew from his pocket a roll of bills of large denominations and laid it on the table.

"There's the signing-up money," he explained. "They wanted me to bring a certified check, but I insisted on the actual cash. Count it if you like and take it to the bank if you doubt that it's good. There's twenty thousand dollars in that roll, and every cent of it's yours if you put your name at the bottom of this contract."

He laid an official-looking doc.u.ment on the table beside the bills, and leaned back in his chair, ostensibly intent on the end of his cigar, but watching Joe keenly from the corner of his eyes.

That pile of crisp yellowbacks was more money than Joe had ever seen at one time in his life, except through the bars of a cashier's cage. And all he had to do was to reach out, sign his name, and the next minute thrust the bills into his pocket. They meant independence. They meant security.

They meant the power and comfort and luxury that money can give.

But they also meant treachery and dishonor, and Joe never wavered for an instant.

"It's a lot of money, Mr. Westland," he agreed, "but it isn't enough."

A look of relief came into Westland's eyes. Perhaps his task wasn't hopeless after all.

"If that's the case, perhaps we can raise the figures a little," he said eagerly, "although we thought we were making a very liberal offer. But as I said before, we're no pikers, and we wouldn't let a few thousands stand between us. State your terms."

"You don't understand," replied Joe. "What I meant was that there isn't money enough in your whole crowd to make me go back on my word and jump my contract."

"Hot off the bat!" exclaimed Jim. "Gee, I wish McRae and Robbie and the rest of the Giant bunch could have heard this pow-wow."

Westland evidently had all he could do to contain himself. He had felt so serenely confident in the power of his money that he had scarcely allowed himself to think of failure. Yet here was his money flouted as though it were counterfeit, and he himself, instead of being greeted with open arms, was being treated with scorn and contempt.

"Upon my word, Mr. Matson," he said, with an evident effort to keep cool, "you have a queer way of meeting a legitimate business proposition."

"That's just the trouble," retorted Joe. "It isn't legitimate and you know it. In the first place you're offering me a good deal more than I'm worth."

"Oh, I don't know about that," expostulated Jim loyally. "There's at least one man in the league getting that much, and he never saw the day when he was a better man than you are."

"More than I'm worth," repeated Joe. "Still, if that were all, and you were simply trying to buy my baseball ability, it would be your own affair if you were bidding too high. But you don't want to give me all this money because I'm a good pitcher. It's because you want to make me a good liar.