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Updated: June 11, 2025
Mr Birdsey had been doing something which he had not done since he left New York five years ago. He had been watching a game of baseball.
This is Mr John Benyon, and I last saw him five years ago when I was a reporter in New York, and covered his trial. 'His trial? 'He robbed the New Asiatic Bank of a hundred thousand dollars, jumped his bail, and was never heard of again. 'For the love of Mike! Mr Birdsey stared at his guest with eyes that grew momently wider.
'Come and have some dinner at my hotel and talk it over, said Mr Birdsey impulsively. 'Sure! said the young man. Mr Birdsey turned and tapped the shoulder of the man on his left. The result was a little unexpected. The man gave a start that was almost a leap, and the pallor of his face became a sickly white.
Aeons before, when the young blood ran swiftly in his veins and life was all before him, Mr Birdsey had played football. Once a footballer, always a potential footballer, even to the grave. Time had removed the flying tackle as a factor in Mr Birdsey's life. Wrath brought it back.
'Thank you, said the bearded man; 'I will. When three men, all strangers, sit down to dinner together, conversation, even if they happen to have a mutual passion for baseball, is apt to be for a while a little difficult. The first fine frenzy in which Mr Birdsey had issued his invitations had begun to ebb by the time the soup was served, and he was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment.
There was some subtle hitch in the orderly progress of affairs. He sensed it in the air. Both of his guests were disposed to silence, and the clean-shaven young man had developed a trick of staring at the man with the beard, which was obviously distressing that sensitive person. 'Wine, murmured Mr Birdsey to the waiter. 'Wine, wine!
And what is going on back there at this moment I don't like to think. About now, said Mr Birdsey, looking at his watch, 'I guess they'll be pronging the hors d'oeuvres and gazing at the empty chair. It was a shame to do it, but, for the love of Mike, what else could I have done? He looked at the bearded man. 'Did you have any adventures, Mr Johnson? 'No. I I just came.
And, even as he clung to his man, breathless, bruised, feeling as if all the world had dissolved in one vast explosion of dynamite, the door opened, banged to, and feet fled down the passage. Mr Birdsey disentangled himself, and rose painfully. The shock had brought him to himself. He was no longer berserk.
Mr Birdsey was profoundly distressed. He sat tingling and helpless. This was a nightmare. Waterall's level voice spoke at the telephone. 'Is this Scotland Yard? I am Waterall, of the New York Chronicle. Is Inspector Jarvis there? Ask him to come to the phone.... Is that you, Jarvis? This is Waterall. I'm speaking from the Savoy, Mr Birdsey's rooms. Birdsey. Listen, Jarvis.
'I certainly shall. 'But but this fellow came all that way to see the ball-game. It seemed incredible to Mr Birdsey that this aspect of the affair should not be the one to strike everybody to the exclusion of all other aspects. 'You can't give him up. It's too raw. 'He's a convicted criminal. 'He's a fan. Why, say, he's the fan. Waterall shrugged his shoulders, and walked to the telephone.
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