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The Logical Structure of Consciousness
Michael Starks
FROM DECISION RESEARCH
Disposition*Emotion Memory Perception Desire PI** IA*** Action/
Word
Subliminal Effects No Yes/No Yes Yes No No No Yes/No
Associative/
Rule Based
RB A/RB A A A/RB RB RB RB
Context Dependent/
Abstract
A CD/A CD CD CD/A A CD/A CD/A
Serial/Parallel S S/P P P S/P S S S
Heuristic/
Analytic
A H/A H H H/A A A A
Needs Working
Memory
Yes No No No No Yes Yes Yes
General Intelligence
Dependent
Yes No No No Yes/No Yes Yes Yes
Cognitive Loading
Inhibits
Yes Yes/No No No Yes Yes Yes Yes
Arousal Facilitates
or Inhibits
I F/I F F I I I I
Reality Press Las Vegas
It is my contention that the table of intentionality (rationality, mind, thought, language,
personality etc.) that features prominently here describes more or less accurately, or at
least serves as an heuristic for, how we think and behave, and so it encompasses not
merely philosophy and psychology, but everything else (history, literature, mathematics,
politics etc.). Note especially that intentionality and rationality as I (along with Searle,
Wittgenstein and others) view it, includes both conscious deliberative linguistic System 2
and unconscious automated prelinguistic System 1 actions or reflexes.
I provide a critical survey of some of the major findings of two of the most eminent
students of behavior of modern times, Ludwig Wittgenstein and John Searle, on the logical
structure of intentionality (mind, language, behavior), taking as my starting point
Wittgenstein’s fundamental discovery –that all truly ‘philosophical’ problems are the
same—confusions about how to use language in a particular context, and so all solutions
are the same—looking at how language can be used in the context at issue so that its truth
conditions (Conditions of Satisfaction or COS) are clear. The basic problem is that one can
say anything but one cannot mean (state clear COS for) any arbitrary utterance and
meaning is only possible in a very specific context. I analyze various writings by and about
them from the modern perspective of the two systems of thought (popularized as ‘thinking
fast, thinking slow’), employing a new table of intentionality and new dual systems
nomenclature. I show that this is a powerful heuristic for describing behavior.
Thus, all behavior is intimately connected if one takes the correct viewpoint. The
Phenomenological Illusion (oblivion to our automated System 1) is universal and extends
not merely throughout philosophy but throughout life. I am sure that Chomsky, Obama,
Zuckerberg and the Pope would be incredulous if told that they suffer from the same
problem as Hegel, Husserl and Heidegger, (or that that they differ only in degree from
drug and sex addicts in being motivated by stimulation of their frontal cortices by the
delivery of dopamine (and over 100 other chemicals) via the ventral tegmentum and the
nucleus accumbens), but it’s clearly true. While the phenomenologists only wasted a lot of
people’s time, they are wasting the earth and their descendant’s future.
Barcode
Location & Size
2” X 1.2”
The
Logical
Structure
of
Consciousness
Michael
Starks

Michael Starks
Reality Press Las Vegas

Copyright © Michael Starks (2019)
ISBN: 9781081170295
First Edition July 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed,
or transmitted without the express consent of the author.
Printed and bound in the United States of America.

" But I did not get my picture of the world by satisfying myself of its correctness:
nor do I have it because I am satisfied of its correctness. No: it is the inherited
background against which I distinguish between true and false." Wittgenstein
OC 94
"Now if it is not the causal connections which we are concerned with, then the
activities of the mind lie open before us." Wittgenstein "The Blue Book" p6 (1933)
"Nonsense, Nonsense, because you are making assumptions instead of simply
describing. If your head is haunted by explanations here, you are neglecting to
remind yourself of the most important facts." Wittgenstein Z 220
"Philosophy simply puts everything before us and neither explains nor deduces
anything...One might give the name `philosophy' to what is possible before all
new discoveries and inventions." Wittgenstein PI 126
"What we are supplying are really remarks on the natural history of man, not
curiosities; however, but rather observations on facts which no one has doubted
and which have only gone unremarked because they are always before our
eyes." Wittgenstein RFM I p142
"The aim of philosophy is to erect a wall at the point where language stops
anyway." Wittgenstein Philosophical Occasions p187
"The limit of language is shown by its being impossible to describe a fact which
corresponds to (is the translation of) a sentence without simply repeating the
sentence (this has to do with the Kantian solution to the problem of
philosophy)." Wittgenstein CV p10 (1931)
"The greatest danger here is wanting to observe oneself." LWPP1, 459
“Could a machine process cause a thought process? The answer is: yes. Indeed,
only a machine process can cause a thought process, and ‘computation’ does not
name a machine process; it names a process that can be, and typically is,
implemented on a machine.” Searle PNC p73
“…the characterization of a process as computational is a characterization of a

physical system from outside; and the identification of the process as
computational does not identify an intrinsic feature of the physics, it is
essentially an observer relative characterization.” Searle PNC p95
“The Chinese Room Argument showed that semantics is not intrinsic to syntax.
I am now making the separate and different point that syntax is not intrinsic to
physics.” Searle PNC p94
“The attempt to eliminate the homunculus fallacy through recursive
decomposition fails, because the only way to get the syntax intrinsic to the
physics is to put a homunculus in the physics.” Searle PNC p97
“But you cannot explain a physical system such as a typewriter or a brain by
identifying a pattern which it shares with its computational simulation, because
the existence of the pattern does not explain how the system actually works as a
physical system. …In sum, the fact that the attribution of syntax identifies no
further causal powers is fatal to the claim that programs provide causal
explanations of cognition… There is just a physical mechanism, the brain, with
its various real physical and physical/mental causal levels of description.” Searle
PNC p101-103
“In short, the sense of ‘information processing’ that is used in cognitive science
is at much too high a level of abstraction to capture the concrete biological reality
of intrinsic intentionality…We are blinded to this difference by the fact that the
same sentence ‘I see a car coming toward me,’ can be used to record both the
visual intentionality and the output of the computational model of vision…in
the sense of ‘information’ used in cognitive science, it is simply false to say that
the brain is an information processing device.” Searle PNC p104-105
“Can there be reasons for action which are binding on a rational agent just in
virtue of the nature of the fact reported in the reason statement, and
independently of the agent’s desires, values, attitudes and
evaluations? ...The real paradox of the traditional discussion is that it tries to
pose Hume’s guillotine, the rigid fact- value distinction, in a vocabulary, the use
of which already presupposes the falsity of the distinction.” Searle PNC p165-
171

“…all status functions and hence all of institutional reality, with the exception
of language, are created by speech acts that have the logical form of
Declarations…the forms of the status function in question are almost invariably
matters of deontic powers…to recognize something as a right, duty, obligation,
requirement and so on is to recognize a reason for action…these deontic
structures make possible desire-independent reasons for action…The general
point is very clear: the creation of the general field of desire-based reasons for
action presupposed the acceptance of a system of desire-independent reasons
for action.” Searle PNC p34-49
“Some of the most important logical features of intentionality are beyond the
reach of phenomenology because they have no immediate phenomenological
reality… Because the creation of meaningfulness out of meaninglessness is not
consciously experienced…it does not exist…This is… the phenomenological
illusion.” Searle PNC p115-117
“Consciousness is causally reducible to brain processes…and consciousness has
no causal powers of its own in addition to the causal powers of the underlying
neurobiology…But causal reducibility does not lead to ontological
reducibility…consciousness only exists as experienced…and therefore it cannot
be reduced to something that has a third person ontology, something that exists
independently of experiences.” Searle PNC 155-6
“…the basic intentional relation between the mind and the world has to do with
conditions of satisfaction. And a proposition is anything at all that can stand in
an intentional relation to the world, and since those intentional relations always
determine conditions of satisfaction, and a proposition is defined as anything
sufficient to determine conditions of satisfactions, it turns out that all
intentionality is a matter of propositions.” Searle PNC p193

i
PREFACE
“He who understands baboon would do more towards
metaphysics than Locke” Charles Darwin 1838 Notebook M
This book is about human behavior (as are all books by anyone about anything),
and so about the limitations of having a recent monkey ancestry (8 million years
or much less depending on viewpoint) and manifest words and deeds within
the framework of our innate psychology as presented in the table of
intentionality. As famous evolutionist Richard Leakey says, it is critical to keep
in mind not that we evolved from apes, but that in every important way, we are
apes. If everyone was given a real understanding of this (i.e., of human ecology
and psychology to actually give them some control over themselves), maybe
civilization would have a chance. As things are however the leaders of society
have no more grasp of things than their constituents and so collapse into anarchy
and dictatorship is inevitable.
In order to provide an overview of the logical structure of higher order human
behavior, that is of the descriptive psychology of higher order thought (mind,
language, rationality, personality, intentionality), or following Wittgenstein, of
language games, I give a critical survey of some of the major findings of Ludwig
Wittgenstein and John Searle, taking as my starting point Wittgenstein’s
fundamental discovery –that all truly ‘philosophical’ (i.e., higher order
psychological) problems are the same—confusions about how to use language
in a particular context, and so all solutions are the same—looking at how
language can be used in the context at issue so that its truth conditions
(Conditions of Satisfaction or COS) are clear. The basic problem is that one can
say anything, but one cannot mean (state clear COS for) any arbitrary utterance
and meaning is only possible in a very specific context. I give an analysis from
the recent modern perspective of the two systems of thought, employing a new
table of intentionality and new dual systems nomenclature.
It is critical to understand why we behave as we do and so I try to describe (not
explain as Wittgenstein insisted) behavior. I start with a brief review of the
logical structure of rationality, which provides some heuristics for the
description of language (mind, rationality, personality) and gives some

ii
suggestions as to how this relates to the evolution of social behavior. This
centers around the two writers I have found the most important in this regard,
Ludwig Wittgenstein and John Searle, whose ideas I combine and extend within
the dual system (two systems of thought) framework that has proven so useful
in recent understanding of behavior and in thinking and reasoning research. As
I note, there is in my view essentially complete overlap between philosophy, in
the strict sense of the enduring questions that concern the academic discipline,
and the descriptive psychology of higher order thought (behavior). Once one
has grasped Wittgenstein’s insight that there is only the issue of how the
language game is to be played, one determines the Conditions of Satisfaction
(what makes a statement true or satisfied etc.) and that is the end of the
discussion.
Since philosophical problems are the result of our innate psychology, or as
Wittgenstein put it, due to the lack of perspicuity of language, they run
throughout human discourse and behavior, so there is endless need for
philosophical analysis, not only in the ‘human sciences’ of philosophy,
sociology, anthropology, political science, psychology, history, literature,
religion, etc., but in the ‘hard sciences’ of physics, mathematics, and biology. It
is universal to mix the language game questions with the real scientific ones as
to what the empirical facts are. Scientism is ever present, and the master has laid
it before us long ago, i.e., Wittgenstein (hereafter W) beginning with the Blue
and Brown Books in the early 1930’s.
"Philosophers constantly see the method of science before their eyes and are
irresistibly tempted to ask and answer questions in the way science does. This
tendency is the real source of metaphysics and leads the philosopher into
complete darkness." (BBB p18)
Nevertheless, a real understanding of Wittgenstein’s work, and hence of how
our psychology functions, is only beginning to spread in the second decade of
the 21st century, due especially to P.M.S. Hacker (hereafter H) and Daniele
Moyal-Sharrock (hereafter DMS), but also to many others, some of the more
prominent of whom I mention in the articles.
Horwich gives the most beautiful summary that I have ever seen of where an
understanding of Wittgenstein leaves us.

iii
“There must be no attempt to explain our linguistic/conceptual activity (PI 126)
as in Frege’s reduction of arithmetic to logic; no attempt to give it
epistemological foundations (PI 124) as in meaning based accounts of a priori
knowledge; no attempt to characterize idealized forms of it (PI 130) as in sense
logics; no attempt to reform it (PI 124, 132) as in Mackie’s error theory or
Dummett’s intuitionism; no attempt to streamline it (PI 133) as in Quine’s
account of existence; no attempt to make it more consistent (PI 132) as in Tarski’s
response to the liar paradoxes; and no attempt to make it more complete (PI 133)
as in the settling of questions of personal identity for bizarre hypothetical
‘teleportation’ scenarios.”
Although there are countless books and articles on Wittgenstein, in my view
only a few very recent ones (DMS, H, Coliva etc.) come close to a full
appreciation of him, none make a serious attempt to relate his work to one of the
other modern geniuses of behavior John Searle (hereafter S) and nobody has
applied the powerful two systems of thought framework to philosophical issues
from the viewpoint of evolutionary psychology. I attempt to do this here.
I provide a critical survey of some of the major findings of Wittgenstein and
Searle on the logical structure of intentionality (mind, language, behavior),
taking as my starting point Wittgenstein’s fundamental discovery –that all truly
‘philosophical’ problems are the same—confusions about how to use language
in a particular context, and so all solutions are the same—looking at how
language can be used in the context at issue so that its truth conditions
(Conditions of Satisfaction or COS) are clear. The basic problem is that one can
say anything but one cannot mean (state clear COS for) any arbitrary utterance
and meaning is only possible in a very specific context. I analyze various
writings by and about them from the perspective of the two systems of thought,
employing a new table of intentionality and new dual systems nomenclature.
When I read ‘On Certainty’ a few years ago I characterized it in a review as the
Foundation Stone of Philosophy and Psychology and the most basic document
for understanding behavior, and about the same time DMS was writing articles
noting that it had solved the millennia old epistemological problem of how we
can know anything for certain. I realized that W was the first one to grasp what
is now characterized as the two systems or dual systems of thought, and I

iv
generated a dual systems (S1 and S2) terminology which I found to be very
powerful in describing behavior. I took the small table that John Searle (hereafter
S) had been using, expanded it greatly, and found later that it integrated
perfectly with the framework being used by various current workers in thinking
and reasoning research.
Since they were published individually, I have tried to make the book reviews
and articles stand by themselves, insofar as possible, and this accounts for the
repetition of various sections, notably the table and its explanation. I start with
a short article that presents the table of intentionality and briefly describes its
terminology and background. Next, is by far the longest article, which attempts
a survey of the work of W and S as it relates to the table and so to an
understanding or description (not explanation as W insisted) of behavior.
It is my contention that the table of intentionality (rationality, mind, thought,
language, personality etc.) that features prominently here describes more or less
accurately, or at least serves as an heuristic for, how we think and behave, and
so it encompasses not merely philosophy and psychology, but everything else
(history, literature, mathematics, politics etc.). Note especially that intentionality
and rationality as I (along with Searle, Wittgenstein and others) view it, includes
both conscious deliberative System 2 and unconscious automated System 1
actions or reflexes.
The astute may wonder why we cannot see System 1 at work, but it is clearly
counterproductive for an animal to be thinking about or second guessing every
action, and in any case, there is no time for the slow, massively integrated System
2 to be involved in the constant stream of split second ‘decisions’ we must make.
As W noted, our ‘thoughts’ (T1 or the ‘thoughts’ of System 1) must lead directly
to actions.
The key to everything about us is biology, and it is obliviousness to it that leads
millions of smart educated people like Obama, Chomsky, Clinton and the Pope
to espouse suicidal utopian ideals that inexorably lead straight to Hell on Earth.
As W noted, it is what is always before our eyes that is the hardest to see. We
live in the world of conscious deliberative linguistic System 2, but it is
unconscious, automatic reflexive System 1 that rules. This is the source of the
universal blindness described by Searle as The Phenomenological Illusion (TPI),

v
Pinker as The Blank Slate and Tooby and Cosmides as The Standard Social
Science Model.
As I note, The Phenomenological Illusion (oblivion to our automated System 1)
is universal and extends not merely throughout philosophy but throughout life.
I am sure that Chomsky, Obama, Zuckerberg and the Pope would be
incredulous if told that they suffer from the same problem as Hegel, Husserl and
Heidegger, (or that that they differ only in degree from drug and sex addicts in
being motivated by stimulation of their frontal cortices by the delivery of
dopamine (and over 100 other chemicals) via the ventral tegmentum and the
nucleus accumbens), but it’s clearly true. While the phenomenologists only
wasted a lot of people’s time, they are wasting the earth and their descendant’s
futures.
The modern ‘digital delusions’, confuse the language games of System 2 with
the automatisms of System 1, and so cannot distinguish biological machines (i.e.,
people) from other kinds of machines (i.e., computers). The ‘reductionist’ claim
is that one can ‘explain’ behavior at a ‘lower’ level, but what actually happens is
that one does not explain human behavior but a ‘stand in’ for it. Hence the title
of Searle’s classic review of Dennett’s book (“Consciousness Explained”)—
“Consciousness Explained Away”. In most contexts ‘reduction’ of higher level
emergent behavior to brain functions, biochemistry, or physics is incoherent.
Also, for ‘reduction’ of chemistry or physics, the path is blocked by chaos and
uncertainty (and chaos theory has been shown to be both incomplete in Godel’s
sense and undecidable). Anything can be ‘represented’ by equations, but when
they ‘represent’ higher order behavior, it is not clear (and cannot be made clear)
what the ‘results’ mean. Reductionist metaphysics is a joke, but most scientists
and philosophers lack the appropriate sense of humor.
I have studied the work of many scientists and philosophers who regard
consciousness as a “hard problem” (see David Chalmers) but, with Rupert Read
and others, I find their arguments unconvincing. As Wittgenstein noted, we can
see that it has a foothold even in flies (who have many of the same genes and
whose dopamine system permits behavioral manipulations), and from there it’s
just a long series of steps to ourselves.
In one recent example from a sea of literature Tegmark (see e.g., his YouTube

vi
video) following Tononi, thinks consciousness is “just” the “experience” of
higher order “information processing” with no awareness that these are just
families of language games. So, they seem to think that any “information
processing” device will have it too. Searle has famously suggested that a suitably
arranged stack of beer cans might do, but he also notes that it may be unique to
wet biological arrangements of neurons. It is not obvious that computers
without senses or a body can have emotions or consciousness, unless one makes
the language game trivial (and uninteresting).
I had hoped to weld my comments into a unified whole, but I came to realize, as
Wittgenstein and AI researchers did, that the mind (roughly the same as
language as Wittgenstein showed us) is a motley of disparate pieces evolved for
many contexts, and there is no such whole or theory except inclusive fitness, i.e.,
evolution by natural selection.
Finally, as with my 90 some articles and 9 other books, and in all my letters and
email and conversations for over 50 years, I have always used ‘they’ or ‘them’
instead of ‘his/her’, ‘she/he’, or the idiotic reverse sexism of ‘she’ or ‘her’, being
perhaps the only one in this part of the galaxy to do so. The slavish use of these
universally applied egregious vocables is of course intimately connected with
the defects in our psychology which generate academic philosophy, democracy
and the collapse of industrial civilization, and I leave the further description of
these connections as an exercise for the reader.
Those interested in my other writings may see Talking Monkeys 3rd ed (2019),
The Logical Structure of Philosophy, Psychology, Mind and Language in
Ludwig Wittgenstein and John Searle 3rd ed. (2019), Suicide by Democracy 4th
ed (2019) and Suicidal Utopian Delusions in the 21st Century 5th ed (2019).
I am aware of many imperfections and limitations of my work and continually
revise it, but I took up philosophy 13 years ago at 65, so it is miraculous, and an
eloquent testimonial to the power of System 1 automatisms, that I have been able
to do anything at all. It was 13 years of incessant struggle and I hope readers find
it of some use.
vyupzz@gmail.com

1
“If I wanted to doubt whether this was my hand, how could I avoid doubting
whether the word ‘hand’ has any meaning? So that is something I seem to know,
after all.” Wittgenstein ‘On Certainty’ p48
“What sort of progress is this—the fascinating mystery has been removed--yet
no depths have been plumbed in consolation; nothing has been explained or
discovered or reconceived. How tame and uninspiring one might think. But
perhaps, as Wittgenstein suggests, the virtues of clarity, demystification and
truth should be found satisfying enough” --Horwich ‘Wittgenstein’s
Metaphilosophy’.
First, let us remind ourselves of Wittgenstein’s (W) fundamental discovery –that
all truly ‘philosophical’ problems (i.e., those not solved by experiments or data
gathering) are the same—confusions about how to use language in a particular
context, and so all solutions are the same—looking at how language can be used
in the context at issue so that its truth conditions (Conditions of Satisfaction or
COS) are clear. The basic problem is that one can say anything but one cannot
mean (state clear COS for) any arbitrary utterance and meaning is only possible
in a very specific context. Thus, W in his last masterpiece ‘On Certainty’ (OC)
looks at perspicuous examples of the varying uses of the words ‘know’, ‘doubt’
and ‘certain’, often from his 3 typical perspectives of narrator, interlocutor and
commentator, leaving the reader to decide the best use (clearest COS) of the
sentences in each context. One can only describe the uses of related sentences
and that’s the end of it—no hidden depths, no metaphysical insights. There are
no ‘problems’ of ‘consciousness’, ‘will’, ‘space’, ’time’ etc., but only the need to
keep the use (COS) of these words clear. It is truly sad that most philosophers
continue to waste their time on the linguistic confusions peculiar to academic
philosophy rather than turning their attention to those of the other behavioral
disciplines and to physics, biology and mathematics, where it is desperately
needed.

Exploring the Variety of Random
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CHAPTER XV
TROUBLE BREWING
Still Jackwell and Bowen stood mute, neither of them venturing to
meet Joe’s gaze.
“If you don’t tell it to me, you’ll have to tell it to McRae,”
suggested Joe. “I’m trying to let you down easy, without calling it to
his attention. If we can settle it among ourselves, so much the
better. Is it some trouble at home that’s weighing on your mind? Is it
something about money matters? If it’s that, perhaps I can help you
out.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Matson,” said Jackwell, who seemed
by common consent to be the spokesman for the two. “But it isn’t
either of those two. It’s something else that neither Ben nor I are
quite ready yet to talk about.
“I know very well that you have a right to know anything that’s
interfering with our playing the game as it ought to be played. And
I’ll admit, and I guess Ben will, too, that we were off our game to-
day. But I think we’ll soon be able to settle the trouble so it won’t
bother us any more.
“I wish you could see your way clear to give us a little more time.
Let Ben and me have time to think and talk it over together. If we
can settle the matter without letting any one else know about it,
we’d much rather do so.”
Joe pondered for a moment.
“I’m willing to go as far as this,” he announced at last. “I’ll give
you a little more time, on this condition. If I note any further falling
off in your play, or you come to me with any excuses to be let off

from a game, I’m going to come down on you like a load of brick.
Then you’ll have to come across, and come across quick, or you’ll be
put off the team. Do you understand?”
“That’s all right,” said Jackwell. “You won’t have any further cause
to complain of me, Mr. Matson. I’ll play my very best.”
“I’ll work my head off to win,” declared Bowen.
They kept their promise in the series of games with the Western
teams that followed. Jackwell played at third with a skill that brought
back the memory of Jerry Denny, and Bowen covered his territory
splendidly in the outfield. It seemed as though Joe’s problem was
solved, as far as they were concerned.
But the worry about them was replaced by another regarding Jim.
There was no denying that the latter was not doing his best work.
He was intensely loyal and wrapped up in the success of the team.
But the opposing teams were getting to him much more freely than
they had before that season. He was getting by in many of his
games because the “breaks” happened to be with him, and because
the Giants, with the new spirit that Joe had infused into them, were
playing a phenomenal fielding game. But there was something
missing.
There was nothing amiss in Jim’s physical condition. His arm was
in perfect shape and his control as good as ever. But his mind was
not on the game, as it had formerly been. He worked mechanically,
sometimes abstractedly. He was always trying, but it was as though
he were applying whip and spur to his energies, instead of having
them act joyously and spontaneously.
Joe knew perfectly well what was worrying his chum. Ever since
that involuntary hesitation of Mabel’s, when asked about Clara, Jim
had been a different person. Where formerly he and Joe had
laughed and jested together on the closest terms of friendship and
mutual understanding, there was now a shadow between them, a
very slight and nebulous shadow, but a shadow nevertheless. Jim’s

old jollity, the bubbling effervescence, the sheer joy in living, were
conspicuous by their absence.
It was a matter that could not be talked about, and Joe, grieved to
the heart, could only wait and hope that the matter would be
cleared up happily. To his regret on his chum’s account was added
worry about the influence the trouble might have on the chances of
the Giants.
For if there was any weak place in the Giants’ armor, it was in the
pitching staff. At the best, it was none too strong. Joe himself, of
course, was a tower of strength, and Jim was one of the finest
twirlers in either League. But Markwith, though still turning in a fair
number of victories, was past his prime and unquestionably on the
down grade. In another season or two, he would be ready for the
minors. Bradley was coming along fairly well, and Merton, too, had
all the signs of a comer, but they were still too unseasoned to be
depended on.
If the deal for Hays had gone through, he would have been a
most welcome addition to the ranks of the Giant boxmen. But the
Yankees had had a change of heart, and had decided to retain him
for a while.
So Joe’s dismay at the thought of Jim, his main standby, letting
down in his efficiency was amply justified.
The Cincinnatis came back, as Hughson had prophesied, and took
the next game. But the two following ones went into the Giants’ bat
bag, and with three out of four they felt that they had got revenge
for the trimming that had been handed to them on their last trip to
Redland.
St. Louis came next, and this time the Giants made a clean sweep
of the series. They were not so successful with the Pittsburghs, and
had to be satisfied with an even break. But when the latter went
over the bridge the Brooklyns rose in their might and took the whole
four games right off the reel, thus enabling the Giants to pass them
and take second place in the race.

Then came the Chicagos, who were still leading the League, but
only by the narrow margin of one game. If the Giants could take
three out of four from them, the Cubs would fall to second place.
Joe had made his pitching arrangements so that he himself would
pitch the first and fourth games. He did so, and won them both. He
had never pitched with more superb skill, strength and confidence,
and the ordinarily savage Cubs were forced to be as meek as
lapdogs.
They got even, to an extent, with Markwith, whom they fairly
clawed to pieces in the second game. Jim pitched in the third, and
but for a senseless play might have won.
That play was made by Iredell in the ninth inning, with the Giants
making their last stand. The Cubs were three runs to the good. One
man was out in the Giants’ half, Curry was on third and Iredell was
on second, with Joe at the bat.
Suddenly, moved by what impulse nobody knew, Iredell tried to
steal third, forgetting for the moment that it was already occupied.
“Back!” yelled Joe in consternation. “Go back!”
With the shout, Iredell realized what he had done, and turned to
go back. But it was too late. The Cub catcher had shot the ball down
to second, and Holstein, with a chuckle, clapped the ball on Iredell
as he slid into the bag.
A roar, partly of rage, partly of glee, rose from the spectators, and
Iredell was unmercifully joshed as he made his way back to the
bench.
Joe, a minute later, smashed out a terrific homer on which Curry
and he both dented the plate. But the next man went out on strikes,
and with him went the game. If Iredell had been on second, he also
would have come home on Joe’s circuit clout and the score would
have been tied. The game would have gone into extra innings, with
the Giants having at least an even chance of victory.

As it was, the Chicagos were still leading the League by one game
when they packed their bats and turned their backs upon
Manhattan.
McRae was white with rage, as he told Iredell after the game what
he thought of him.
“You ought to have your brain examined,” he whipped out at him.
“That is, if you have enough brain to be seen without a microscope.
To steal third when there was a man already on the bag! You ought
to have a guard to see that the squirrels don’t get you. What in the
name of the Seven Jumping Juggernauts did you do it for?”
“I didn’t know there was a man there,” said Iredell lamely.
McRae looked as though he were going to have a fit.
“Didn’t know a man was there!” he sputtered. “Didn’t know a man
was there! Didn’t know a— Look here, you fellows,” he shouted to
the rest of the Giants gathered round. “I want you to understand
there are no secrets on this team. You tell Iredell after this whenever
there’s a man on third. Understand?”
He stalked away from the clubhouse in high dudgeon to share his
woes with the ever-faithful Robbie.
It was a hard game to lose, but Joe, as he summed up the results
of the Western invasion felt pretty good over the record. The Giants
had won eleven out of sixteen games from the strongest teams in
the League, and were now only one game behind the leaders. They
had climbed steadily ever since he had become captain.
But though he was elated at the showing of the team his heart
was heavily burdened by his personal troubles. His mother was still
in a precarious condition. He tore open eagerly every letter from
home, only to have his hopes sink again when he learned that she
was no better. Sometimes the strain seemed more than he could
bear.
Then there was Jim, dear old Jim, with the cloud on his brow and
look of suffering in his eyes that made Joe’s heart ache whenever he

looked at him. From being the soul of good fellowship, Jim had
withdrawn within himself, a prey to consuming anxiety. He seemed
ten years older than he had a year ago. And as a player, he had
slipped undeniably. He was no longer the terror to opposing batsmen
that he had been such a short time before. Joe gritted his teeth, and
mentally scored Clara, who had brought his friend to such a pass.
But, troubled as he was, Joe summoned up his resolution and
bent to his task. His work lay clearly before him. He was captain of
the Giants. And the Giants must win the pennant!

CHAPTER XVI
OUT FOR REVENGE
“Joe,” said McRae, on the eve of the Giants’ second trip West, “I
want to have a serious talk with you.”
“That sounds ominous, Mac,” replied Joe, with a twinkle in his eye.
“What have I been doing?”
“What I wish every member of the team had been doing,”
responded McRae. “Pitching like a wizard, batting like a fiend, and
playing the game generally as it’s never been played before in my
long experience as a manager. No, it isn’t you, Joe, that I have to
growl about. You’re top-notch in every department of the game, and
as a captain you’ve more than met my expectations. You’ve brought
the team up from the second division to a point where any day they
may step into the lead.”
“Give credit to the boys,” said Joe, modestly. “They’re certainly
playing championship ball. That is, with one exception,” he added
hesitatingly.
“With one exception,” repeated McRae. “Exactly! And it’s just
about that exception I want to talk to you. Of course, we’re both
thinking of the same man—Iredell.”
Joe nodded assent.
“I’ve worked myself half sick trying to brace him up,” he said. “But
he’s taken a bitter dislike to me since he was displaced as captain of
the team. He only responds in monosyllables, or oftener yet with a
grunt. He’s such a crack player when he wants to be that I’ve been
hoping he’d wake up and change his tactics.”

“Same here,” said McRae. “He’s been with the team for a long
time, and for that reason I’ve been more patient with him than I
otherwise would. But there comes a time when patience ceases to
be a virtue, and I have a hunch that that time is now.”
“You may be right,” assented Joe. “I’m sorry for Iredell.”
“So am I,” replied McRae. “I’m sorry to see any man throw himself
away. And that’s just what Iredell is doing. If it were only a slump in
his playing, such as any player has at times, it would be different.
But it’s more than that. I’ve had detectives keeping track of him for
the last week or two, and they report that he has been drinking and
frequenting low resorts. You know as well as I do, that no man can
do that and play the game. So I’m going to bench him for a while
and see if that doesn’t bring him to his senses. If it does, well and
good. If it doesn’t, I’ll trade him at the end of the season.”
“That’ll mean Renton in his place,” said Joe, thoughtfully.
“Do you think he measures up to the position?” inquired McRae.
“I’m inclined to think he will,” affirmed Joe. “Of course, he isn’t the
player that Iredell is when he’s going right. But he’ll certainly play
the position as well as Iredell has since we returned from the last
trip. He is an upstanding, ambitious young chap, and he’ll play his
head off to make good. He has all the earmarks of a coming star.
With Larry on one side of him and Jackwell on the other, and with
you and me to drill the fine points of the game into him, I think he’ll
fill the bill.”
“Then it’s a go,” declared McRae. “I’ll have a talk with Iredell to-
night. You tell Renton that he’s to play short to-morrow, and that it’s
up to him to prove that he’s the right man for the job.”
Joe did so, and the young fellow was delighted to learn that his
chance had come.
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Matson,” he promised, “and give you and the
team all I’ve got. If I fall down, it won’t be for the lack of trying.”

Pittsburgh was the first stop on the Giants’ schedule, and Forbes
Field was crowded to repletion when the teams came out on the
field. The local fans had been worked up to a high pitch of
enthusiasm by the closeness of the race, and they looked to see
their favorites put the Giants to rout, as they had on the first visit of
the latter to the Smoky City.
“Look who’s here,” said Jim to Joe, as the two friends drew near to
the grandstand before the preliminary practice.
“Meaning whom?” asked Joe, as his eyes swept the stands without
recognizing any one he knew.
“In the second row near that post on the right of the middle
section,” indicated Jim.
Joe glanced toward that part of the stand, and gave a violent start
of surprise, not unmixed with a deeper emotion.
“That lob-eared scoundrel, Lemblow!” he ejaculated. “And
confabbing with Hupft and McCarney.”
“Evidently as thick as thieves,” commented Jim. “A precious trio. I
wonder they have the face to show themselves at a baseball game
when they’ve done the best they could to bring the sport into
disgrace.”
“Three of the worst enemies we have in the world,” murmured
Joe, as his mind ran over the exciting events of the previous season.
Hupft and McCarney had been members of the Giant team that
year. They were good players, but had entered into a conspiracy
with a gang of gamblers—who had bet heavily against the Giants—
to lose the pennant. Lemblow was a minor-league pitcher who had
long wanted to get a chance to play with the Giants. If Joe, their
star pitcher, could be put out of the game, Lemblow figured that his
chance for a berth would be better. He also, therefore, had fallen in
with the plans of the gambling ring, and had, seemingly, stopped at
nothing to bring Joe to grief. How their plans miscarried, how Hupft
and McCarney had been put on the blacklist that debarred them

forever from playing in organized baseball, how Lemblow had been
exposed and disgraced, are familiar to those who have read the
preceding volume of this series.
“Wonder what they’re doing here,” puzzled Joe.
“Rogues naturally drift together,” said Jim. “I heard some time ago
that the bunch was playing with one of the semi-pro teams in the
Pittsburgh district. But they usually play only on Saturdays and
Sundays, so I suppose they’re choosing this way to spend their off
time. I suppose if we could hear what they’re saying about us at this
moment, our ears would be blistered.”
“Whatever it is doesn’t matter,” laughed Joe. “They made
acquaintance with our fists once, and I don’t think they’re anxious to
repeat the experience. But I guess we’d better pick out catchers and
begin to warm up. I’ve a hunch that the Pirates are going to pitch
Miles to-day, and if they do we’ll need the best we have in stock to
turn them back.”
By the time the bell rang for the beginning of the game, the
stands were black with spectators. The Giant supporters were
comparatively few, but they made up in vehemence what they
lacked in numbers.
From the beginning it was evident that the game would be a
pitchers’ duel. Miles was in superb form, and up to the ninth inning
had only given three hits, and these so scattered that no runs
resulted.
But Joe was in the box for the Giants and was pitching for a no-hit
game. Up to the ninth, not even the scratchiest kind of hit had been
registered from his delivery.
Could he keep it up? The crowd waited breathlessly for the
answer.

CHAPTER XVII
STEALING HOME
With Burkett, Barrett and Joe at the bat for the Giants in their half
of the ninth inning, it looked as though the nine might have a
chance to score.
But Miles had turned those same batters back earlier in the game,
and he nerved himself to repeat.
“Murderer, are you?” he sneered, as the burly Burkett came to the
bat, and referring to a nickname gained because of the many balls
“killed.” “Well, see me send you to the electric chair.”
“Aw, pitch with your arm instead of your mouth,” retorted Burkett.
“You’re due to blow up anyway. You’re only a toy balloon, and I’m
going to stick a pin in you.”
But Miles had the last laugh, for he fanned Burkett with three
successive strikes, and the latter went sheepishly back to the bench.
“That pin must have lost its point,” Miles called after him. “I knew
you were bluffing all the time.”
Larry came up to the plate, swinging three bats. He threw away
two of them and faced the pitcher.
“Why don’t you throw that one away too?” queried Miles. “You
might as well, for all the good it’s going to do you.”
“Your name is Miles, ain’t it?” asked Larry. “Well, that’s the way
I’m going to hit the ball—miles.”
He lunged savagely at the first ball that came over the plate and
lashed it into the crowded grandstand for what would have been a

sure homer, if it had not been a few inches on the wrong side of the
foul line.
Larry kicked at the decision, but to no avail, and he came back
disappointedly to the plate. But the mighty clout had sobered Miles
somewhat, and the next two were out of Larry’s reach and went as
balls. Larry fouled off the next for strike two, and let the next go by
for the third ball.
“Good eye, Larry,” called Joe approvingly. “He’s in the hole now
and will have to put the next one over. Soak it on the seam.”
Larry caught the next one fairly, and it started on a journey
between right and center. Platz, the Pirate rightfielder, took one look
at it and turned and ran in the direction the ball was going. At the
back of the park was a low fence that separated the field from the
bleachers. Just as the ball was passing over this, Platz reached out
his hand and grabbed it. The force of the ball and the rate at which
he was running carried him head over heels to the other side, but
when he rose, the ball was in his hand.
It was a magnificent catch, and well deserved the thunderous
applause that rose from the stand, applause in which even the Giant
supporters joined, though it seemed to sound the death knell of
their hopes.
“Hard luck, old man, to be robbed that way,” said Joe consolingly,
as Larry came back, sore and muttering to himself.
“To crack out two homers in one turn at bat and not even get a
hit,” mourned Larry. “Sure, if I was starvin’ and it started to rain
soup, I’d be out in it with only a fork to catch it with.”
Joe received a generous hand as he came to the bat, due not only
to his general popularity but to the wonderful game he had so far
pitched.
“Oh, you home-run king!” shouted an enthusiastic fan. “Show
them that you deserve the name. Win your own game.”
“Watch Miles pass him,” yelled another.

Whether Miles was deliberately trying to pass him, Joe could not
tell. In any event, the first two balls pitched were wide of the plate,
and the crowd began to jeer.
The third was by no means a good one, but still it was within
reach, and Joe reached out and hit it between third and short to
leftfield. With sharp fielding it would have gone for only a clean
single, but the leftfielder fumbled it for a moment, and Joe, noting
this, kept right on to second, which he reached a fraction of a
second before the ball.
That extra base was worth a great deal at that stage, for now a
single would probably bring Joe in for the first and perhaps the
winning run of the game.
But would that single materialize? There were already two men
out, and the chances were always against the batter.
Joe noticed that Miles was getting nervous. Wheeler was at the
bat, and Miles was so anxious to strike him out that he was more
deliberate than usual in winding up. Joe took a long lead off the bag,
and watched the pitcher with the eye of a hawk.
The first ball whizzed over the plate for a strike. Joe noted that
Wheeler hit full six inches under the ball. Evidently his batting eye
was off. There was little to be hoped for from that quarter.
When Miles started his long wind-up, Joe darted like a flash for
third. The startled catcher dropped the ball, and Joe came into the
bag standing up.
“Easy to steal on you fellows,” Joe joshed Miles, as he danced
around the bag.
“That’s as far as you’ll get,” snapped Miles. “I’ve got this fellow’s
number.”
And Joe was inclined to think he was right, for when the next ball
went over, Wheeler missed it “by a mile.” One more strike, and the
inning would be over.

Jamieson, the Pirate catcher, threw the ball back to Miles. Before it
had fairly left his hand Joe was legging it to the plate. There was a
yell from the spectators, and Miles, aghast at Joe’s audacity, threw
hurriedly to Jamieson.
Twenty feet from the plate, Joe launched himself into the air and
slid into the rubber in a cloud of dust. The ball had come high to
Jamieson, and he had to leap for it. He came down with it on Joe
like a thunderbolt, and the two rolled over and over.
“Safe!” cried the umpire.

CHAPTER XVIII
A TEST OF NERVE
The play was so close and so much depended on it that there was
a rush of Pirate players to the plate to dispute the decision. But the
umpire refused to change it, and curtly ordered them to get back
into the game.
Joe picked himself up, and, smiling happily, walked into the Giants’
dugout, where he was mauled about by his hilarious clubmates,
while McRae and Robbie beamed their delight.
“You timed that exactly, Joe,” cried Robbie, “and you came down
that base path like a streak. It’s plays like that that stand the other
fellows on their heads. Look at Miles. He’s mad enough to bite nails.
You’ve got his goat for fair.”
“It looks like the winning run,” said McRae. “And it’s lucky that you
didn’t depend on Wheeler to bring you in, for there goes the third
strike. Now it’s up to you to hold the Pirates down in their last half.”
“And rub it in by making it a no-hit game,” adjured Robbie, as Joe
put on his glove and went out to the box.
Joe needed no urging, for his blood was up and his imagination
was fired by the prospect of doing what had not been done in either
League so far that season.
But the Pirates were making their last stand in that inning, and he
knew that he would have his work cut out for him. Their coachers
were out on the diamond, trying to rattle him and waving their arms
to get the fans to join in the chorus. From stands and bleachers rose
a din that was almost overpowering.

Joe sized up Murphy, the first man up, and sent one over that
fairly smoked. Murphy lashed out savagely and hit only the empty
air.
“Strike one!” cried the umpire.
Murphy gritted his teeth, got a good toe hold, and prepared for
the next. Joe drifted up a slow one that fooled him utterly.
Then for the third, Joe resorted to his fadeaway, and Murphy,
baffled, went back to the bench.
Jamieson, who succeeded him, gauged the ball better and sent it
on a line to the box. A roar went up that died away suddenly when
Joe thrust out his gloved hand, knocked it down and sent it down to
first like a bullet, getting it there six feet ahead of the runner.
Then Miles, the last hope, came up, and Joe wound up the game
in a blaze of glory by letting him down on three successive strikes.
The Giants had won 1 to 0 in the best-played game of the year.
The newspaper correspondents exhausted their stock of adjectives
in describing it in the next day’s papers.
Only twenty-seven men had faced Joe in that game. Not a man
had reached first. Not a pass had been issued. Not a hit had been
made. It was one of the rarest things in baseball—a perfect game.
And as the crowning feature, the one run that gave the victory to
the Giants had been scored by Joe himself by those dazzling steals
to third and home.
It was a good omen for the success of the Western trip, and the
Giant players were jubilant.
“No jinx after us this time,” chuckled Larry.
“If there is, he got a black-eye to-day,” laughed Jim. “Gee, Joe,
that was a wonderful game. You won it almost by your lonesome.
The rest didn’t have much to do.”

“They had plenty,” corrected Joe. “More than one of those Pirate
clouts would have gone for a hit if it hadn’t been for the stone-wall
defense the boys put up. No man ever won a no-hit game with bad
playing behind him.”
At the hotel table that night Joe noticed that Iredell was not
present.
“Wonder where Iredell is,” he remarked to Jim, who was sitting
beside him.
“Search me,” answered the latter. “He may be in later. He’s so
grouchy just now that he seems to be keeping away from the rest of
the fellows as much as he can. You can’t get a pleasant word out of
him these days. I spoke to him to-day on the bench, and he nearly
snapped my head off.”
“Too bad,” remarked Joe, regretfully. “I’ve gone out of my way to
be friendly with him, but he won’t have it. Seems to think that I’m to
blame for all his troubles.”
They would have been still more concerned about the missing
member of the team, could they have seen him at that moment.
Iredell, on his way to the hotel, had drifted into one of the low
resorts which ostensibly sold only soft drinks, but where it was easy
enough to get any kind of liquor in the back room. To his surprise,
he saw Hupft, McCarney and Lemblow sitting at one of the tables.
There was a momentary hesitation on the part of the trio before
they ventured to speak to him, for they did not feel sure how their
advances would be received. But a glance at his face showed that he
was in a dejected and reckless mood, and that decided them.
“Hello, Iredell,” called out McCarney, with an assumption of
boisterous cordiality. “Sit down here and take a load off your feet.
Have something with us at my expense.”
Three months before, Iredell would have scorned the invitation.
Now he accepted it.

They talked of indifferent matters, the others studying Iredell
intently.
“I noticed you weren’t playing to-day,” remarked McCarney, with a
sickly grin.
“No,” said Iredell, bitterly. “I ain’t good enough for the Giants any
more. They’ve benched me and put that young brat, Renton, in my
place.”
“Case of favoritism, I suppose,” said McCarney, sympathetically.
“Why, you can run rings around Renton when it comes to playing
short!”
“That fellow, Matson, has got it in for me,” growled Iredell. “But I’ll
get even with him yet.”
“Sure, you will,” broke in Hupft. “Nobody with the spirit of a man
would take that thing lying down. He’s jealous of you, that’s what he
is. You’ve been captain once, and he’s afraid you may be again, and
so he wants to freeze you off the team.”

CHAPTER XIX
THE WARNING BUZZ
“Matson has a swelled head,” declared McCarney. “He thinks he’s
the whole show. He’s done us dirt, and now he’s thrown you down.
Are you going to stand for it?”
“No, I’m not!” snarled Iredell, now in the ugliest of moods. “I’ll get
even with him if it’s the last thing I do.”
“That’s the way I like to hear a man talk,” said Lemblow. “I owe
him a lot for the way he’s treated me, and so does every man here.
We all hate him like poison. Then why don’t we do something? It
ought to be easy enough for the four of us to figure out some way
to put the kibosh on him.”
“It would be easy enough if he weren’t so much in the limelight,”
said Hupft, uneasily. “If we put anything across on him, the whole
country would be ringing with it. The League itself would spend any
amount of money to run us down.”
“Bigger men than he is have got theirs,” rejoined McCarney. “It all
depends on the way it’s done. Now, a scheme has popped into my
head while we’ve been talking. I don’t know how good it is, but I
think it may work. If it goes through, we’ll have our revenge. If it
doesn’t we’ll be no worse off and we can try something else. Now
listen to me.”
They put their heads together over the table, while McCarney in a
low voice unfolded his scheme. That it was a black one was evident
from the involuntary start the others gave when it was first
broached. But as McCarney went on to explain the impunity with
which he figured it could be carried out and the completeness of

their revenge if it succeeded, they gave their adhesion to it. Iredell
was the most reluctant of the four, but his drink-inflamed brain was
not proof against the arguments of the others, and he finally
acquiesced and put up his share of the estimated expense.
The next day witnessed another battle royal between the Giants
and the Pirates. Jim pitched, and although his work was marked by
some of the raggedness that Joe knew only too well the reason for,
he held the Pittsburghs fairly well, and the Giants batted out a
victory by a score of 7 to 3.
“Sure of an even break, anyway, on the series,” remarked Curry
complacently, after the game.
“Yes,” replied Joe. “But that doesn’t get us anywhere. That only
shows that we’re as good as the other fellows. We want to prove
that we’re better. To play for a draw is a confession of weakness. I
want the next two games just as hard as I wanted the first two.
That’s the spirit that we’ve got to have, if we cop the flag.”
But though Markwith twirled a good game the next day and was
well supported, the best he could do was to carry the game into
extra innings, and the Pirates won in the eleventh.
“Beaten, but not disgraced,” was Joe’s laconic comment, as he and
Jim made their way to the hotel. “Let’s hope we’ll have better luck
to-morrow.”
“I’ve had a box sent up to your room, Mr. Matson,” said the hotel
clerk, as he handed the young captain his key. “It came in a little
while ago.”
“Thanks,” said Joe, and went upstairs with Jim to the room they
occupied together.
In the corner was a wooden box, about two feet long, a foot wide,
and of about the same depth. On the top was Joe’s name and the
address neatly printed, but nothing else, except the tag of the
express company.
“Wonder what it is,” remarked Joe, with some curiosity.

“It isn’t very heavy,” said Jim, as he lifted it and set it down again.
“Some flowers for you perhaps from an unknown admirer,” he
added, with a grin.
“It’s nailed down pretty tightly,” said Joe. “Got anything we can
open it with?”
“Nothing here,” answered Jim, as he searched about the room.
“Guess we’ll have to phone down to the office and have them send
us up a chisel to pry the cover off.”
“Oh, well, it will keep,” said Joe. “I’m as hungry as a wolf, and I
want to get my supper. We’ll stop at the desk on our way back and
get something from the clerk.”
They had a hearty meal, over which they lingered long, discussing
the game of the afternoon. Then they stopped at the desk, secured
a chisel, and returned with it to their room.
Jim switched on the electric light, while Joe lifted the box and
placed it on a table, preparatory to opening it.
“What’s that?” Jim exclaimed suddenly, turning from the switch.
“What’s what?” queried Joe in his turn.
“That buzzing sound.”
“You must be dreaming,” scoffed Joe. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“It seemed to come from the box when you lifted it up,” said Jim.
“Lift it up again.”
Joe did so, and this time both of them heard a faint buzzing,
whirring sound that, without their exactly knowing why, sent a little
thrill through them.
Again he lifted it with the same result.
The two young men looked at each other with speculation in their
eyes.
“Lay off it, Joe,” warned Jim, as a thought struck him. “Perhaps it’s
an infernal machine.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Joe, though the laugh was a little forced.
“Who’d send me anything like that?”
“There are plenty who might,” affirmed Jim, earnestly. “Remember
those crooks we saw at the game the other day! They hate you for
exposing them. I wouldn’t put anything past them. They’d go to all
lengths to injure you.”
Joe took out his flashlight and sent the intense beam all over the
sides of the box. Suddenly he uttered an ejaculation, and pointed to
a number of small holes, not visible on a casual inspection.
“Look!” he cried. “Air holes! Jim, there’s some living thing in that
box!”

CHAPTER XX
THE PACKAGE OF MYSTERY
“A living thing!” exclaimed Jim, in wonderment.
“Yes,” replied Joe, whose quick mind had already reached a
conclusion. “And I can make a guess at what it is. It’s a rattlesnake!”
“What?” cried Jim, aghast. “Oh, no, Joe, you must be dreaming.
No one would send you a thing like that.”
“Well, I’ll bet that somebody has,” said Joe, grimly. “That would
explain the buzz we heard just now. It was the whirr of the snake’s
rattles. We disturbed him when we lifted the box, and he’s given us
warning that he’s on the job. Lucky we didn’t open the box while it
was on the floor. See here.”
He lifted the box and let it fall with a sharp jolt on the table. This
time there was no mistaking the angry rattle that issued from the
box. They had heard it more than once when they had occasionally
come across one of the deadly reptiles while out hunting. It was one
of the sounds that once clearly heard could never be mistaken for
anything else. Even now, with the box closed, it sent a thrill of
horror through them.
Their faces were pale as they looked at each other and realized
what might have been the fate of one or both of them but for that
ominous warning.
“You see the dope?” questioned Joe, with an angry note in his
voice. “I would be curious to see what had been sent to me, and
would open the box probably with my face close above it. Then
something would strike me like a bolt of lightning, and it would be

good-night. I would have been out of the game with neatness and
dispatch.”
“The scoundrel!” ejaculated Jim, fiercely. “Oh, if I only had my
hands on whoever did it!”
“I’d like to have a hand in settling that little matter, too,” said Joe,
with a blaze in his eyes that boded ill for the miscreant if he should
ever be discovered. “But that can wait. The first thing to do is to put
this rattler beyond the power of doing mischief.”
Jim’s eyes searched the room for some weapon.
“No,” said Joe, “there’s a safer way than that. That ugly head must
never be thrust alive out of that box. Just turn on the water in the
bathtub.”
They had a private bath adjoining their room, and Jim turned on
the tap. When the tub was half full, Joe brought in the box and put
it in the tub, placing sufficient weight upon it to keep it beneath the
surface of the water.
“Those air holes will do the business, I think,” said Joe. “In a few
minutes the box will be full of water. We’ll leave it there a little while,
and then we’ll open the box and see if we guessed right.”
At the expiration of twenty minutes, they drained the water out of
the tub. Then Joe got the chisel, and with considerable effort forced
open the cover of the box.
“You see,” he said.
Jim saw and shuddered.
Lying in the water that was still seeping out through the air holes
was a rattlesnake all of four feet long.
They viewed the creature with a feeling of loathing. But still
deeper was the feeling they had against the scoundrels who had
chosen that cowardly way of attempting to injure Joe. The snake,
after all, was just the instrument. Infinitely worse were the rascals
who had employed it as their weapon.

“We’ve had some pretty narrow escapes,” said Joe. “And this is
one of them. If you hadn’t happened to hear that buzz, I might be a
dead man this minute.”
“It’s too horrible for words!” exclaimed Jim, “It seems incredible
that any one could plan such a thing for their worst enemy. Who do
you think did it?”
“One guess is as good as another,” replied Joe. “But if you ask me,
I should say that the man or men who did it sat in the grandstand
on the first day we played in this city.”
“Lemblow, Hupft and McCarney,” said Jim. “One or perhaps all of
them. Well, why not? Lemblow tried deliberately to harm us both
last year when he pushed that pile of lumber over from the scaffold
above us. We came within an ace of being killed. If he were ready to
harm us then, why shouldn’t he be again, especially as he hates us
worse now than he did before?”
“The box was certainly sent from somewhere in this city,” said Joe,
examining the cover carefully. “There’s nothing to indicate that it
came by railroad. And there are plenty of rattlesnakes in this part of
Pennsylvania. Some of the stores exhibit them as curiosities.”
“It’s up to us to put the police on the trail right away,” suggested
Jim.
“I don’t know about giving this thing publicity,” mused Joe
thoughtfully. “In the first place, it would create a sensation. It would
be featured on the first page of every newspaper in the country. And
you can see in a minute how it might react against baseball. The
public would begin to figure that gamblers were trying to put the
Giants out of the race. They haven’t forgotten the Black Sox scandal
that came near to ruining the game. We’ve got to think of the game
first of all. You remember what hard work we had to save the
League last year, and how we had to forego punishing the
scoundrels in order to keep every inkling of the gamblers’ scheme
from the public. Baseball has to be above suspicion.”

“Then do you mean to say that whoever did this is to get away
scot free?” demanded Jim, hotly.
“No,” said Joe, grimly, “I don’t mean that. When the season
closes, I’m going to make a quiet investigation of my own. And if I
find the villains I’ll thrash them within an inch of their lives and make
them wish they had never been born. But they won’t tell why I did
it, and I certainly won’t. At any cost, this thing must be kept from
the public. The good of the game comes before everything else.”

CHAPTER XXI
DROPPING BACK
“I suppose you are right, Joe,” assented Jim, regretfully. “But it
makes me boil not to be able to put the scoundrels behind prison
bars. Those human snakes ought to have some punishment meted
out to them.”
“They surely ought,” agreed Baseball Joe. “But we’ll have to
postpone their punishment. Everything will have to wait till the end
of the season. Apart from anything else, if we found them out now
and had them arrested, see how it would break into our work. We’d
have to leave the team to come here to testify at the trial and
perhaps stay away for weeks, and that would cost the Giants the
pennant. But speaking of this fellow here in the box, what are we
going to do with him? We can’t leave him here.”
“It’s rather awkward,” remarked Jim. “I suppose we could take him
down to the cellar and have him burned in the furnace.”
“Not without arousing the curiosity of the furnace man and leading
to talk,” objected Joe. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We leave town to-
morrow night. We’ll wrap the snake up in a compact package and
carry it along in a suitcase. Then at night while the train is speeding
along, we’ll open a window and drop him out.”
They agreed on this as the best solution.
“I suppose there’s no question that the snake is dead,” remarked
Jim, with an inflection of uncertainty in his voice. “It would be
mighty awkward to have him come to life again in the suitcase.”
“I guess he’s drowned all right,” returned Joe. “He was a long time
under water. But just to make assurance doubly sure, I’ll cut off his

head.”
He took out his heavy jackknife and severed the reptile’s head
from his body. Handling the grisly creature was a repugnant task,
and they were glad when it was finished.
“Guess I’ll keep this head,” remarked Joe, as a thought came to
him. “I’ll slip it into a jar of alcohol and that will preserve it
indefinitely.”
“What on earth do you want it for?” queried Jim. “I shouldn’t think
you’d care for that kind of souvenir.”
“I have a hunch it may come in handy some time,” answered Joe.
“Now let’s wrap up this body and get it out of our sight.”
Their dreams that night were featured by wriggling, writhing
forms.
“I’m glad I’m not scheduled to pitch to-day,” remarked Jim, at
breakfast. “I’m afraid the Pirates would bat me all over the lot. I
never felt less fit.”
“Such an experience isn’t exactly the best kind of preparation for
box work,” replied Joe, with a ghost of a smile. “I guess Bradley will
start, while I’ll stand ready to relieve him if he gets in a jam. I’m
hoping, though, that he’ll pull through all right.”
After lunch they took a taxicab to the grounds, but the vehicle got
in a traffic jam, and it was later than they expected when they finally
reached Forbes Field.
They hurried over to the clubhouse and were entering the door
when they met Iredell, who was coming out.
Iredell gave a sharp ejaculation and started back, while his face
went as white as chalk.
“Why, what’s the matter, Iredell?” asked Joe.
“N—nothing,” stammered Iredell, by a mighty effort regaining
control of himself and walking away.

Their wondering glances followed him, and they noticed that his
gait was wavering.
“What do you suppose was the reason for that?” asked Jim.
“I’m afraid he’s been drinking again,” conjectured Joe, regretfully.
“His nerves seem to be all unstrung. When he looked at me, you
might think that he saw a ghost.”
“Perhaps he did,” said Jim, slowly but significantly.
“What do you mean?” asked Joe, quickly.
“Just what I say,” answered Jim. “Perhaps he thought that you
were—well, in the doctor’s hands, and that what he saw must be a
ghost.”
“You don’t mean——”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Joe, in horror. “Lemblow, Hupft, McCarney?
Yes! But Iredell! A man on our own team! A man we’ve played with
for years! No, Jim, I can’t believe it possible.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Jim. “I hate even to think of it. I hope I’m
wrong. But drink, you know, will weaken a man’s moral fiber until
he’s capable of anything. Iredell’s been steadily going to the dogs of
late. Perhaps he’s fallen in with McCarney’s gang. He knows all of
them, and a drinking man isn’t particular about his company. Let a
man hate you and then let him drink, and you have a mighty bad
combination. Just suppose Iredell was in the plot. Suppose he knew
that rattler was sent to you yesterday. Wouldn’t he act just as he did
when he saw you turn up safe and sound to-day?”
“It certainly was queer,” admitted Joe, half-convinced. “I can only
hope you’re wrong. At any rate, it won’t hurt to keep our eyes on
him and be doubly on our guard.”
Bradley showed more form that afternoon than he had before that
season, and took the Pirates into camp in first class fashion by a
score of 5 to 3. Apart from victory itself, it was gratifying to McRae

and Robbie to note that Bradley was improving rapidly and
furnishing a reinforcement to Joe and Jim, who, in a pitching sense,
had been carrying the team on their backs.
Three out of four from so strong a team as the Pittsburghs was a
good beginning for the swing around the Western circuit, and the
Giants were in high feather when they arrived in Cincinnati.
“Hate to do it, old boy,” declared the grinning McRae, as he shook
hands with Hughson, “but we’ll have to take the whole four from you
this time.”
“Threatened men live long, Mac,” retorted Hughson. “Just for
being so sassy about it, I don’t think we’ll give you one. Just
remember the walloping we gave you the last time you were here.
That wasn’t a circumstance compared to what’s coming to you now.”
As it turned out, both were false prophets, for each team took two
games.
“Five out of eight aren’t so bad for a team away from home,” Jim
remarked.
“Better than a black eye,” admitted Joe. “But still not good
enough. We want twelve games out of the sixteen before we start
back home.”
It was an ambitious goal, but the Giants reached it, taking three
out of four from the Chicagos and making a clean sweep in St. Louis.
It was the best road record that the Giants had made for a long time
past, and it was a jubilant crowd of athletes that swung on board
the train for New York.
“I’m already spending my World Series money,” crowed Larry, the
irrepressible, to his comrades gathered about him in the smoker.
“Better go slow, Larry,” laughed Joe. “There’s many a slip between
the cup and the lip. We haven’t got the pennant clinched yet, by any
means. And even if we win the pennant, there’s the World Series,
and that’s something else again. It looks as though the Yankees
would repeat in the American, and you know what tough customers

they proved last time. And when Kid Rose gets going with that old
wagon-tongue of his——”
“Kid Rose!” interrupted Larry, with infinite scorn. “Who gives a
hoot for Kid Rose? What’s Kid Rose compared with Baseball Joe?”
Joe’s caution was justified by what followed after the Giants’
return home. Suddenly, without warning, came one of the
mysterious slumps that no baseball man can explain. If they had
gone up like a rocket, they came down like the stick. They fielded
raggedly, batted weakly, and fell off in all departments of the game.
Perhaps it was the reaction after the strain of the Western trip.
Whatever the cause, the slump was there.
McRae raged, Joe pleaded. They shook up the batting order, they
benched some of the regulars temporarily, and put the reserve men
in their places. Nothing seemed to avail. The “jinx” was on the job.
The Phillies and Boston trampled them underfoot. In three weeks
they had lost the lead, and the Chicagos and Pittsburghs had
crowded in ahead of them.
Still Joe kept his nerve and struggled desperately to turn the tide.
He himself had never pitched or batted better, and what occasional
victories were turned in were chiefly due to him. But he was only
one man—not nine—and the Giants kept on steadily losing.
Only one ray of light illumined the darkness for Baseball Joe.
Mabel had come to him.

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