“My arm?” said Lefty. “You mean–”
“It’s all right, isn’t it? You know there was a rumor that you hurt it in the last game of the season. Some wise ginks even said you’d never pitch any more.”
“I’ve been doing some pitching for my team here in Fernandon.”
“Then, of course, the old wing’s all right. You’ll be in form again, the greatest left-hander in the business. How about it?”
“I’ve never been egotistical enough to put that estimate on myself.”
“Well, that’s what lots of the sharps call you. The arm’s as good as ever?”
“If you stop over to-morrow you’ll have a chance to judge for yourself. We’re scheduled to play a roving independent nine known as the Wind Jammers, and I hear they’re some team, of the kind. I shall pitch part of the game, anyhow.”
“You’ve been pitching right along?”
“A little in every game lately. I pitched four innings against the Jacksonville Reds and five against the Cuban Giants. We’ve lost only one game thus far, and that was our second one. The eccentric manager and owner of the Wind Jammers, who calls himself Cap’n Wiley, threatens to take a heavy fall out of us. He has a deaf-mute pitcher, Mysterious Jones, who, he claims, is as good as Walter Johnson.”
Weegman laughed derisively. “There’s no pitcher as good as Johnson anywhere, much less traveling around with a bunch of hippodromers and bushwhackers. But about your arm–is it all right?”