“Stillman knows everybody,” Lefty said. “It may be clew enough for him.”
There was a rap on the door. A messenger boy appeared with a telegram. Locke ripped it open and read:
Jones sick. Team busted. I’m busted. Signal of distress. How about that five hundred? I knead the dough. Don’t shoot! Wire cash. Wiley.
“Trouble in another quarter,” muttered Lefty, handing the message over to Janet. “How am I going to send him that money? I can’t force Weegman to do it. Wiley has a right to demand it. If I don’t come across, he’ll have a right to call the deal off.”
“But Jones is sick,” said Janet.
“Still it was a square bargain, and I mean to stand by it. Jones is sick. He was sick that day in Vienna; that was what ailed him. He showed flashes of form when he braced up, but he was too ill to brace up long. I’ve wondered what was the explanation, now I have it. Get him on his feet again, and he’ll be all right. I’ve got to hold my grip on Jones somehow.”
Kennedy and Stillman appeared at the Great Eastern together. First, Lefty showed them the message from Cap’n Wiley. Over it the former manager screwed up his face, casting a sharp look at his successor.
“If you can trust this Wiley,” he said, “send him two hundred, and tell him to bring Jones north as soon as Jones can travel. Don’t worry. Wiley’s outfit didn’t come under the national agreement, and Jones’ name on a Stockings contract ties him up.”
“But without drawing money from the club I haven’t the two hundred to spare now. I can’t draw.”
“I’ll fix that. I’ve got two hundred or more that you can borrow. After the training season opens, you’ll pretty soon find out whether or not you’ve picked a dill pickle in your dummy pitcher.”