“I wish you luck,” replied Lefty. “If you don’t do anything else, you ought to get some sport out of it. I presume you still ascend the mound as a pitcher?”
“Oh,” was the airy answer, “on rare occasions I give the gaping populace a treat by propelling the sphere through the atmosphere. When my projector is working up to its old-time form, I find little difficulty in leading the most formidable batters to vainly slash the vacant ether. The weather seeming propitious, I may burn a few over this p.m. I trust you will pitch also.”
“I think I shall start the game, at least.”
Bailey Weegman butted in. “But he won’t finish it, Wiley. Like yourself, he’s not doing as much pitching as he did once.” His laugh was significant.
The owner of the Wind Jammers looked startled. “Tell me not in mournful numbers that your star is already on the decline!” he exclaimed, looking at Locke with regret. “That’s what the Big Leagues do to a good man; they burn him out like a pitch-pine knot. I’ve felt all along that the Blue Stockings were working you too much, Lefty. Without you on their roster ready to work three or four times a week in the pinches, they never could have kept in the running.”
“You’re more than complimentary,” said Locke, after giving Weegman a look. “But I think I’ll be able to shake something out of my sleeve this season, the same as ever.”
“Then don’t let them finish you, don’t let them grind you to a frazzle,” advised Wiley. “For the first time in recent history you have a chance for your white alley; the Federals are giving you that. If you’re not already enmeshed in the folds of a contract, the Feds will grab you and hand you a square deal.”
Weegman rose, chuckling and snapping his fingers. “All this talk about what the Feds can do is gas!” he declared. “They’re getting nothing but the soreheads and deadwood of organized baseball, which will be vastly better off without the deserters. Cripples and has-beens may make a good thing out of the Feds for a short time. Perhaps Locke would find it profitable to jump.” His meaning was all too plain.
Lefty felt like taking the insinuating fellow by the neck and shaking him until his teeth rattled, but outwardly he was not at all ruffled or disturbed. “Mr. Weegman,” he said, “is showing pique because I have not seen fit to sign up as manager of the Blue Stockings. He professes to have authority from Charles Collier to sign the manager, Collier having gone abroad for his health.”
“If anybody doubts my authority,” shouted Weegman, plunging his hand into an inner pocket of his coat, “I can show the documents that will–”