The blood rose into Lefty’s face; he tingled to tell the rascal something, but again a warning flicker of Kennedy’s left eye restrained him.
“There are lots of good youngsters coming on,” said the veteran soothingly. “There were three or four I could have used last season if I’d had room for them. We’ll run over the list and see how they’ll fit in.”
For another hour they continued in conclave, and a dozen times Weegman took occasion to impress upon Locke that he should do nothing definite without receiving Weegman’s approval. When he seemed to feel that he had driven this into the new manager’s head, he excused himself on the pretext of attending to a pressing matter, and departed, leaving old Jack and Lefty together. Kennedy quietly locked the door. Lefty jumped to his feet and began pacing the floor like a caged tiger.
“Never had such a job to keep my hands off a man!” he raged. “Only for you, I’d–”
“I know,” said old Jack, returning and sitting down heavily. “I wanted to kick him myself, and I think I shall do it some day soon. He’s crooked as a corkscrew and rotten as a last year’s early apple. But he ain’t shrewd; he only thinks he is. He’s fooled himself. You never agreed to his verbal terms, and, just as I said, he didn’t dare put them in writing. According to that contract, you’ve got as much power as I ever had, and you can exercise it. It’s up to you to get busy. Don’t wait for contract forms from Weegman; they’ll be delayed. I have plenty. Wire the old players who are left that contracts will be mailed to them to-night.”
Locke stopped by Kennedy’s chair and dropped a hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“And you’re going to St. Paul?” he said. “You’ve been handed a wretched deal.”
“Nix on the St. Paul business, son; there’s nothing to it. That wolf thought I swallowed that guff. Byers is Garrity’s friend, and it’s plain now that Garrity’s mixed up in this dirty business. It was easy enough to ask if I’d consider hooking up with St. Paul. By the time I got round to saying yes, Byers could tell me it was off. This time, Lefty, I’m out of the game for good.” His voice sounded heavy and dull, and his shoulders sagged.
The southpaw was silent, words failing him. After a few minutes old Jack looked up into the face of his youthful companion, and smiled wryly.
“You’ve got a little glimpse of what goes on behind the scenes in baseball,” he said. “The fans that pay their money to see the games look on it, generally, as a fine, clean sport–which, in one way, it is. That part the public pays to see, the game, is on the level. There’s a good reason: the crookedest magnate in the business–and, believe me, there’s one who can look down the back of his own neck without trying to turn round–knows it would spell ruin to put over a frame-up on the open field. By nature the players themselves are like the average run of human critters, honest and dishonest; but experience has taught them that they can’t pull off any double deals without cutting their own throats. People who talk about fixed games, especially in the World’s Series, show up their ignorance. It can’t be done.