“Somebody has to start it and get the blame. He’s the goat. Where’s Burkett, who managed the Wolves before I came in? Out in the Border League. Where’s Ashton and Gerrish, who struggled with the Blue Stockings before Kennedy stepped in on the turn of the tide? One’s running a cigar store in Kewanee, the other’s drinking himself to death in Muskegon; both left the game with busted reputations and broken hearts. Where’s McConnell, who tried to make a ball team of the Hornets before Brennan’s day? He took to the coke, and his friends are paying for his keep in a private bug-house. Where’s Decker, who had a crack at the Panthers–But what’s the use! There’s no surer way for a good man to ruin his career than to manage a losing ball team.”
“In that case,” said Locke, “I’ve got to manage a winner.”
Frazer gazed at him pityingly. “Swell chance you’ve got! About one in fifty thousand. You haven’t got the makings of an ordinary second-division team left.”
“I know the Feds have copped off some of our best men, but–”
“Some! Some! I should so remark! But don’t blame it all on the Feds. They were practically invited to come in and take their pick. The bars were let down. All your players knew there was trouble. They heard all sorts of rumors that made them nervous and uncertain. They didn’t see any contracts coming their way to be signed. They knew there was something the matter with Collier. It was even said he’d gone crazy. They knew Kennedy was going to get out from under. There was gossip about old men being shunted and new blood taken on. What they didn’t know was where they were at. It was all nicely worked to get them to take the running long jump.”
“Then you believe there was a plot to smash the team?”
“You don’t have to be a mind reader to get my opinion, but I’m saying this here private, man to man. I’m not goin’ round talking for publication.”
“But you’re wrong about Kennedy getting out; he was dropped.”
“Was he?”
“Sure.”