“What’s that you’re saying about Lefty Locke?” he demanded. “What are you giving me?”
“Straight goods, Mit,” stated the southpaw serenely, as he stepped forward. “Too bad you wasted so much time making a long and useless trip.”
Skullen came round with something like his old deftness of whirling in the ring when engaged in battle. Never in all his life had his battered face worn an uglier look. For a moment, however, he seemed to doubt the evidence of his eyes.
“Locke!” he gasped. “Here!”
“Yes, indeed,” returned the new manager of the Blue Stockings pleasantly. “I reckoned you would be ahead of me, Mit; but, as a man of his word, Wiley couldn’t do business with you. And without his aid there was little chance for you to make arrangements with Jones.”
Skullen planted his clenched fists upon his hips and gazed at the southpaw with an expression of unrepressed hatred. His bearing, as well as his look, threatened assault. Lefty dropped his traveling bag to the ground, and tossed the overcoat he had been compelled to wear in the North upon it. He felt that it would be wise for him to have both hands free and ready for use.
CHAPTER XXII
A DOUBTFUL VICTORY
“Who sent you here?” demanded the belligerent individual. “What business have you got coming poking your nose into my affairs? You’d better chase yourself sudden.”
Instead of exhibiting alarm, Lefty laughed in the man’s face. “Don’t make a show of yourself, Mit,” he advised. “Bluster won’t get you any ball players; at least, it won’t get you this one. I’ve already made a deal for Jones.”