“If it isn’t Lefty Locke!” he cried, grabbing the pitcher’s hand. “And you’re the one man I’ve been palpitating to get hold of. You’re like the nimble flea. But I’ve got you now!”
“Murder!” said the southpaw. “My joy at spotting you caused me to forget. I should have passed you by, old man. For the moment I completely forgot your profession, and your knack of digging a column or so of sacred secrets out of any old ball player who knows anything he shouldn’t tell.”
Stillman was the baseball man of the Blade, a newspaper with a confirmed habit of putting over scoops. With the exception of Phil Chatterton, who was more of a special writer than reporter, Stillman was almost universally acknowledged to be the best informed pen pusher who made a specialty of dealing with the national game. He possessed an almost uncanny intuition, and was credited with the faculty of getting wise in advance to most of the big happenings in the baseball world.
“So you would have ducked me, would you?” said the reporter reprovingly. “Well, I didn’t think that of you!”
“I believe I should, if I’d stopped to figure out the proper play in advance,” confessed Lefty. “I don’t care to do much talking for the papers–at present.”
“Hang you for an ungrateful reprobate!” exclaimed Stillman, with a touch of earnestness, although he continued to laugh. “Why, I made you, son! At least, I’m going to claim the credit. When you first emerged from the tangled undergrowth I picked you for a winner and persistently boosted you. I gave you fifty thousand dollars’ worth of free advertising.”
“And made my path the harder to climb by getting the fans keyed up to look for a full-fledged wonder. After all that puffing, if I’d fallen down in my first game, Rube Marquard’s year or two of sojourning on the bench would have looked like a brief breathing spell compared to what would have probably happened to me.”
“But you didn’t fall down. I told them you wouldn’t, and you didn’t. Let the other fellows tout the failures; I pick the winners.”
“Modest as ever, I see,” said Locke. “Here’s Mrs. Hazelton waiting. We’re just going to have a late dinner. Won’t you join us?”
Janet knew Stillman well, and she shook hands with him. “Mrs. Hazelton!” he said, smiling. “By Jove! I looked round to see who you meant when you said that, Lefty. Somehow I’ve never yet quite got used to the fact that your honest-and-truly name isn’t Locke. I’ll gladly join you at dinner, but a cup of coffee is all I care for, as I dined a little while ago. Shan’t want anything more before two or three o’clock in the morning, when I’m likely to stray into John’s, where the night owls gather.”