“Stop that!” he roared, grasping Lefty’s wrist and stepping between the men. His face was purple with anger, and his eyes glowed like twin sparks. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“He spiked me!” snarled Schaeffer. “The cur spiked me! Look at that foot.”
The manager glanced downward, and saw instantly that Schaeffer was not bluffing. Across his left shoe, the gouging marks of spikes were plainly visible. On one of them a faint crimson smear was showing. Brennan frowned and raised his eyes.
“Somebody stepped on you by accident,” he said shortly.
“It’s a lie!” rasped Schaeffer. “He done it a-purpose. I felt his foot jab down on me. He had it in for me all along.”
“Who are you talking about?” Brennan asked.
“Him!” retorted the pitcher, glaring at Locke. “I knew he’d be up to some dirty trick.”
Lefty met the manager’s searching glance with perfect calm. “I never touched him,” he averred emphatically. “I was itching to smash one into him for knocking Dolly out, but spiking isn’t my style.”
“Humph!” Brennan’s keen eyes roved around the circle of faces. “Anybody know anything about this?” he demanded.