Lefty o' the Big League

by Burt L. Standish

Buck Fargo did not forget; he was not built that way. Esteemed as he was among players generally, and adored by the fans, it was, nevertheless, a fact that the big backstop did not usually make friends quickly—that is, what he called real friends, as opposed to pleasant but casual acquaintances.

Somehow, Lefty had attracted him from the first. He liked the way the boy had taken Elgin’s part that night at the Palace Theater and stood up unflinchingly against heavy odds. He liked Locke’s attitude with his fellow recruits when they started the boycott against him early in the season. The way the southpaw set out to conquer his faults and improve his playing appealed strongly to Fargo, who had been obliged to labor quite as steadily and strenuously himself before reaching his present enviable position. And when, little by little, he had come to know the youngster better, the Big Leaguer’s liking changed to something deeper and more abiding, which made it quite impossible for him to forget.

At first he had been openly angry. He berated Brennan for a blind idiot, and had to be forcibly restrained from punching Elgin’s head. Then he wanted Lefty to stay with the crowd on a chance of the manager coming to his senses. He soon saw, however, what an impossible condition of affairs that would bring about, and reluctantly, though with much outward brevity, said good-by.

“You’ll write, of course, and let me know how you make out?” he urged. “I ain’t much of a hand with the pen, but I’ll guarantee to answer every letter right off.”

There was a queer expression in Lefty’s eyes. He was finding the phases of the situation even more difficult than he had supposed. It was not easy to keep in place the mask of indifference he had assumed the night before.

“I’ll write when I make good, Buck,” he returned quietly. “There won’t be anything to tell you till then.”

Argument was futile. His mind was made up. He told no one his plans. It seemed doubtful whether he had made any. He simply said good-by and went his way, leaving behind ripples of discussion and conjecture, which swiftly spread out with ever-lessening volume until, like the departed pitcher, they vanished as if they had never been.

Fargo’s one consolation was in Jack Stillman. He found the newspaper man’s feelings in perfect accord with his own. There was one difference, however: while the big backstop was ready and eager to do anything in his power to rehabilitate his friend, no way occurred to him; it was Stillman’s brain, trained by three years of reporting on a metropolitan newspaper, which hit upon the only possible manner in which that could be done.

“We’ve got to find the boy who delivered that message,” he said tersely as they left the station. “If we can get hold of him and manage to choke the truth out of him, we ought to be able to nail this crooked trick fast to the man who put up the job.”