Brennan’s back was towards them, and he was consequently surprised to see Elgin give a sudden start and stare fixedly at the approaching squad.
For an instant Elgin’s face remained fixed; then into his eyes there leaped an expression of such utter astonishment, mingled with hate, that the manager’s words ceased abruptly, and he grasped the young pitcher by one arm.
“What is the matter with you?” he asked sharply.
Elgin swallowed hard, and his face, which had turned slightly pale, now flamed crimson.
“Look there!” he said hoarsely.
Brennan whirled and stared at the approaching players. For a second he saw only the line of blue-stockinged men, headed by Jack Kennedy. Then, as his eyes focused on the tall, lithe, graceful figure walking beside Spider Grant, the famous first baseman of the rival organization, his jaw dropped.
“I’ll—be—hanged!” he gasped. “Tom Locke!”
It was Lefty, browner than he had been a month ago, and with, if possible, an easier swing in his carriage. His face glowed with health. His teeth gleamed as he smiled at some sally of his companion. He showed no trace of the awkwardness or embarrassment which one might naturally expect at his first encounter with the team from which he had been dropped in such disgrace. True, his brown eyes flashed a single questioning glance at one man among the Hornets, but it was seen by no one save that man, who leaped forward as if propelled from a catapult.
“Lefty, you old lobster!” he cried, as he gripped both of the southpaw’s hands in his. “What you deserve is a good larruping; and I’d like to hand it to you right now.”