There was an odd expression on Lefty’s face as he grasped Fargo’s big fists firmly. For an instant he did not speak.
“I didn’t make good, Buck—honest I didn’t,” he said at length in a low tone.
“G’wan!” retorted the backstop. “What you giving us? Ain’t you with the Blue Stockings?”
“Yes; but I’ve been with them only two days. Kennedy farmed me with the Badgers, down South. I never knew what he thought of me, or what he meant to do, till I got a wire telling me to come on at once. I had a streak of great luck down there, and I suppose—”
“Luck be hanged!” interrupted Fargo forcibly. “You made good, just as you would have with us if that miserable sneak— Say! You ain’t going into the game to-day?”
Locke hesitated an instant, and then nodded. “Yes,” he said, lowering his voice. “Kennedy’s going to give me a chance.”
Fargo grinned. “Glory be! The old man’s going to put Elgin on the slab. You’ll be up against him at last; and, if you don’t make him look like a rotten lemon, it’s all up between you and me.”
For a second Locke stood looking at his friend, with sparkling eyes and swiftly reddening cheeks. His face took on a look of firm, indomitable purpose. Unconsciously both brown, muscular hands, hanging straight down at his sides, clenched themselves until the knuckles showed white through the skin. Then he pulled himself together with an effort, and laughed.
“You’re a hot ball player to talk like that,” he joshed. “You sure don’t want your own pitcher to fall down, do you?”