“Wait a second, Jim,” the reporter called swiftly. “I’ve got something to tell you. You fired Lefty Locke because you thought he was a quitter,” he went on when they came together.
“You needn’t rub it in,” snapped the sorely tried manager. “If that’s all you’ve got to say—”
“It isn’t,” returned Stillman quickly. “Locke said he never wrote that fake telegram which called him away from Ashland the day of the game he was to pitch. He told the truth. It was sent by one of his own teammates, who hated him and wanted to put him in bad.”
“What?” exploded the stocky manager. “I don’t believe it!”
The reporter pulled a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Brennan. “There’s the proof,” he said quietly.
The manager jerked it open and cast his eyes hurriedly down the sheet. Wrath clouded his face.
“Elgin!” he growled throwing back his head. “Where is he? Just let me— Hey, you Elgin! Come here!”
His voice and manner had drawn several curious players near, among them Buck Fargo. The disgruntled pitcher, hearing his name uttered in that tone, came reluctantly over, expecting a call-down for his work on the slab. What followed was totally unexpected.
“You can pack!” Brennan snapped, eying the fellow with a look of scathing contempt. “I’m going to send you down to the ‘Lobsters.’ They want a pitcher, and they can have you—for keeps, if I can’t sell you.” The Lobsters were a much scoffed-at minor league club.