Lefty smiled faintly. “Can’t help that. It was up to him. I’d have hated myself if I’d gone away and left any man in that kind of a hole.” He hesitated an instant, the color rising to his face. “Besides, even if we aren’t friends, he’s—one of the bunch.”
Fargo stared at him oddly; then he broke into a laugh. “Time we was both in bed,” he said abruptly. “Don’t forget to keep your trap shut about this to-morrow. You was there and got a love tap or two in the scuffle. Lucky the old man can’t see that chest of yours.”
Outside the door he paused, the queer look in his eyes again. “One of the bunch!” he muttered aloud. “Well, I’ll be hanged!”
CHAPTER VI
WHO WAS TO BLAME?
On his way in to breakfast next morning, Manager Brennan bought a copy of the Ashland Morning Chronicle to glance through during the progress of the meal. Having seated himself and given his order, he spread open the sheet. The first thing to catch his eye was the flaming headline, “Palace Theater Wrecked by Mob.”
Having heard echoes of the affair the night before, the manager glanced over the account with interest. Halfway down the column he stopped short, clutched the paper, and stared with bulging eyes and purpling cheeks at a certain short paragraph:
The cause of the riot is not definitely known. It is said, however, to have been started by the rowdyish behavior of one of the visiting baseball men who was attending the performance. We might call Manager Brennan’s attention to the fact that, while Ashland is always ready to extend every hospitality to himself and his famous organization, she does not care about having that hospitality abused.
With a guttural exclamation of rage, Brennan half started from his seat, only to relax again and glare around.
“You read that stuff?” he demanded, catching the eye of Red Pollock across the table.