Lefty o' the Big League

by Burt L. Standish

Brennan’s gaze veered swiftly to the next table, where his new recruit sat with some of the other youngsters. Locke looked cool and undisturbed as he ate his breakfast with evident relish. The manager’s keen eye discovered a bit of plaster on one lip and a scratch on one side of his nose; but, by what Fargo had said about the general nature of the fighting, those slight abrasions might easily be accounted for. Besides, Locke did not strike him as having much of the rowdy in his make-up.

Without further comment, Brennan fell to on his breakfast and resumed reading the newspaper account. When he had finished it, he came to the conclusion that if one of his men had indeed been the cause of the disturbance the fellow must be a scrapper of unusual ability, and would surely bear upon his person unmistakable marks of the conflict.

Being a man of action, he at once started the round of his players. He had no desire to antagonize the rougher element in Ashland. He knew perfectly well that this would mean a constant succession of bickerings, with the possibility of injury to some of his highclass players if they got into a fight.

His critical inspection of the men showed the regulars to be beyond reproach. Not one had even a slight abrasion for which he could not account. The majority were provided with plausible alibis. Of the cubs, three were on the suspicious list. Locke he had already eliminated, and so did not bother about him. The other two were Bert Elgin and a young fielder named Ross, both of whom—and particularly the first mentioned—bore telltale signs on their faces.

They told a plausible, well-balanced story: They had been sitting near the stage of the Palace Theater when the uproar started back by the door. They arose with the rest of the audience and were carried out by the rush of the crowd. When they finally emerged into the lobby—Elgin swore that he had left a good-sized piece of skin from his face on the edge of the door—the place was filled with men, yelling and fighting like maniacs. They were so busy forcing their way to the street that neither had been able to get a look at the cause of the disturbance. Both were hit several times in the face, and had naturally smashed back. On reaching the sidewalk, they had left the place at once and returned to the hotel.

Brennan was slightly nonplused. The story rang true. It agreed perfectly, moreover, with Fargo’s account of the affair, and the manager knew that his catcher was not at all on friendly terms with either Elgin or Ross. Lastly, he was confident that neither of them had pugilistic skill or nerve enough to stand up before such a crowd after the manner which every account agreed that the unknown had done.

Puzzled, with a vague feeling that there was something about it which he did not understand, Brennan was obliged to content himself with a strict order that the entire squad forego shows of any description in the future, under penalty of heavy fines.

Later in the day he instituted inquiries throughout the town, with equal lack of success. The majority of people who had been at the theater had lost their heads, and could tell him nothing that he wanted to know. Three men there were who swore that they had obtained a good look at the mysterious individual, but their descriptions were so totally at variance that the manager gave up his quest in disgust.

“A lot of dough-heads!” he growled. “Sounds as if they were each describing a different person.”

Which happened to be exactly the truth.