Lefty mumbled some excuse about not feeling very fit, and Brennan’s lips curled. “Huh!” he snorted. “Delicate, are you? Rot! Hey, Cy, come over and give this cub a few lessons in first principles.”
There was a general grin from the watching group of cubs, and Lefty felt his cheeks burn. He recovered himself swiftly, however, and, at Brennan’s order, took his place with the batters. The fact that he smashed out a clean single the first time he was up before the Hornet’s star pitcher went far toward restoring his own self-respect, even though it had no visible effect on the Argus-eyed manager.
Once during the course of the morning’s work Lefty caught Buck Fargo’s eyes fixed upon him, and as he was leaving the park toward noon the big backstop stepped out from the group of regulars and came over to him.
“Looks like you were getting in bad with the old man,” he remarked seriously. “First impressions go a long distance with him. I’ve been thinking mebbe we made a mistake in keeping quiet about last night. He’d roar for a bit, but he couldn’t sling it into you like he would if you’d started that rough-house.”
“You think it would be a good idea to tell him?” Lefty asked gravely.
“That would put him wise to what was the matter with you.”
The cub pitcher’s lips twitched. “Don’t you think it would be more sport to see if he could find it out by himself?” he suggested.
Fargo let out a guffaw and brought one fist down on Locke’s shoulder with a force which made him wince.
“For a cub, you ain’t half bad, kid,” he chuckled.