That was all he said. The next instant he had turned away and rejoined his companions, leaving Lefty to jog on back to the hotel alone.
But somehow, though he was alone, the cub was far from feeling that depressing isolation of the day before. The morning seemed to have been spent principally in stirring up an old enmity and getting in bad with the manager. But these things did not worry the bush pitcher as they might have done if he had not fancied that he had also made a friend, and one who was well worth while.
CHAPTER VIII
THE MAN WHO KNEW
Lefty had barely stepped inside the Hatchford Hotel lobby when some one leaped at him like a human whirlwind, and a vaguely familiar voice chortled in his ear:
“Well, you old lobster! If I’m not glad to see your ugly mug again! Put it there, old fellow!”
Whirling swiftly, Locke saw standing before him a short, slim, wiry chap of about his own age, with a deeply tanned and freckled face, and a big mouth stretched to its utmost in a wide grin of delight.
“Jack Stillman!” he exclaimed joyously, grabbing the outstretched hand. “Well, what do you know about this! Last time I ran into you was on Broadway, over a year ago. What the mischief are you doing down here?”
“That’s easy. I’m the only original live wire on the sporting page of the Star. Ran down to look over Jim Brennan’s live stock and give the fans something to think about. You don’t mean to say you’re one of ’em, Phil?”
“Guessed right the first crack, Jack,” Lefty laughed. “You always were an awful clever boy.”