“But how the deuce— I didn’t even know you’d taken up baseball. Thought you were scratching away in a lawyer’s office.”
“So I was until last spring. I played the season under the name of Lefty Locke. It’s a long story, but—”
Stillman’s eyes widened. “You’re Locke?” he exclaimed interestedly. “Wouldn’t that get you? I heard a few things about his pitching out in the bush last summer, but I hadn’t any idea you were it. Let’s have the yarn. Any good copy in it?”
“I hope not,” Lefty said hastily. “Come on upstairs and I’ll tell you the story of my life while I’m making myself respectable.”
The newspaper man accepted with alacrity, and when they reached Lefty’s room he made himself comfortable while the latter proceeded with his toilet and the recital of the summer’s doings at the same time.
“It’s a shame that Blue Stocking scout showed up just too late,” Stillman said regretfully. “Of course Jimmy Brennan is all right. He’s got more baseball under that dome of his than most managers in the country, and if you get in right you’ll be all to the merry. I’d hate like thunder to lose that coin though. Any more cub twirlers in the outfit?”
“Bert Elgin,” Lefty returned quietly.
Stillman stared, and an expression of incredulity flashed into his face. “What?” he gasped. “Not—”
Locke nodded. “The same. Funny, isn’t it, we should run up against each other this way?”
“Funny? I don’t see it. The cur!”