“You can try your hand at being field captain to-morrow, Cy,” Brennan said, glancing at Russell, “and make up your own team.” He pulled a pencil and rumpled piece of paper from his pocket and turned his attention to the expectant youngsters. “We’ll see how you make out bossing a team, Ogan,” he went on, as his eyes lighted on the promising young first baseman from Ohio. “I’ll want these men to start in playing. Afterward you’ll use your own judgment about keeping them in the game.”
He began calling out the names of nine cubs, with the positions they were to take, jotting them down as he did so. When he finished with the words, “Whalen, catcher, and Locke on the slab,” Lefty beamed.
He had worked hard for two days to atone for the bad impression he had made at first, and this looked as if he had succeeded. “And I’ll do even better to-morrow,” he resolved, tossing up his glove in sheer exuberance of spirits. “I’ll try to show him Toler wasn’t such a bad judge of pitchers, after all.”
A glimpse of Bert Elgin’s scowling face only added to Lefty’s good spirits, and he departed from the field feeling very cheerful indeed.
At the supper table Jim Brennan was conspicuous by his absence, and curious inquiries revealed the fact that he had taken a late afternoon train to Fort Worth, from which he did not expect to return until early morning. “Pop” Jennings, the oldest and most settled pitcher in the organization, was the source of this information. He added that he had been left in charge of the squad, and hoped he would not have to break too many heads to keep order.
The announcement caused no immediate effect beyond a certain noticeable relaxation. There were a few more or less joshing remarks concerning Pop’s new job, but they were comparatively mild. Before entering the field of professional baseball Jennings had dallied with the four-ounce gloves to an extent which gave him something of a reputation in sporting circles on the Pacific coast. He was noted for a dogged determination to carry out orders at any cost—a trait which made him invaluable at the crucial moment of a hard-fought game. The players had learned from experience that there would be no slurring of Brennan’s instructions, and that any laxity of training would bring with it swift retribution.
Happily, Pop had a praiseworthy habit of retiring promptly at nine o’clock. Jesters said it was because he was getting old and had to be careful of himself. The truth was that Jennings, raised on a farm, had been imbued from earliest years with the value of the old adage, “Early to bed, early to rise,” and couldn’t help himself.
During the early part of the evening the behavior of the Hornets was unexceptionable. Some lounged in the lobby, reading papers, or chatting lazily. Most of the cubs were gathered in a corner, discussing the morrow’s game, and perfecting a system of signals for use on the field. Quite a number of the regulars, gathered about the pool tables, indulged in an innocent game of penny ante, or shot craps. A few drifted off early to their rooms. Pop, making a round of inspection a little before nine, decided that all were harmlessly employed, and departed to bed.
Instantly the click of cues and balls ceased, card games languished, and a state of general restiveness ensued. Lefty and two or three companions, who had drifted in a few minutes before from the lobby, wondered what was going to happen. They were not kept waiting long. At the end of fifteen minutes Bill Hagin sprang to his feet.