After all, if he could only manage to outpitch Elgin on the diamond and prove himself the better player, there was more than a chance of his showing, at the same time, the girl he cared for that he was the better man.
CHAPTER XXVII
A CHANCE TO MAKE GOOD
Jack Stillman lolled in the big cushioned chair, his eyes fixed on the backs of two men, carrying suitcases, who were just leaving the hotel in company with half a dozen of their fellow players.
“Back to the hay fields for yours,” he murmured sardonically. “Another couple of years, and you may be ready for fast company. This is the beginning of the exodus, Lefty.”
For an instant Locke’s face was rather serious. Then he smiled faintly.
“You’re a stony-hearted ruffian, Jack,” he said. “I feel sorry for them. After working hard and getting your hopes away up, it’s a beastly disappointment to be told you haven’t made good. I suppose you’ll think it’s a joke when I pack my little bag and go forth into the cold world.”
“I’d laugh myself sick,” chuckled the newspaper man. “At present, however, I don’t see any chance of that coming about. At the risk of giving you a swelled head, I’ll tell you, old chap, that you’re liable to stick around.”
“This from the oracle!” laughed the southpaw. “I’m overwhelmed. But seriously, Jack, if I have improved a little, so has Bert Elgin. Of course, I’d never admit it to any one else, but it’s my private opinion that he’s the better pitcher.”