“Come in!” he called.
As the door swung inward a big, brawny form filled the doorway, almost from casing to casing. The square-jawed visage of Owen Kineally, with its twinkling eyes and smiling lips, had appeared on sporting pages the country over; but now the smile was missing. His eyebrows were puckered forward, as Reynolds had sometimes seen them when Kineally took a parting shot at a nearsighted, obstinate umpire.
The big manager remained standing, his gaze upon the ball player.
“G’ morning!” Reynolds greeted, as he continued the knotting of his scarf.
“Good afternoon!” retorted the manager. And he added: “You’re fined fifty dollars.”
Reynolds whirled about.
“What for?” he demanded, his voice raised to nearly a shout.
“For not showing up at morning practice, and for drunkenness last night. You’re half drunk now.”
“You’re a——” Reynolds hesitated to speak the word.
His lips were curled back in an ugly snarl, and he glared rebelliously into the steady, piercing eyes of the manager. Silently they faced each other—Reynolds, the tiger; Kineally, the lion. Both were equally tall, though the manager was stockier than his black-eyed, dark-complexioned pitcher. Kineally removed his panama and combed his fingers through his reddish-brown hair.