“Your face is as flushed as if you had a fever,” he said. “Your eyes are bloodshot, and late hours have smooched half-moons of charcoal under them, so’s any one could tell that you are traveling straight plumb to the dogs!”
Reynolds muttered inarticulately.
“Yes, that’s where you’re bound!” continued the manager. “I’m not old enough to be your father, but I’ve been kicking around in this world for some fifteen or sixteen years longer than you have, and I’ve had plenty of chance to learn that a pitcher, or any other ball player, can’t work as battery mate with Old Demon Booze and last long in the diamond game.
“You were the best pitcher on my staff last year, and you twirled your team into a championship; but now you’re a-hitting the toboggan just as fast as any one can. When you are sober and in good physical condition there isn’t a better man ever toed the slab than you are; and that’s why I haven’t traded you during the past month. I hoped you’d wake up and cut out the booze and the gang of high-living sports you are traveling with; but if you don’t get your eyes open and quit drinking before we start on the Western trip, I’ll try to make a deal with some other club, and trade you before the other managers get wise to the fact that you are drinking yourself out of the game.”
Reynolds mumbled something.
“What?” Kineally asked.
“I guess some o’ those other managers’d be glad to get me,” Reynolds repeated.
“Yes, until they found that you were a souse,” Kineally added; “and then they’d shunt you back to the minors in double-quick. You’d probably last a year or two in the bushes, and then some little one-horse minor-league outfit would give you your unconditional release; and you’d be a has-been, while you were yet a kid. Some future, eh?”
Reynolds slouched against the bureau, his hands deep in his pockets. A sullen, defiant expression distorted his features.