LEFTY O’ THE BIG LEAGUE

[HE WAS SAYING TO HIMSELF: “ONE MORE! ONLY ONE MORE! I MUST GET HIM—I’VE GOT TO!”]

LEFTY
O’ THE BIG LEAGUE

BY

BURT L. STANDISH

Author of “Lefty o’ the Bush,” “Lefty o’ the Blue
Stockings,” “Lefty o’ the Training Camp.”

ILLUSTRATED

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Copyright, 1914, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Inc.

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

LEFTY O’ THE BIG LEAGUE

CHAPTER I
GETTING IN BAD

“Say, fellows!” sang out Red Pollock, the snappy little shortstop of the famous Hornets. “Look who’s here!” There was a general turning of heads and craning of necks on the part of three or four players waiting their chance to wield the willow in batting practice.

“Another Yannigan,” groaned Cy Russell, star pitcher of the organization. “The woods is full of ’em.”

“He don’t look much to me, neither,” stated big Buck Fargo critically. “Say, Jim, who is it, an’ where’d you root it out?”

Brennan, the short, stocky, belligerent-looking manager of the Big League team, did not answer. With his bushy eyebrows drawn down in a frown over his deep-set eyes, he was staring at the young fellow threading his way through the groups of players scattered about the field at all kinds of training work. The stranger wore a soiled and faded gray uniform, upon the shirt of which was sewn a letter K, and dangled a worn leather glove by one finger. His cap, pushed back on a mane of heavy, dark-brown hair, revealed a clean-cut, pleasant face, dominated by a pair of keen brown eyes, a firm chin, and sensitive mouth.

As he took in these details Brennan’s scowl deepened and his bulldog chin protruded dangerously. Catching sight of his face, Pollock grinned and nudged the man nearest him. “Look at the old man,” he whispered. “Something doing.”

The stranger came on without a pause, and, a moment or two later, stopped before the manager. His lips were pressed tightly together, but otherwise his face was perfectly composed. “I’ve come to report, sir,” he said quietly.

The manager’s eyes narrowed. Several things had been fretting him all morning, and his temper was not even at its uncertain best. “Indeed!” he sneered. “And who are you?”

“Locke—Lefty Locke.”

“Never heard the name before,” retorted Brennan shortly.

For an instant the newcomer seemed taken aback. A faint touch of color came into his cheeks, and he looked at the manager as if wondering whether he could possibly be in earnest.

“I—thought—Mr. Toler had written you,” he stammered. “He—said he was going to.”

Brennan’s eyes flashed. “Well, he didn’t,” he snapped. “Where’d you come from? What’s your record?”

“I pitched last season with the Kingsbridge team of the Northern League,” Locke said briefly.

“A twirler!” exclaimed the manager. “Well, I’ll be—” He stopped abruptly, gulped once or twice, and then asked, in an ominously quiet voice: “What did you do season before last?”

“Nothing. It was my first year in professional baseball.”

“What!” Brennan’s face turned purple, and his last shreds of self-restraint vanished. “You pitched one season, an’ got the gall to expect a job with the Hornets! You expect me to believe that Ed Toler, the best scout I’ve got, picked you up without saying a word to me about it—when we’re overrun with pitchers, at that. I don’t want you. Training was begun ten days ago, an’ I got enough men. You can hike back to the bush, where you come from. I wasn’t born yesterday, an’ you can’t put one over me like this. Get that?”

As he listened to the tirade, the color flamed into Locke’s face, and his grip on the leather glove tightened. Then, from the group of players, who had been interested spectators of the interview, came a smothered laugh, which seemed to act like a tonic. As he heard it, Locke’s eyes narrowed and his face hardened.

“You don’t want me?” he repeated, in a steady voice. “You’re willing to release me from the contract I made with Toler?”

“That’s what I said,” growled Brennan.

“Then I’m free to accept any other offer?”

Something in his tone made the manager prick up his ears, all his professional instincts aroused. It is one thing to fire a man who isn’t wanted, but quite another to let him go when another club is after him. “Offer!” he sneered, with deliberate intent. “I s’pose the Tigers an’ the Blue Stockings are fair tearing each other’s eyes out as to which’ll have you.”

Lefty’s lips tightened at the man’s tone. “You guessed right, in a way,” he retorted. “Twenty-four hours after I pledged with Toler, I had an offer from the Blue Stockings of a thousand dollars more than your scout promised me.”

The silence which followed this statement was eloquent. Some one in the little group near by whistled incredulously. Brennan’s eyes were fixed intently on the cub pitcher’s face, as if he were trying to make out whether this was the truth or a magnificent bluff. Accustomed as he was to judging men, he was forced to admit that the youngster did not look like a liar.

“And how much was that?” he demanded abruptly.

“Twenty-five hundred.” Already Lefty was sorry for his impulsive outburst. In a flash he realized that if he had kept his mouth shut he would have been free in a moment to accept the better offer.

“Humph!” grunted Brennan thoughtfully. If Doyle, of the Blue Stockings—the Hornets’ most bitter rivals—wanted this kid as bad as that, there must be something in him, and it would never do to let him go. Much as he hated backing water, the manager was too shrewd a man to allow personal feelings to influence his professional judgment. He scowled deeply, bit his lips, and then snapped sourly:

“Well, seeing as you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful. Trot out there and take that fellow’s place; I can use him somewhere else. Toss a few straight, easy ones over the plate. Stir your stumps now,” he went on, turning fiercely on the astonished group near by. “You boys get busy. We’ve wasted too much time. We’ll stop this general shillalah swinging, and take the field in regular positions. Every one of you run your hits out. You need the exercise.”

Without a word, Lefty turned, and made his way toward the cub pitcher, who had been shuffling around near the slab waiting for the altercation to end. He had been extremely foolish not to keep his face shut, but there was nothing to be gained by repining over the past.

An instant later, as his eyes met those of the man he was replacing, he started slightly, and a look of dazed surprise flashed into his face. It vanished swiftly, but as he reached the fellow his lips were compressed, his eyes hard and cold.

“Hello, Elgin,” he said stiffly.

The other, his face black as a thunder cloud, growled out an unintelligible monosyllable, thrust the ball into Locke’s hand, and walked hurriedly away, leaving the latter to stare after him with an expression which told, as well as spoken words could have done, how unpleasant and distasteful the encounter was to him.

CHAPTER II
A CALL-DOWN FROM THE MANAGER

The meeting had so surprised and startled Lefty that he stood there for a moment or two, ball in hand, watching Elgin join the manager and start with him toward another part of the field. He was aroused abruptly by a drawling, sarcastic voice from the plate:

“Don’t hurry yourself, bub; any time to-day will do.”

It was burly Buck Fargo, the prize backstop, who stood leaning indolently on his bat, watching Locke with mocking eyes. Lefty recognized him instantly from the many published pictures he had seen, and, berating himself inwardly for having given the fellow a chance to criticise, he swiftly toed the pitcher’s plate and sent the ball over.

Of course, it went wide. The cub catcher let out a stream of sarcastic language as he stretched himself in vain for it. A joyful snicker arose from the waiting players, and Fargo grinned aggravatingly.

“Try again, bub,” the latter invited pleasantly. “Jest a mite nearer this time, say a couple of feet. This here stick’s only regulation length, and I ain’t built like a gorilla.”

Lefty bit his lips and made no response. A small boy retrieved the ball, and the irate catcher whipped it out with decidedly unnecessary force. With gritted teeth, Locke caught it, determined that there would be no more exhibitions like that. He did not know what was the matter with him. To be sure, he had done very little pitching for a long time, but he should be able to find the plate better than this.

The second effort was not much of an improvement, and a howl of derision greeted it; for there is nothing a crowd of old baseball men enjoy more than having fun with a green cub.

The sound had a curious effect upon Lefty. Before the echoes of that jeering chorus died away he had regained his grip. He realized that they were doing their best to rattle him and cause him to make an exhibition of himself, and his jaw squared resolutely.

“I’ll fool ’em!” he muttered. “I’ll show him something.”

He caught the ball easily, his eyes fixed on Fargo’s grinning face. The big catcher stood negligently swinging his bat, and when he saw the sphere coming apparently straight toward him with speed, he dodged back precipitously, only to behold it shoot gracefully in and cut a corner of the plate.

“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed. “Accidents will happen. You’ve really got a curve, have you? Let’s have another one like that, if you can do it.”

Lefty could and did, and the batter sent the horsehide soaring over the fence. Obedient to instructions, he tossed aside his bat, and began trotting leisurely around the bases. Halfway between first and second he paused for a moment. “You’ll learn, bub,” he chuckled. “Some time next fall mebbe we’ll make a pitcher out of you.” Then he resumed his placid way about the diamond, while a new ball was produced, and Locke faced the second batter.

Lefty did not try any more curves, for he had suddenly realized that this was batting practice, not an exhibition of pitching. He continued to find the plate with a fair degree of accuracy, however, and one after another the three other players smashed out the sphere with joyous enthusiasm, forgetting in the delight of batting to continue their baiting of the new pitcher.

Not so Buck Fargo. He enjoyed batting quite as much, as his companions, but he also dearly loved to get a cub’s goat.

“Where’s your curves, bub?” he taunted, as he took up his bat for the second time. “Can’t you give us something interesting, or was they accidents, like I thought?”

Lefty smiled faintly. He did not intend to give Fargo the satisfaction of seeing that his words made any impression whatever. In spite of his determination, however, as he flung his arm forward, unconsciously he gave it a little twist which, made the horsehide—seemingly wide at first—cut a corner of the plate in an elusive curve. The batter hit it glancingly, and popped up a little fly which Locke smothered without moving more than a step or two from his position.

“Not bad for the bush,” chuckled Fargo, quite undisturbed. “Saved me the trouble of stretching my legs, anyhow. Come ahead, Cy, and see what you can do with the boy wonder from Squedunk.” He shot a swift glance out of the corner of his eye toward a distant part of the field, and went on in exactly the same tone, with scarcely a perceptible break: “He’s got a baby curve or two that might be fair if he could control ’em.”

Lefty was possessed by an irresistible impulse to see what he could do with the mighty pitcher, Cy Russell. He knew perfectly well that the discomfiture of one of their number might get the whole bunch down on him, but he was a very human individual, with a spice of obstinacy in his make-up. Moreover, he had failed to catch that quick glance of Fargo’s across the field, and so was quite unsuspecting.

As Russell faced him, Locke deliberately sent over a drop which fooled the batter completely. A slow floater was equally successful, and a swift, straight one, cutting the center of the pan, completed the discomfiture of the notoriously poorest hitter in the organization.

Fargo jeered out something about luck and “goose eggs,” and hustled the next man to the plate. Lefty, throwing prudence and common sense to the winds, resolved to give them what they clamored for if it was in his power. He fooled the batter into swinging at a clever bender, and then, oblivious to the sudden cessation of Fargo’s taunting voice, was just winding up to pitch again when a hand suddenly gripped his wrist, and a harsh voice sounded in his ear:

“What the deuce do you think you’re doing, Locke?”

Brought to earth, Lefty swung around, and stared for an instant, with mantling cheeks, at Jim Brennan’s angry face.

“Gimme that ball!” rasped the manager. Locke handed it over without a word. “I s’pose you think you’re mighty smart showin’ off your cute tricks,” the older man went on, in a cold, biting tone; “but that’s where you fall down—hard. This is batting practice, not a Fourth of July celebration. When I want any fireworks I’ll let you know. Get that? Well, see you remember it. Another stage play like this will be your finish. All around the park, boys, and then back to dinner.”

He turned from Lefty with an abruptness which made it impossible for the cub pitcher to say a word in his own defense, and perhaps it was just as well. To tell the truth, there was nothing to be said. Locke realized perfectly that he was totally in the wrong. A moment later, as he caught a glimpse of Buck Fargo’s grinning face, it flashed over him that the whole thing was a put-up job to get him a call. The big catcher could not have failed to see Brennan coming long before the manager got within hearing distance, yet he had kept up his taunts to the last minute in order that Locke might be taken by surprise.

“Looks like my luck had deserted me,” Lefty thought, as he fell into the line of men trotting briskly around the field just inside the high board fence. “Haven’t been here an hour before I get a call from the manager and run into Bert Elgin.”

At the thought of the latter’s presence in the squad, he frowned deeply. The call-down was swiftly forgotten, but this other annoyance was likely to be much more lasting and trouble-breeding in its results.

CHAPTER III
THE RIOT AT THE THEATER

“A rah, rah boy, is he?” sneered a voice from the group not far away. “I see his finish.”

Lefty knew they were talking about him. He had been aware of the fact for five minutes or so, but this was the first remark which had reached his ears in its entirety. Sitting in a corner of the Hatchford House lobby, he turned his head slightly and met the belligerent glance of a burly, dark-browed, full-lipped fellow of twenty-six or seven, who was lounging against a pillar a little way off.

For a moment their eyes clashed, and then Hagin—Lefty had heard him so called, and recognized the name as that of the left fielder on the regulars—laughed disagreeably and said something to the man next him, who glanced up, stared, and turned away with just the same sort of laugh.

Lefty’s eyes dropped to the newspaper he held before him. In the scant nine hours since his appearance on the field that morning, the wide difference between a bush-league team and an organization like the Hornets had been forced upon him at every turn. In his joy and astonishment at the unexpected offer from Brennan’s scout, to say nothing of the better one which followed it so closely, he had given little thought to what his reception would be by the other players.

He was far too sensible, of course, to expect anything like an open-armed welcome, but he had not quite counted on the cold-shouldered indifference which was meted out to him from every quarter.

The other fellows were mostly friendly enough among themselves. On the field, in the hotel dining room, and now in the lobby, they gathered in little groups, laughing, joking, chaffing each other in a way which, in no small degree, emphasized the newcomer’s loneliness and isolation.

Lefty had tried several times during the day to scrape acquaintance with some fellow who looked pleasant and friendly enough, for he was a chap who enjoyed the companionship of his fellow men, and exactly the sort of joshing give-and-take which is inevitable when a crowd of like-minded individuals get together. His mild little efforts had been met with such brusque, chilling indifference, however, that he speedily gave it up.

“I seem to have gotten in wrong from the start,” he reflected, as he sat with his eyes fixed on the paper, though he had read scarcely a word. “Brennan’s sore as a crab because he had to back water before his own men. I wish to thunder he hadn’t! I’d be better off. Then there was that fool exhibition of mine on the field. I suppose they all think I’m swelled up about my pitching, and was showing off. And now they’ve found out I’m a college man. I wonder how they got wise to that. I didn’t mean any one should know, if I could help it; some professionals seem to have such a deep dislike for a fellow who’s been through college. I wonder if Elgin could have dropped a hint.”

In reality Lefty had quite missed the most important reason of all. Other things may have influenced the men in some small degree, but the simple fact of his belated arrival at the training quarters accounted for more than anything else.

Ten days had been ample for the cubs, or new recruits, to become acquainted. They had formed their little cliques, split up into their different factions. They were sufficient unto themselves. It was natural for them to treat a new arrival with jealous coldness, for every additional candidate only decreased the chances of the others to make good. As for the old men—the regulars of this especial team—they had small use for a youngster until he showed himself made of the right stuff.

At length, tired of sitting alone, Lefty arose and sallied forth to take a casual inspection of the Texas town. Ashland was a place of some size, and decidedly up to date. A number of factories and various oil refineries gave employment to several thousand workmen, the majority of whom—it seemed to Lefty—were thronging the brightly lighted streets, blocking the corners, or crowding into the many moving-picture or vaudeville shows which lined the main thoroughfares.

Lefty did not find this solitary inspection of the town very exciting, and, after he had traversed a few of the principal streets, he decided that he had had enough. A glance at his watch told him that it was only a quarter to eight. The evening seemed to be dragging along with infinite slowness. He might return to the hotel and go to bed, of course, but he wasn’t in the least sleepy, and somehow he had a feeling that by doing such a thing he would be giving in. Finally the glaring lights of a combination moving-picture and vaudeville show across the street gave him an idea. Crossing hastily, he bought a ticket and pushed into the darkened auditorium.

The place was jammed to the doors with a rather boisterous crowd, made up almost entirely of men. Lefty could see no vacant seat, and so he took his place against the wall back of the last row, from which position he watched the progress of the pictured drama with a certain amount of interest. There was no questioning the unusual excellence of the films.

Two of them were rolled off before the stage lights went up and the curtain lifted upon the Montmorency Sisters, vocalists. Lefty yawned, and decided to get out. The place was hot and stuffy, and he was on the point of crowding past the later arrivals who filled the space near him, when, suddenly catching sight of two men sitting three rows away, he changed his mind.

One of them was a total stranger. Lefty did not remember ever having seen him before. The other was Bert Elgin, and, as his eyes took in the sharp profile, with the familiar, sneering uplift at the corner of the lips, Locke’s face darkened. The face had changed little since he had last seen it. An added line or two showed about the mouth, perhaps, and there was, no doubt, a certain maturity which years alone can bring. In all essential features, however, it was unaltered, and the sight of it brought a rush of vivid recollection into Lefty’s mind which made him frown. It seemed the irony of fate that they two should meet again under conditions which must throw them together in most undesirable terms of intimacy.

Oblivious to the twittering pair capering about the stage, Lefty stood staring at the back of Elgin’s head with unseeing eyes. His mind was back in the past, and his expression showed how unpleasant the remembrance was.

The burst of handclapping at the end of the act aroused him in time to see Elgin and his companion arise and crowd toward the aisle. He stood there waiting for them to go, for he had no desire to encounter the fellow just now. With narrowing eyes, he watched his old enemy elbow his way roughly toward the door, careless of who or what was in his path.

It all came about so suddenly and unexpectedly that Lefty never knew just what was the real cause. He saw one or two men turn and stare angrily at the fellow shoving his way past them, muttering something under their breath as they did so. Then, just as the pair were opposite him and close to the door, Locke heard a sharp cry of pain in a woman’s voice, followed instantly by a bellow of fury from a man. Swiftly there came the thud of bare fists against flesh and bone. A dozen men sprang up and began shoving toward the door. A woman screamed shrilly.

CHAPTER IV
ONE AGAINST SCORES

Instinctively Lefty joined the rush toward the center of disturbance. He caught a glimpse of two men struggling in close embrace, each raining blows upon the other’s face and body. He saw that one of them was Bert Elgin. The other was a big, burly fellow, dressed in a workman’s Sunday best, his face flushed, his eyes aflame with anger.

A score of other men were trying to get close enough to put in a blow or two. The place resounded with shouts of: “Kill him!” “Lynch him!” “Beat him up!” Then the whole struggling mob burst through the narrow doorway into the garish, glittering lobby.

Lefty was borne irresistibly toward the door by the crowd behind him, which seemed eager to take part in the fracas. By the time he reached it the entire audience was on its feet, making for the single exit. Hands pinioned helplessly at his sides, Locke was forced into the maelstrom of bodies. There was a squeeze, a breathless grunt, and he plunged out into the dazzling brightness.

The disturbance had ceased to be a fight and turned into a riot. The mob was made up of men in the raw, lacking in self-restraint, whose passions were roused to a white heat with very little cause. A woman’s cry of pain, the roar of fury from her escort, and the trouble was started.

As they surged against the frail, ornate booth from which tickets were dispensed, they were like a lot of madmen. Not half a dozen out of the crowd knew what the disturbance was about. Blows were rained on the heads and shoulders and backs of friends in their eagerness to get at the man in the very heart of that seething throng, and already two vigorous personal encounters had been started in different corners of the lobby on that account.

As he was flung forward against the side of the ticket booth, Lefty felt sudden anger surge up within him. He forgot that Bert Elgin was his enemy, and remembered only that he was battling against odds. And when, a moment later, by some odd trick of chance, he saw the fellow’s face, bruised, battered, blood trickling from a cut on his cheek, and caught a fleeting glance of desperate appeal from Elgin’s terror-stricken eyes, he threw caution to the winds and jumped into the fray.

The very size of the mob was in Locke’s favor, but it is doubtful whether he could have done much to help Elgin except for the unexpected giving way of the ticket booth. Slowly it began to sway under the tremendous pressure against one side. A door at the back was burst suddenly open, and the ticket agent dashed forth, clutching the cash drawer in both hands, only to trip and fall headlong, scattering money in every direction, and causing a new diversion. The crashing over of the booth was another, and for an instant Elgin was freed from the clutching hands which had held him prisoner.

Lefty darted forward, gripped the man by the shoulders, and dragged him into the angle made by the wrecked booth and one wall of the lobby. Petrified by fear, the fellow sank helplessly to the floor, and Locke had barely time to leap in front of him before the yelling crowd surged forward again.

In the second that he stood there waiting, the cub pitcher was conscious of a curious feeling which had come to him once or twice before at moments of great tension on the diamond. It was as if his brain had been wiped with a cold, wet sponge, clarifying his vision, and soothing his raw nerves to an almost uncanny degree.

He felt that there could be but one end to the encounter, and yet he was not afraid. He eyed the semicircle of angry faces calmly, coolly, appraisingly, mentally picking out the exact spot on the protruding jaw of the foremost man with which he meant to make connections an instant later. When the fellow went down before his beautiful swinging blow, Lefty felt a thrill of successful accomplishment.

A second man swiftly followed the first, but after that there was no time for picking and choosing. With a howl of rage, the crowd rushed forward in a body, bent on getting their hands on their prey and crushing him bodily. Luckily only three men could face Locke at once, and for a brief space he held them back by sheer skill and trained muscles.

With fine precision he wasted not a single effort, but broke through clumsy guarding arms, to land on some vital spot with a jolt which sent his man reeling back against the others, or else crumpled him to the floor.

In about three minutes those in the front rank were seeking to escape the deadly accuracy of his blows by dodging to one side or trying to push back through the crowd. Unfortunately for Locke, those in the rear continued to force their way forward, and thus slowly but inexorably the ring closed in.

Lefty’s arms moved faster and faster. He had long ago ceased to pick and choose—it was impossible. Several times he had leaped back before it occurred to him to wonder what had become of Elgin. That was but a fleeting thought, however. He had never counted on the fellow’s aid, so it was just as well that he was not in the way.

A number of glancing blows had struck home, one cutting his lips. At last he began to wonder how long he could keep it up, and what the end would be. He knew he might expect no mercy from the maddened crowd, all of whom supposed, by this time, that he was the one who had started the fracas. Unless the police came soon, or some other help—

Suddenly he felt a movement behind him. His first thought was that his enemies had found a way to get him at the rear; but even before he could whirl about to face them, two hands caught his shoulders, and a familiar voice sounded in his ear:

“Lemme have a whack at ’em, kid.”

It was Buck Fargo, the big catcher of the Hornets.

CHAPTER V
FRIENDLY BUCK FARGO

Dazed, bewildered, a sudden overpowering weakness gripping his limbs, Lefty felt himself thrust against the wall, and saw the massive form of the man who had baited him so successfully on the field that morning leap into the front place, eyes blazing and huge fists doubled for action.

Perhaps it was the sight of him—burly, menacing, and fresh—which turned the tide. More likely it was that sudden panicky awakening which comes to every mob when the first outburst of passion has run its course. At all events, Fargo had no more than time to land his fist with precision and force on the faces of two men, before some one at the rear started a yell that the cops were coming.

The effect was magical. Out into the street poured the mob, and fled wildly in every direction. Before he realized that it was all over Lefty felt himself grasped by the shoulders, hustled out of the barricade and rushed across the street. The whole thoroughfare was filled with flying men, so that they passed unnoticed as Fargo headed straight for the nearest corner.

“Them cops is coming at last,” he explained shortly, whirling into a side street. “We don’t want to be pinched. Think you’re good for the hotel, kid? If you ain’t, we can stop at a drug store and have you patched up.”

“I can make it all right,” Lefty gasped. “I’m only—dead beat.” An instant later he stopped still. “What became of Elgin?” he asked abruptly. “I forgot him.”

“He beat it.” Fargo’s tone was noncommittal. “He crawled out the same way I got in, while they was busy with you. That ticket coop was held up a mite at the end by hitting against the wall. He’s all safe.”

There was an expression of curiosity on the catcher’s face, and for a moment he seemed about to ask a question. Apparently he changed his mind, however, for the next instant his lips closed and he hustled Lefty on again.

They reached the hotel without attracting much attention. Locke had managed to wipe most of the stains of battle from his face, and as they entered the side door Fargo clapped his own wide-brimmed felt hat on the other’s head, starting some rough bantering with the elevator boy, which kept the fellow occupied. They stepped out on the top floor without the boy having really noticed Lefty at all.

“Now we’ll take stock, kid,” the catcher said, as he switched on the lights in Lefty’s room and closed the door. “That face of yours ain’t so bad, after all. We’ll fix your mouth up in a jiffy. Got any plaster?”

Locke nodded. “Yes, but I don’t want you to bother about it, Fargo. It’s white of you to—”

“Stow that, son!” interrupted the big chap shortly. “This rumpus is going to get the old man up on his ear for fair. If he finds out you was in it, there’ll be blazes to pay.”

“But how can he help it? I was there, and everybody saw me.”

“Sure you was,” grinned Fargo, dexterously applying a wet towel to Locke’s countenance. “In the scuffle you got a tap or two by mistake; that’s all. You don’t s’pose that crazy bunch of roughnecks is going to remember faces, do you? They was clean off their nuts, every last one of ’em.”

There was silence for a moment or two as the big, muscular fingers applied the plaster to the cut lips with surprising deftness. “There!” Fargo said with satisfaction. “That’ll do fine. There’s a scratch alongside your nose, but it don’t amount to nothing. Pull off your shirt, and let’s have a look at the rest of you.”

Lefty obeyed without question, and revealed a muscular chest dotted here and there with bruises already beginning to darken. It had been impossible to guard himself at every point from the frenzied rushes, and he had instinctively protected his face.

Fargo grinned as he saw the damage. “Won’t you be stiff and sore to-morrow morning!” he chuckled. “It’s lucky you can lay it to the first day’s practice. Say, kid, how in thunder did you two start that riot? You look like a peaceable guy to me.”

“I didn’t start it,” Lefty returned swiftly. “I broke into the game afterward.”

“Humph! Let’s hear about it.”

Briefly, Lefty told him what little he knew about the beginning of the trouble. He said nothing of his dislike for Bert Elgin, but Fargo must have guessed it from his manner.

“So that’s it?” the catcher commented. “I gather you two ain’t very chummy.”

“Not exactly,” Lefty returned shortly.

Fargo eyed him curiously. “Then why did you butt in? He started the muss, and I should say he deserved what he got.”

“But the whole push was against him,” protested Locke. “I couldn’t sneak off and let them hammer him to pieces.”

“Strikes me that he sneaked,” Fargo said swiftly. “When I came across the street to see what was doing, there wasn’t any use trying to get near the front, so I made for the corner to see if I could get a glimpse over the top of that tipped-over ticket cage. I hadn’t been there a minute before Elgin came crawling out from underneath. He was so blamed scared that I hadn’t more’n got out of him that you were in there alone when he beat it. Looks like it didn’t worry him any to leave you alone for the bunch to hammer.”

Lefty smiled faintly. “Can’t help that. It was up to him. I’d have hated myself if I’d gone away and left any man in that kind of a hole.” He hesitated an instant, the color rising to his face. “Besides, even if we aren’t friends, he’s—one of the bunch.”

Fargo stared at him oddly; then he broke into a laugh. “Time we was both in bed,” he said abruptly. “Don’t forget to keep your trap shut about this to-morrow. You was there and got a love tap or two in the scuffle. Lucky the old man can’t see that chest of yours.”

Outside the door he paused, the queer look in his eyes again. “One of the bunch!” he muttered aloud. “Well, I’ll be hanged!”

CHAPTER VI
WHO WAS TO BLAME?

On his way in to breakfast next morning, Manager Brennan bought a copy of the Ashland Morning Chronicle to glance through during the progress of the meal. Having seated himself and given his order, he spread open the sheet. The first thing to catch his eye was the flaming headline, “Palace Theater Wrecked by Mob.”

Having heard echoes of the affair the night before, the manager glanced over the account with interest. Halfway down the column he stopped short, clutched the paper, and stared with bulging eyes and purpling cheeks at a certain short paragraph:

The cause of the riot is not definitely known. It is said, however, to have been started by the rowdyish behavior of one of the visiting baseball men who was attending the performance. We might call Manager Brennan’s attention to the fact that, while Ashland is always ready to extend every hospitality to himself and his famous organization, she does not care about having that hospitality abused.

With a guttural exclamation of rage, Brennan half started from his seat, only to relax again and glare around.

“You read that stuff?” he demanded, catching the eye of Red Pollock across the table.

“Sure!” grinned the latter. “Great dope. If Cy hadn’t coaxed me into a game of draw, I’d been there myself, instead of missing all the fun.”

“You’d ought to thank me,” said Russell philosophically. “If you hadn’t been so busy losing your dough to Pete and me, you’d likely got your block knocked off down the street. According to accounts, there wasn’t nothing playful about that mix-up.”

“I reckon not,” sighed Pollock regretfully. “They say the lad that started the rumpus, whoever he was, got into a corner and held off the whole bunch for ten minutes. He must be some scrapper. I got mixed up in a strike riot in Chicago once, and, believe me, it’s no cinch to stand off a crowd of roughnecks like that.”

“Humph!” grunted the manager. He had cooled down considerably while the others were speaking, and was doing some thinking. “Any of the boys see it?”

“Sure! Buck got a look-in, he was telling us.”

Brennan glanced swiftly down to where Fargo sat at the end of the table. “How about last night, Buck?” he called, in a deceptively mild tone. “Were you the one who started the rough-house downtown?”

“Nix on that!” grinned the catcher. “It was going full blast when I got there. I seen all I wanted to from the outskirts. The crowd was plumb crazy. About a hundred of ’em trying to get at one poor bloke penned in behind the upset ticket booth. Them that couldn’t get a whack at him hit somebody else for luck, and a dozen nice little individual scraps were going on all over the place.”

“But who was the man?” Brennan persisted. “Didn’t you see him?”

“Couldn’t get a sight of him from the street,” Fargo answered readily. “The ticket booth was too high. I run into one of your cubs—Locke’s his name—trying to get out of the crowd, and we came home together.”

The manager frowned suspiciously. He knew Fargo of old, and realized that he was just the sort of man to be concerned in an affair of this description. The catcher’s gaze was candid and open, however, and the closest scrutiny failed to disclose as much as a scratch on his face.

Brennan’s gaze veered swiftly to the next table, where his new recruit sat with some of the other youngsters. Locke looked cool and undisturbed as he ate his breakfast with evident relish. The manager’s keen eye discovered a bit of plaster on one lip and a scratch on one side of his nose; but, by what Fargo had said about the general nature of the fighting, those slight abrasions might easily be accounted for. Besides, Locke did not strike him as having much of the rowdy in his make-up.

Without further comment, Brennan fell to on his breakfast and resumed reading the newspaper account. When he had finished it, he came to the conclusion that if one of his men had indeed been the cause of the disturbance the fellow must be a scrapper of unusual ability, and would surely bear upon his person unmistakable marks of the conflict.

Being a man of action, he at once started the round of his players. He had no desire to antagonize the rougher element in Ashland. He knew perfectly well that this would mean a constant succession of bickerings, with the possibility of injury to some of his highclass players if they got into a fight.

His critical inspection of the men showed the regulars to be beyond reproach. Not one had even a slight abrasion for which he could not account. The majority were provided with plausible alibis. Of the cubs, three were on the suspicious list. Locke he had already eliminated, and so did not bother about him. The other two were Bert Elgin and a young fielder named Ross, both of whom—and particularly the first mentioned—bore telltale signs on their faces.

They told a plausible, well-balanced story: They had been sitting near the stage of the Palace Theater when the uproar started back by the door. They arose with the rest of the audience and were carried out by the rush of the crowd. When they finally emerged into the lobby—Elgin swore that he had left a good-sized piece of skin from his face on the edge of the door—the place was filled with men, yelling and fighting like maniacs. They were so busy forcing their way to the street that neither had been able to get a look at the cause of the disturbance. Both were hit several times in the face, and had naturally smashed back. On reaching the sidewalk, they had left the place at once and returned to the hotel.

Brennan was slightly nonplused. The story rang true. It agreed perfectly, moreover, with Fargo’s account of the affair, and the manager knew that his catcher was not at all on friendly terms with either Elgin or Ross. Lastly, he was confident that neither of them had pugilistic skill or nerve enough to stand up before such a crowd after the manner which every account agreed that the unknown had done.

Puzzled, with a vague feeling that there was something about it which he did not understand, Brennan was obliged to content himself with a strict order that the entire squad forego shows of any description in the future, under penalty of heavy fines.

Later in the day he instituted inquiries throughout the town, with equal lack of success. The majority of people who had been at the theater had lost their heads, and could tell him nothing that he wanted to know. Three men there were who swore that they had obtained a good look at the mysterious individual, but their descriptions were so totally at variance that the manager gave up his quest in disgust.

“A lot of dough-heads!” he growled. “Sounds as if they were each describing a different person.”

Which happened to be exactly the truth.

CHAPTER VII
WITHOUT GRATITUDE

“Well, it worked all right, kid,” remarked Buck Fargo as he caught up with Lefty on the way out to the field. “I’ll guarantee the old man didn’t even ask you a question, did he?”

“No. I was waiting for him to brace me, but it never came off. What the deuce did you tell him?”

Fargo grinned. “The truth—only not quite all of it,” he chuckled. “Wonder how our friend Elgin’s going to get out of it?”

Lefty hazarded no guess. He had more than a suspicion that his old acquaintance would manage to evade the responsibility somehow. That had always been his strong point, for he was not overburdened with scruples about sticking to the letter of the truth.

Fargo explained briefly what he had told Brennan, and then dropped back to his own crowd, leaving Locke alone. The latter was just turning into the gate of the field when some one touched his arm, and, turning, he saw Bert Elgin beside him, a frown of anxiety on his thin face.

“Look here,” the man began abruptly, “Brennan’s just put it up to me about last night, and I had to give him a song and dance to steer him off. He’s mad as a hornet, and I couldn’t very well tell him I was mixed up in that fool business. I wanted to put you wise, so if he asks you, your story can fit in with mine.”

Locke’s eyes were fixed coldly upon the other’s face. “And what was the story you told him?” he asked shortly.

“Said I was down in front with Ross, and got these scratches getting out of the place. Didn’t know anything about what started the muss, or see the fellow who—”

“And you expect me to back you up in this lie?” Lefty broke in, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve got another guess coming, Elgin. I came mighty close to lying for you once, and it’s the last time.”

Elgin’s face darkened. “You’ll blab it all to him, then?” he burst out. “I might have known you wouldn’t let slip a chance like this to get back at me. You always were a—” He stopped abruptly and bit his lip, a slow flush rising in his face.

Lefty’s eyes flashed ominously. “Well?” he snapped. “Let’s have it. What were you going to say?”

Elgin’s gaze dropped to the ground, and he kicked a pebble awkwardly. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “I—wasn’t thinking—of what—you did for me last night.”

Lefty’s lips curled scornfully. “Don’t let that worry you,” he retorted. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it to save my self-respect, and because you were one of the boys against a crowd of muckers. You don’t owe me anything. Get that? I don’t want you indebted to me. As for this story you told Brennan, it’s up to you. I won’t go out of my way to put him right, but if he asks me questions I’ll tell him the truth.”

Elgin threw back his head, furious under the lashing contempt of the other’s voice.

“If you’re such a good little boy,” he sneered, “how do you explain traveling under a name which isn’t yours? Strikes me that’s a lie, all right.”

“That’s my business,” returned Lefty curtly. “Anything more?”

“No,” snarled Elgin; “but if Brennan gets wise through you, I’ll settle your hash for good and all.”

Lefty shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Try it,” he laughed. “If you don’t have any better luck than you did the last time, I guess I’ll survive.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked across the field, leaving Elgin glaring after him in speechless rage.

For a moment or two Lefty was conscious of an unpleasant feeling, more like a bad taste in the mouth than anything else. He had not really expected any fulsome expressions of gratitude from Bert Elgin. He was quite sincere in not wishing the man to feel indebted to him in the slightest. And yet, inconsequentially enough, when it was all over he could not help wondering how any one could be so lacking in a sense of decency. At least the fellow could have kept his mouth shut, if nothing else.

The whole matter was swept swiftly out of his mind, however. Brennan, still somewhat peevish at his lack of success in reaching the bottom of the riot affair, was decidedly short of temper, and he started the day’s practice with a rush and vim which kept everybody on the jump.

“Get a hustle on you, Locke!” he snapped, as Lefty approached at a dogtrot. “I want to see what some of the cubs can do with a stick,” he went on, in a lower tone. “Get out there and loosen up a bit; a little smoke, you know. You was full enough of it yesterday.”

Lefty caught the ball with outward calm, but as he turned and walked out to the pitcher’s box he groaned to himself. He had been hoping that he might be spared this to-day, for he had a bruise on his left shoulder as big as a silver dollar, and his whole upper body was stiff and sore from last night’s experience.

There was nothing to do but grin and bear it, however, unless he wanted to rouse Brennan’s suspicions. While the cub batters were being gathered in, he tried warming up a little, but had no more than sent two balls over before he was brought up sharply by the manager’s roar:

“Stop that, and get down to business!”

The first delivery went so high that the cub backstop had difficulty in pulling it down. The second was equally erratic. Lefty flashed a swift glance at the stocky manager, whose face was set in a fierce scowl, and decided that he would have to take a brace at any cost.

With an effort which sent a stinging twinge of pain through his bruised shoulder, he whipped over a speedy straight one, which the batter missed, following it by a drop that was quite as deceptive. Brennan’s scowl relaxed slightly, but more than once during the succeeding twenty minutes it deepened again; for Lefty managed to intersperse wild pitches with good ones in a manner which could not help being exasperating to one who knew nothing of the cause.

“That’ll do!” growled the manager, at length. “You’re a winner, you are! What’s the matter with you to-day?”

Lefty mumbled some excuse about not feeling very fit, and Brennan’s lips curled. “Huh!” he snorted. “Delicate, are you? Rot! Hey, Cy, come over and give this cub a few lessons in first principles.”

There was a general grin from the watching group of cubs, and Lefty felt his cheeks burn. He recovered himself swiftly, however, and, at Brennan’s order, took his place with the batters. The fact that he smashed out a clean single the first time he was up before the Hornet’s star pitcher went far toward restoring his own self-respect, even though it had no visible effect on the Argus-eyed manager.

Once during the course of the morning’s work Lefty caught Buck Fargo’s eyes fixed upon him, and as he was leaving the park toward noon the big backstop stepped out from the group of regulars and came over to him.

“Looks like you were getting in bad with the old man,” he remarked seriously. “First impressions go a long distance with him. I’ve been thinking mebbe we made a mistake in keeping quiet about last night. He’d roar for a bit, but he couldn’t sling it into you like he would if you’d started that rough-house.”

“You think it would be a good idea to tell him?” Lefty asked gravely.

“That would put him wise to what was the matter with you.”

The cub pitcher’s lips twitched. “Don’t you think it would be more sport to see if he could find it out by himself?” he suggested.

Fargo let out a guffaw and brought one fist down on Locke’s shoulder with a force which made him wince.

“For a cub, you ain’t half bad, kid,” he chuckled.

That was all he said. The next instant he had turned away and rejoined his companions, leaving Lefty to jog on back to the hotel alone.

But somehow, though he was alone, the cub was far from feeling that depressing isolation of the day before. The morning seemed to have been spent principally in stirring up an old enmity and getting in bad with the manager. But these things did not worry the bush pitcher as they might have done if he had not fancied that he had also made a friend, and one who was well worth while.

CHAPTER VIII
THE MAN WHO KNEW

Lefty had barely stepped inside the Hatchford Hotel lobby when some one leaped at him like a human whirlwind, and a vaguely familiar voice chortled in his ear:

“Well, you old lobster! If I’m not glad to see your ugly mug again! Put it there, old fellow!”

Whirling swiftly, Locke saw standing before him a short, slim, wiry chap of about his own age, with a deeply tanned and freckled face, and a big mouth stretched to its utmost in a wide grin of delight.

“Jack Stillman!” he exclaimed joyously, grabbing the outstretched hand. “Well, what do you know about this! Last time I ran into you was on Broadway, over a year ago. What the mischief are you doing down here?”

“That’s easy. I’m the only original live wire on the sporting page of the Star. Ran down to look over Jim Brennan’s live stock and give the fans something to think about. You don’t mean to say you’re one of ’em, Phil?”

“Guessed right the first crack, Jack,” Lefty laughed. “You always were an awful clever boy.”

“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!”

Lefty turned swiftly from the bureau, a queer look on his face. “Just what do you mean by that, Jack?” he asked slowly.

Stillman snorted. “You know very well what I mean,” he retorted forcibly. “I’m not supposed to be wise, but Bob Ferris told me the whole story, and it’s my opinion you were blamed fools to keep still about it. Any man who’ll steal from one college mate and then deliberately work to throw the blame on another isn’t fit for decent fellows to associate with. When you had him where you wanted him, why didn’t you come out with it, and let everybody know what kind of a mucker he was?”

Lefty slipped into his coat, and dropped down beside his friend.

“You know why we didn’t,” he said quickly. “He’d have been fired, and the varsity would have lost about every other game that season. You don’t suppose it was on Elgin’s account we kept still after we’d found how he was trying to throw the blame on me?”

“I’m not quite a fool. All the same, you were wrong. We might have dropped a game or two, but you could have jumped into his place, all right.”

“You know I couldn’t. I was slaving about ten hours a day to make up work I missed on account of that beastly typhoid. How long would I have lasted at Princeton if I tried to play ball, too? No; Bob and I thrashed it all out, and, though it came mighty hard, we decided it was the only thing to do, unless we wanted the team beaten to a frazzle.”

“Why didn’t you come out with it the next year?” demanded Stillman. “You could have pitched then, all right.”

“That would have looked fine, wouldn’t it? How would we have accounted for keeping quiet so long? I will say, Jack, that we were both sorry more than once afterward; but, having started out, there was nothing else to do but keep on. I don’t see how Bob came to tell you. It was understood that we should keep it entirely to ourselves.”

“It wasn’t till a year after we’d graduated,” the reporter explained, his face still clouded. “It was one right at the Princeton Club. I don’t remember just how the subject came up. I suppose he thought there wasn’t any need of keeping still any longer.” He paused and glanced at his companion. “How’s he acted since you showed up? Same old Elgin, I suppose?”

For an instant Lefty hesitated. He could picture Stillman’s sarcastic reception of the story of the night before, and, knowing his friend’s impulsive, quick-tempered nature, he decided that it would be wisest to keep silent.

“He wasn’t overjoyed to see me,” he returned quietly.

The newspaper man arose. “I should say not!” he commented briefly. “Afraid you’ll let the other fellows know what sort of a rotter he is. If I were in your place, I’d be hanged if I wouldn’t.”

“Where would be the sense?” Lefty retorted. “It was all over and done with years ago. Of course, if he should try anything like the same game again, it would be different. You’re not thinking of—”

“It’s none of my business,” Stillman put in. “I don’t want to have anything to do with the mucker. Let’s go down to dinner.”

As luck would have it, stepping out of the elevator, they came face to face with Bert Elgin himself, talking earnestly with big Bill Hagin, a regular outfielder. For an instant the former stared blankly at Stillman. Then, with a great affectation of heartiness, he thrust out a hand.

“Well, I’ll be hanged if it isn’t Jack Stillman!” he exclaimed. “Glad to see you, old hoss!”

The reporter made no attempt to withdraw his hands from his pockets. He seemed, in fact, to thrust them deeper, and as his eyes met Elgin’s there was a look of withering, contemptuous scorn in them, which cut the ball player like a knife.

“How are you, Elgin?” he said curtly, and passed on toward the dining room with Lefty.

For a second Elgin stood staring after them, his face flushed and his eyes gleaming angrily.

“Your friend don’t seem choked with joy at seeing you,” Hagin commented maliciously.

Elgin came to himself with a slight start, and shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “No special friend of mine,” he said shortly. “Used to see him now and then three years ago.”

Nevertheless, when he dropped into his place at the table a short time later, his face was still flushed and angry.

“Stillman was friendly enough at Princeton,” he thought furiously. “That dog has turned him against me with his lying stories, that’s what’s happened.” He ground his teeth viciously. “If I don’t put it all over him, good and proper, I’m a liar!”

CHAPTER IX
SOMETHING SUB-ROSA

“Five-inning practice game at eight-thirty sharp,” announced Manager Brennan, at the close of the day’s work.

Instantly every tongue stopped wagging, and each man turned an eager, inquiring face in his direction. After nearly two weeks of monotonous training, the prospect of a real game, even if it was only among themselves, was very welcome.

The new recruits, especially, quivered with anticipation. It was a foregone conclusion that the game would be played between the regulars and the “Yannigans,” as the cubs are sometimes termed; and the chance of pitting themselves against their more experienced rivals thrilled each one of the youngsters through and through.

The older men were more indifferent. They had played many such games in past training seasons, and knew that these were organized by the manager mainly for the purpose of watching the cubs in action and studying their possibilities. Still, there would be a chance to try their hitting skill against the bush pitchers, and any ball player will willingly go without a meal in order to bat.

“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.

“He’s safe,” he announced. “Come on up to my room, fellows. It’s the whole length of the house from his, and we can have a little racket without his getting wise.”

The response was instantaneous, for the Hornets, as a crowd, were nothing if not lively. Every regular in the room arose promptly and started toward the door. The three or four cubs present followed more slowly. They had been long enough with the organization to learn the wisdom of not being too pushing.

Hagin, glancing back from the doorway, sensed the situation, and grinned. “Everybody come along,” he invited good-humoredly. “We’ll teach you kids the first principles of draw poker.”

His remark was general, but his eyes happened to rest lightly on the face of Lefty Locke in a manner which was distinctly challenging. Now, Locke was a very normal young chap, and the tone of condescension rasped him slightly. He fancied he played pretty good poker, and had an idea that even the famous Hornets couldn’t show him a whole lot about the game. Consequently he accepted the invitation with alacrity, and was presently seated at a table in the big double room which Hagin shared with one of the other members of the team.

Buck Fargo was on one side of him and Pollock, the red-headed shortstop, on the other. Cigars were produced and lighted, cards appeared, and presently, amid the babble of talk and laughter, Hagin’s voice sounded:

“What’ll you have to drink, fellows? Speak up sharp, now; the boy’s waiting.”

As he cut for deal Lefty glanced up and saw one of the hotel bell boys standing near the door, order-blank in hand. From the character and number of the drinks he put down, it became swiftly evident that the crowd was certainly making the most of Jim Brennan’s absence. Calls for high-balls, fizzes, gin-rickeys, whisky straights, beers, and ales came from every side. If there were any scattering orders for soft drinks, Lefty did not hear them. The Hornets seemed to agree with Red Pollock that “them soft slops was the worst things a man could put into his stummick.”

When his turn came to order, Locke hesitated an instant. With the examples set him on every side by men so much more experienced in the game, he need scarcely feel any compunction in taking something he was used to in moderation. A single glass could scarcely do him any harm.

“Light beer,” he said, at length.

Glancing hurriedly over his cards, he quite missed the odd side glance which Buck Fargo flashed at him. But perhaps it was not meant for him to see.

CHAPTER X
“WHEN THE CAT’S AWAY”

The liquid refreshments arrived while they were in the midst of an unusually animated hand. Everybody had dropped out but Cy Russell, Siegrist, the first baseman, and Lefty. The latter, with three kings and a pair of tens, was half conscious that Fargo had taken a glass from the tray and set it down beside him. It was one of those cases, however, where one gets an impression without really seeing, and he could not have told afterward whether it was actually the big backstop who put it down, or the waiter. And when it came to that, he did not notice whether it was the hotel employee himself who held the tray, or some one else.

He played his hand for all there was in it, and won the good-sized jackpot. Siegrist groaned as he flung down three queens and a pair of eights.

Russell shoved over the chips with a grimace. “I was trying to get by with two pair, aces up. You don’t work that innocent-appearing face on me again, kid.”

Lefty chuckled and took a long drink from the glass as he shuffled the cards to deal. The beer had an unusual flavor, and he sipped it again, trying to make out what was the matter with it. “Bum stuff,” he reflected. “Tastes sort of queer.”

As the game progressed, however, he gradually drained the glass without thinking much about it. He was having unusual luck, and played his cards with a skill which put him away in the lead of the others.

Presently Hagin sauntered up to the table. “What’ll you have, boys?” he asked. “Time for a second round.”

Most of them ordered; one or two declined, among them Lefty.