Even though it was rumored that old Jack Kennedy was to be let out, the selection of Locke as his successor is a surprise. As a pitcher Locke has had an amazingly successful career and has made an enviable reputation, but he has had nomanagerial experience, having come to the Big League directly from the bushes. Whether or not he has the stuff of which capable managers are made is a matter of uncertainty; but, with the Blue Stockings badly chewed to pieces by the Feds, Collier might have been expected, had he decided to drop Kennedy, to replace the veteran with a man of some practical knowledge in that line. The policy of the Stockings for the last year or two has been rather queer, to say the least, and the effect upon the team can be seen in its present rating.
Even though it was rumored that old Jack Kennedy was to be let out, the selection of Locke as his successor is a surprise. As a pitcher Locke has had an amazingly successful career and has made an enviable reputation, but he has had nomanagerial experience, having come to the Big League directly from the bushes. Whether or not he has the stuff of which capable managers are made is a matter of uncertainty; but, with the Blue Stockings badly chewed to pieces by the Feds, Collier might have been expected, had he decided to drop Kennedy, to replace the veteran with a man of some practical knowledge in that line. The policy of the Stockings for the last year or two has been rather queer, to say the least, and the effect upon the team can be seen in its present rating.
That was the final paragraph. Collier, sick and absent in Europe, was credited with the deal; not a word about Weegman. The rascal, pulling the wires, was keeping himself in the background. For a moment Lefty thought of Jack Stillman, a reporter friend, and felt a desire to give him some inside information which, in cold type, would be pretty certain to make the interested public sit up and take notice. But the time was not ripe for a move like that, and he dismissed the thought.
Still grinning, Skullen jammed his elbow into Locke’s ribs. “How do you like that?” he inquired gloatingly. “That’s the way them cheap newspaper ginks pans you out when they get a chance.”
The southpaw was suddenly attacked by an intense distaste for the company of Tom Garrity’s coarse hireling. He handed the paper back in silence. But the feeling of dislike and antagonismwas evidently felt by Skullen, for, after a few minutes’ silence, he got up and walked out of the car; and, to his satisfaction, Lefty saw no more of him during the remainder of the journey.
An uncomfortable storm of rain and sleet was raging when New York was reached shortly after nightfall. A taxi bore Locke to the Great Eastern, where he learned that Frazer had not yet arrived. Having registered, he took the elevator for his room on the seventh floor, and, as he was borne upward, a descending car, well filled with people, slipped silently past, and Lefty caught a momentary glimpse of their faces through the iron grillwork. One face he saw quite plainly, that of a charming young woman in her early twenties–a face he recognized at once.
“Virginia Collier!” gasped Lefty, in astonishment.
He did not leave the car; back to the main floor he went. After hastily looking around for the young woman he sought, he made inquiries at the desk. He was informed that no Miss Collier was stopping in the hotel. Still confident that he had not been mistaken, and thinking it probable she was dining there with friends, he had her paged. Even when the report came that no one answered to the name, he did not give up. From various vantage points, he spent at least twenty minuteslooking over the people at dinner in the main dining room, the grill, and the palm room. At the end of that time he was confident that Charles Collier’s daughter was not dining at the Great Eastern.
“Of course,” he admitted to himself, “it’s possible I was mistaken, but I would have sworn it was Virginia.”
He went up to his room and prepared for dinner, burdened by the conviction that he had been baffled; that fate had played him a trick. He would have given much for fifteen minutes’ conversation with the daughter of the Big Chief, and he was impressed with the belief that he had passed her almost within an arm’s reach.
This feeling was followed by one of uncertainty regarding Frazer. Old Jack had assured him that the manager of the Wolves would meet him at the Great Eastern, and he had relied on Kennedy without attempting to get into direct communication with Frazer, and perhaps, after all, he would not come.
“Then I’ll have to run him down,” considered Lefty. “And I want to get to him before Weegman can get to me. If I don’t, he’ll be sure to try to ball up any deal I attempt to put across.”
Choosing to eat in the grill, he notified the deskwhere he could be found should any one ask for him. But he had scarcely begun on the first course when he heard his name spoken, and looked up to find Ben Frazer smiling down upon him.
“Just in time to get in on the eats, I see,” said the manager of the famous Wolves, shaking hands with Locke. “It’s a rotten night, my feet are wet, and I’m awfully hungry. Only for Kennedy’s message I’d be on my way to Chicago.”
A waiter placed a chair, and he sat down, took the menu card, and quickly gave his order. He was a short, thick-set, shrewd-faced man; his hair was turning gray on the temples, but he seemed to have lost little of the nervous energy and alertness that had been his in the old days when he had been called the swiftest second sacker in the business. He had been an umpire baiter then, but in later years his methods had changed, and never once since becoming a manager had he been given the gate. Nevertheless, while he had gained in diplomacy, he had relaxed no whit in aggressiveness. Led by old Ben, the Wolves fought to the last ditch. “Now, tell me about it,” he requested, turningto Lefty. “How in thunder did you happen to let them rope you into such a mess?”
“You mean–”
“Getting tied up as manager of the Blue Stockings. Boy, you’re the goat; you’ve been chosen for the sacrifice. Somebody had to fall, of course, but it’s a shame that you should be the victim. I’d thought you too wise to tumble into that trap.”
“Then you think it is a trap?” asked the southpaw, feeling the blood hot in his cheeks.
“Of course it is! The Stockings have been undermined and blown wide open. They’ve got as much show this year as a snowball would have in a baker’s oven. They’ll land in the subcellar with a sickening thud, and there’s no way of stopping them.”
“No way–”
“No way under heaven, take it from me! I’ve been in the business long enough to know what I’m talking about. It takes years to build up such a fighting machine, and, when it’s torn to pieces, rebuilding is bound to be another job of years. The public won’t understand. You’ll get the kicks and the curses. As a successful pitcher you’ve been a favorite; as an unsuccessful manager you’ll be about as popular as a rusty spike in an automobile tire. Crowds are always fickle.When a man’s winning they howl their heads off for him; but let him strike a losing streak and they scramble like mad to pelt him with mud and brick-bats.”
“But somebody has to build up a team.”
“Somebody has to start it and get the blame. He’s the goat. Where’s Burkett, who managed the Wolves before I came in? Out in the Border League. Where’s Ashton and Gerrish, who struggled with the Blue Stockings before Kennedy stepped in on the turn of the tide? One’s running a cigar store in Kewanee, the other’s drinking himself to death in Muskegon; both left the game with busted reputations and broken hearts. Where’s McConnell, who tried to make a ball team of the Hornets before Brennan’s day? He took to the coke, and his friends are paying for his keep in a private bug-house. Where’s Decker, who had a crack at the Panthers–But what’s the use! There’s no surer way for a good man to ruin his career than to manage a losing ball team.”
“In that case,” said Locke, “I’ve got to manage a winner.”
Frazer gazed at him pityingly. “Swell chance you’ve got! About one in fifty thousand. You haven’t got the makings of an ordinary second-division team left.”
“I know the Feds have copped off some of our best men, but–”
“Some! Some! I should so remark! But don’t blame it all on the Feds. They were practically invited to come in and take their pick. The bars were let down. All your players knew there was trouble. They heard all sorts of rumors that made them nervous and uncertain. They didn’t see any contracts coming their way to be signed. They knew there was something the matter with Collier. It was even said he’d gone crazy. They knew Kennedy was going to get out from under. There was gossip about old men being shunted and new blood taken on. What they didn’t know was where they were at. It was all nicely worked to get them to take the running long jump.”
“Then you believe there was a plot to smash the team?”
“You don’t have to be a mind reader to get my opinion, but I’m saying this here private, man to man. I’m not goin’ round talking for publication.”
“But you’re wrong about Kennedy getting out; he was dropped.”
“Was he?”
“Sure.”
Frazer twisted his face into a queer grimace.“Old Jack Kennedy was too wise to stick on under any such conditions. He knew what it meant, and I’ll guarantee that he wouldn’t have managed the Blue Stockings this year for twice the salary he got last. What I’ve got against him is that he didn’t put you wise before you tied up.”
“It was on his advice that I consented to manage the team,” replied Locke.
“What?” exclaimed Frazer. “Is that straight? He advised you to–The infernal old scoundrel!”
Locke warmed immediately in defense of Kennedy. The manager of the Wolves listened, uncertain, shaking his head doubtfully.
“He may not have meant it,” he admitted presently, “but he’s got you in bad, boy. You haven’t got a show against the powers you’ll have to buck, and the conditions that were fixed up for you in advance.”
“As to that, time will tell,” said Lefty. “I’m going to make one almighty try. First, I’ve got to plug the gaps. What have you got to sell that I want?”
“Nothing that you’ll pay the price for. I know Collier’s policy.”
“Collier is in Europe, and I’m manager of the team, with full authority to make any deals I please. Here’s my contract.” He placed it beforeold Ben. “Collier will have to stand for any trade I put through. I’ll buy Smoke Jordan off you.”
“You won’t! I won’t sell him.”
“Then how about Jack Keeper? You’ve got Red Callahan, and I need a third baseman.”
Frazer finished his soup. “I won’t sell you Keeper,” he said; “but I’ll trade him. I need a center fielder in the place of Courtney, who’s retired. I’ll trade Keeper for Herman Brock.”
At first Locke had no relish for a trade that would add to the Blue Stockings infield at the expense of the outfield, even though in his secret heart he knew Brock had during last season shown vague symptoms of slowing down. Then he remembered the list of reserves given him by Kennedy, on which there was one fast, hard-hitting youngster who had been sent back to the Western Canada League, and had made a brilliant record covering the middle garden for Medicine Hat.
“I don’t want to trade, I want to buy,” he persisted. Then, as if struck by second thought: “I’ll tell you what I will do; I’ll give you Brock for two men. That’ll help. We need a catcher. After King broke his leg you found a great catcher in Darrow. I’ll trade you Brock for Keeper and King.”
“Brick King!” exploded Frazer indignantly. “What do you take me for?”
“A business man. You’ve got three first-string catchers now; two are all you need. You don’t even know that King’s leg is all right. I’m willing to take a chance on him. Brock batted over three hundred last season. He’s the hitter you need to fill that vacancy.”
“Not Brick King,” said the manager of the Wolves. “If I didn’t use him behind the bat for the whole season, he’s a fancy pinch hitter. You’ve gotter have pitchers. How about O’Brien?”
But Locke knew that Chick O’Brien, the veteran, had cracked already. Even though on hot days, when he could get his wing to work, he showed flashes of his former brilliant form, and had, under such conditions, last year pitched three shut-out games for the Wolves, Chick’s record for the season showed a balance on the wrong side. The southpaw held out for King. Frazer offered one of the second-string catchers. Lefty waved the offer aside.
“Hang it!” snapped Frazer. “Give me Brock and ten thousand dollars, and you may have Keeper and King.”
“You don’t want much!” laughed Locke. “I’ll give you Brock and five thousand.”
All the way through to the dessert they dickered and bargained. Frazer wanted Brock, and wanted him bad. Sympathetic though he might feel toward Lefty, he never permitted sympathy to interfere with business. Brock was the man to fill the position left vacant by Bob Courtney, and he was sure the Wolves would not be weakened by the loss of Keeper. But Brick King–“What salary are you paying King?” Lefty suddenly asked.
“Five thousand. The Feds got after him, and I had to make it that.”
The southpaw laughed. “With Darrow doing most of the backstopping, and Larson ready to fill in any moment he’s needed, you’re going to keep a five-thousand-dollar catcher on the bench for a pinch hitter! I just called you a business man, but I feel like taking it back. Isn’t Madden likely to kick over a five-thousand-dollar pinch hitter?” Madden owned the team.
“Madden be hanged!” rasped Frazer, biting off the end of a cigar he had taken from his case. “I’m the manager! Madden isn’t always butting in and paring down expenses, like Collier.” He pulled vigorously at the cigar, while the attentive waiter applied a lighted match.
Lefty had declined a cigar. He smoked occasionally, and would have done so now, but to doso would indicate an inclination to settle down and continue the dickering, and he had decided to make a bluff at bringing the affair to an end. He called for the check, and insisted on paying the bill for both.
“Sorry I’ve put you to so much trouble, Frazer,” he said. “It was Kennedy’s idea that I might do business with you, but it’s evident he was mistaken. I’ve got some other cards to play, and time is precious.” He settled the bill and tipped the waiter.
Old Ben sat regarding Locke thoughtfully, rolling out great puffs of smoke. The younger man was about to rise.
“Hold on,” requested the manager of the Wolves. “You’re a regular mule, aren’t you? How do you expect to make a trade without compromising at all? You won’t even meet me halfway, confound you! You–”
“I’ll own up that I was a bit hasty,” said Lefty, showing a nervous desire to get away. “I made that five-thousand offer without thinking much, but you understand I’m rather desperate. If Collier were here, he’d probably put the kibosh on it–if he found out before the trade was closed. After that he’d have to stand for it, no matter how hard he kicked. Let’s forget it.”
Then Frazer showed that peculiar trait of humannature that makes a person doubly eager for something that seems to be on the point of slipping away. In his mind he had already fitted Herman Brock into that gap in center field that had given him more or less worry. The adjustment had pleased him; it seemed to balance the team to a hair. It would give him renewed assurance of another pennant and a slice of the World’s Series money. It was Courtney’s hitting in the last series that had enabled the Wolves to divide the big end of that money; and, like Courtney, Brock was a terror with the ash.
“You mule!” said Frazer. “Let’s go up to your room and fix up the papers. It’s a trade.”
Locke betrayed no sign of the triumph that he felt. Had Frazer held out, he would have given the ten thousand asked, and considered himself lucky to get a catcher and a third sacker, both young men, and coming, in exchange for an outfielder who could not possibly last more than another season or two. Collier might squirm when he learned of the trade, but perhaps he could be made to see the desperate necessity of it. The thought that Bailey Weegman would gnash his teeth and froth at the mouth gave Lefty an added thrill of pleasure. The first move to circumvent Weegman and the scheming scoundrel behind him, Garrity, had been put through.
“All right,” he said, with something like a sigh. “If you hold me to my word, I suppose it’s a trade. We may as well make out the papers.”
“What’s that about a trade?” asked a voice at the southpaw’s back. “What are you two ginks cooking up? I saw you chinnin’, and thought there was something in the wind.”
Skullen had entered the grill and come up without being observed. There was nothing thin-skinned about Mit, and apparently he had forgotten the rebuff given him by Locke on the train.
“Hello, Mit!” said Frazer. “You’re just in time to be a witness. I’ve traded King and Keeper for Herm Brock. We’re going up to make out the papers now. Come on!”
Locke rose, his eyes on the intruder, repressing a laugh as he noted the man’s expression of incredulity.
“Traded!” exclaimed Skullen. “With Locke? Say, who’s backing Locke in this deal? Weeg told me–when I talked with him about being manager–that any trade that was made would have to be confirmed by him. Has he agreed to this deal?”
“He don’t have to,” said Lefty. “There’s nothing in my contract that gives him any authority to interfere with any deal I may choose to make.”
Mit followed them from the room and to the elevator. He was bursting to say more, but he did not know just how to say it. When they were in Locke’s room he began:
“Keeper and King for that old skate Brock! What’s the matter with you, Ben? You’ve gotbats in your belfry! Why, you’ve gone clean off your nut! You’ve–”
Frazer cut him short. “That’ll be about enough from you, Mit! Don’t try to tell me my business. I’m getting five thousand bones in the bargain.”
“Hey?” shouted Skullen, turning on the young manager of the Blue Stockings. “Five thousand bucks! You’re coughing up that sum without consulting anybody? Say, you’re going in clean over your head. You’d better hold up and wire Weegman what you’re thinking about. If you don’t–”
“When I want your advice I’ll ask for it,” interrupted Locke sharply. “You seem to be greatly interested in this business, for an outsider.”
Skullen was choked off, but he gurgled and growled while the papers were being filled out; he even seemed disposed to refuse to sign as a witness, but finally did so, muttering:
“There’s going to be the devil to pay over this, you can bet your sweet life on that!”
Lefty didn’t care; it was settled, and neither Collier nor his representative could repudiate the bargain. Let the crooks rage. The only thing the southpaw regretted was that Weegman would, doubtless, quickly learn what had been done; forit was a practical certainty that Skullen would lose little time in wiring to him. In fact, Mit soon made an excuse to take his departure, and, in fancy, Locke saw him making haste to send the message.
Frazer was wise, also. “You’re going to find yourself bucking a rotten combination, Locke,” he said. “They’re bound to put it over you before you’re through.”
“I should worry and lose my sleep!” was the light retort. “Give me a cigar now, Ben; I haven’t felt so much like smoking in a month.”
Locke slept that night in peace. In the infield there were two big holes left to be filled, short and second; but the reserve list afforded a dozen men to pick from, and it was Lefty’s theory that a certain number of carefully chosen youngsters, mixed in with veterans who could steady them, frequently added the needed fire and dash to a team that was beginning to slow down. Herman Brock was gone, but out in Medicine Hat Jock Sheridan had covered the middle garden like a carpet, and had batted four hundred and ten–some hitting! With Welch and Hyland on his right and left, Sheridan might compel the Big League fans to give him something more than a casual once over.
But Locke’s great pleasure lay in the fact that he had secured a backstop he had not dared tohope for. Even now he could not understand why Frazer had been induced to part with Brick King, the catcher whose almost uncanny skill in getting the very limit out of second-rate and faltering pitchers had lifted the Wolves out of the second division two years ago, and made them pennant contenders up to the final game of the season. There was the possibility, of course, that old Ben believed that King had not thoroughly recovered from the injury that had sent him to the hospital last August; but a broken leg was something that rarely put an athlete down and out indefinitely.
“In my estimation,” thought Lefty serenely, as sleep was stealing over him, “King has got more brains and uses them better than any backstop in the league.”
The morning papers had something to say about the deal:
The new manager of the Blue Stockings has been getting busy. By good authority we are informed that he has traded Center Fielder Herman Brock for two of Ben Frazer’s youngsters, King and Keeper. Through this deal he has obtained a catcher and a third baseman, but has opened up a hole in the outfield big enough to roll anImperatorcargo of base hits through. Of course, the gaping wounds of the Stockings must be plugged, but it seems like bad surgery to inflict further mutilation in order to fill the gashes already made. And when it comes to driving in scores when they count, we predict that old Herman and his swatstick are going to be lamented.Keeper is more or less of an unknown quantity. It’s true that Brick King, in condition, is an excellent backstop and a good hitter, but it must not be forgotten that he has not played since he was injured last August. And, incidentally, it should be remembered that Ben Frazer has a head as long as a tape measure. An expert appraiser should be called in to inspect any property on which Frazer shows a disposition to relinquish his grip. It is a good, even-money proposition that old Ben and the Wolves will get their hooks into the World’s Series boodle again this year.
The new manager of the Blue Stockings has been getting busy. By good authority we are informed that he has traded Center Fielder Herman Brock for two of Ben Frazer’s youngsters, King and Keeper. Through this deal he has obtained a catcher and a third baseman, but has opened up a hole in the outfield big enough to roll anImperatorcargo of base hits through. Of course, the gaping wounds of the Stockings must be plugged, but it seems like bad surgery to inflict further mutilation in order to fill the gashes already made. And when it comes to driving in scores when they count, we predict that old Herman and his swatstick are going to be lamented.Keeper is more or less of an unknown quantity. It’s true that Brick King, in condition, is an excellent backstop and a good hitter, but it must not be forgotten that he has not played since he was injured last August. And, incidentally, it should be remembered that Ben Frazer has a head as long as a tape measure. An expert appraiser should be called in to inspect any property on which Frazer shows a disposition to relinquish his grip. It is a good, even-money proposition that old Ben and the Wolves will get their hooks into the World’s Series boodle again this year.
Lefty smiled over this, his lips curling a bit scornfully. The opening of the real baseball season was yet a long distance away, but the newspaper writers were compelled to grind out a required amount of “dope” each day, and were working hard to keep up their average. Some of them were clever and ingenious in their phrasing, but nearly all of them betrayed a lack of originality or courage in forming and expressing individual opinions. The Wolves had won the pennant and the world’s championship last season, and up to date they had been damaged less than any club in organized ball by the raids of the Federals; some wise pen pusher had therefore predicted that the Wolves would cop the bunting again, and was supported in this opinion by all the little fellows, who ran, bleating, after the wise one, like a flock of sheep chasing a bellwether.
It was evident that, with no apparent exceptions, this bleating flock looked on the Blue Stockings as a drifting derelict that was due to be blown up and sunk. For Locke they had only pity and mild contempt because he had permitted himself to be dragged into the impossible attempt to salvage the worthless hulk. Even old Ben Frazer, than whom none was reckoned more keen and astute, had expressed such a sentiment without concealment. A weak man would have felt some qualms; Lefty felt none. He had not sought the job; in a way, fate had thrust it upon him; and now the more unsurmountable the difficulties appeared the stronger he became to grapple with them. Like a soldier going into battle, exulted and fired by a high and lofty purpose, his heart sang within him.
Before going to bed, Lefty had wired Kennedy concerning the deal with Frazer, and he believed Skullen had made haste to telegraph Weegman. He rose in the morning fully expecting to get a red-hot message from Collier’s private secretary, and was surprised when nothing of the sort reached him. While at breakfast, however, he received an answer from old Jack:
Good work! Congratulations. Keep it up.Kennedy.
Good work! Congratulations. Keep it up.Kennedy.
Weegman’s silence led Locke to do some thinking, and suddenly he understood. Skullen had discovered him on the Knickerbocker Special just before the train had pulled into Albany, and immediately Mit had hastened away to buy a paper. Of course he had then sent word to Weegman, who was now on his way to New York.
“But he can’t get here before six o’clock to-night,” thought Lefty, “and my train for the South leaves at three-thirty-four.”
He did not relish running away from Weegman, and it had gone against the grain when, upon the advice of Kennedy, he had suddenly left Indianapolis. But he knew old Jack was wise, and the more he could accomplish without being interfered with by the rascal he despised, the stronger his position for open fighting would be when it became necessary to defy him to his face.
His first duty that day was to visit his parents, and, shortly after breakfast, he took the tube for Jersey. Less than an hour’s journey brought him to the Hazelton home, and, after something like an hour spent with them, he left them in a much more cheerful and hopeful frame of mind.
On returning to the city he called up the office of Franklin Parlmee. To his disappointment, he was informed that Parlmee had not returned since leaving for Indianapolis. He had expected theman could inform him whether or not Virginia Collier was in New York, and, if she were, how to find her and obtain the brief interview he desired. For he was sure that a short talk with Charles Collier’s daughter would serve to clear away many of the uncertainties with which he was surrounded.
But there were other things to be done, and Lefty was kept on the jump, without time, even, to snatch a hasty lunch. When a person attempts to accomplish a great deal in a brief period in New York, he often finds he has shouldered a heavy load. By two o’clock in the afternoon he realized that it would be impossible for him to take the three-thirty-four southbound from the Pennsylvania Station. There was a slower train leaving at nine-thirty; that was the best he could do.
He believed Weegman would rush to the Great Eastern as soon as he arrived. Locke had left the Great Eastern, and there was little chance of encountering the man elsewhere. Once or twice he thought of Skullen, and wondered if he had made an effort to keep track of him.
“If so,” laughed the southpaw, “he has been some busy person.”
At six o’clock he was appeasing a ravenous appetite in a quiet restaurant. With the exception of the fact that he had not been able to find Virginia Collier, he had done everything he had setout to do. And he had wired Cap’n Wiley that he would soon be on his way with a Blue Stockings contract for Mysterious Jones to sign.
In order to pass the time and obtain a little diversion, he went to a motion-picture show after dinner, having first secured accommodations on the train, and checked his bag at the station. He left the theater shortly before nine o’clock, and had reached Broadway and Thirty-third Street, when a lighted limousine, containing two persons besides the driver, drove past him. He obtained a good look at both passengers, a man, who was talking earnestly, and a woman, smiling as she listened. He knew he was not mistaken this time: the man was Bailey Weegman; the woman was Virginia Collier.
Locke stood still, staring after the swiftly receding car. He thought of pursuit, but, as a heavy rain was falling, there was no available taxi in the immediate vicinity. By the time he could secure one the limousine would have vanished, leaving no possible hope of tracing it.
Weegman and Virginia Collier together and on terms plainly more than usually friendly! What was the explanation? She had arrived in New York, after all, and it was apparent that Weegman knew where to find her when he reached the city. That his company was distinctly agreeable to her was evident from the fleeting glimpse Lefty had obtained. As Parlmee’s rival, the man held the favor of Charles Collier. Had the baseball magnate at last succeeded in breaking down the prejudice and opposition of his daughter? Was it possible that Weegman, not Parlmee, was the magnet that had drawn the girl back from Europe?
“Impossible!” exclaimed Lefty. “She’d never throw over Frank for that chuckling scoundrel.”
But was it impossible? Vaguely he recalledsomething like a change in the tone of Virginia’s last letters to Janet; somehow they had not seemed as frank and confiding as former letters. And eventually, to Janet’s worriment and perplexity, Virginia had ceased to write at all.
Before Locke flashed a picture of Parlmee as he had appeared in Indianapolis, nervous, perplexed, and, by his own admission, greatly worried. Parlmee had confessed that he had received only two very unsatisfactory letters from Virginia since she had sailed for Europe with her father, and more than a month had elapsed since the second of these had come to his hands. Of itself, this was enough to upset a man as much in love with Miss Collier as Parlmee undoubtedly was. But, at the time, Lefty had vaguely felt that the automobile salesman was holding something back, and now he was sure. Parlmee’s pride, and his secret hope that he was mistaken, had prevented him from confessing that the girl had changed in her attitude toward him.
True, Virginia had cabled that she was sailing on theVictoria, and had asked him to meet her, and although she had not sailed on that ship, yet she was now in New York. Here was a riddle to solve. Did the solution lie in the assumption that, having decided to break her tentative engagement in a face-to-face talk with Parlmee, the girl’s couragehad failed her, leading her to change her plans? The fact that he was with her now seemed to prove that Weegman’s information regarding her movements and intentions had been more accurate than Parlmee’s.
It did not appear plausible that such a girl could be persuaded, of her own free will, to throw over Franklin Parlmee for Bailey Weegman. But perhaps she was not exercising her own free will; perhaps some powerful and mastering influence had been brought to bear upon her. Was it not possible, also, that her father, whose singular behavior had lately aroused comment and speculation, was likewise a victim of this mastering influence? While the idea was a trifle bizarre, and savored of sensational fiction, such things did happen, if reports of them, to be found almost daily in the newspapers, could be believed. But when Locke tried to imagine the chuckling and oily Weegman as a hypnotist, dominating both Collier and his daughter by the power of an evil spell, he failed. It was too preposterous.
One thing, however, was certain: evil powers of a materialistic nature were at work, and they had succeeded in making a decided mess of Charles Collier’s affairs. To defeat them, the strategy and determination of united opposition would be required, and, in view of the task, the oppositionseemed weak and insufficient. Even Parlmee, who might render some aid, was not to be reached. He had obtained a month’s leave from business in order to settle his own suspicions and fears, but he had not returned to New York. Where was he?
Lefty glanced over his shoulder as theHeraldclock began to hammer out the hour of nine. Then he set his face westward and made for the Pennsylvania Station at a brisk pace. Reaching his destination, he wrote and sent to Parlmee’s office address a message that contained, in addition to the positive assurance that Virginia was in town and had been seen with Weegman, a statement of the southpaw’s suspicions, which amounted almost to convictions, concerning the whole affair. There didn’t seem to be much more that he could do. He had secured his accommodations on the Florida Mail, but he expected to be back on the field of battle in the North within the shortest possible time.
Before going aboard his train, he bought the latest edition of an evening newspaper, and, naturally, turned at once to the sporting page. Almost by instinct his eyes found something of personal concern, a statement that Manager Garrity would strengthen the Rockets by securing an unknown “dummy” pitcher who had been discoveredby Scout Skullen, and was said to be a wizard. Skullen, it was intimated, was off with a commission from Garrity to sign up his find.
There was no longer any doubt in Locke’s mind that Skullen had watched the work of Mysterious Jones, and intended to nail the mute for the Rockets. Even now, he had departed on his mission. Probably he had left at three-thirty-four on the very train Lefty had meant to take. If so, he would reach Florida many hours ahead of the southpaw, and would have plenty of time to accomplish his purpose. True, Locke had made a fair and square bargain with Wiley and Jones, but, having been unable to get Jones’ signature on a Blue Stockings contract at the time, the deal would not be binding if the mute chose to go back on it.
Not a little apprehensive, Lefty sent still another message to Cap’n Wiley. After which he went aboard the train, found his berth, and turned in.
Locke was the first passenger to leap off the train when it stopped at Vienna. He made for one of the two rickety carriages that were drawn up beside the station platform. The white-wooled old negro driver straightened on his seat, signaling with his whip, and called: “Right dis way, sah; dis way fo’ the Lithonia House.”
“Is there a baseball game in this town to-day, uncle?” asked Lefty.
“Yes, sah, dere sho am. Dey’s gwine to be some hot game, so ever’body say. Our boys gwine buck up against dem Wind Jabbers, an’ dere’ll be a reg’ler ruction out to de pahk.”
“What time does the game begin?”
“Free o’clock am de skaduled hour fo’ de obsequies, sah. Dey’s out to de pahk now, sah, an’ ’most ever’body could git dere has gone, too.”
Locke looked at his watch. “Thirty minutes before the game starts. How far is your park?”
“’Bout a mile, sah, mo’ uh less.”
“Two dollars, if you get me there in a hurry.”
“Two dollahs, sah? Yes, sah! Step right in, sah, an’ watch dis heah streak o’ locomotion transpose yo’ over de earth surface. Set tight an’ hol’ fast.”
Tossing his overcoat and bag into the rear of the carriage, Lefty sprang in. The old negro gave a shrill yell, and cracked his whip with a pistol-like report. The yell and the crack electrified the rawboned old nag into making a wild leap as if trying to jump out of the thills. It was a marvel that the spliced and string-tied harness held. The southpaw was flung down upon the rear seat, and it was a wonder that he did not go flying over the low back of it and out of the carriage. He grabbed hold with both hands, and held fast. Round the corner of the station spun the carriage on two wabbly wheels, and away it careened at the heels of the galloping horse, the colored driver continuing to yell and crack his whip. Two dollars!
The ride from the station to the baseball park was brief but exciting. The distance could not have been more than half a mile, and, considering the conveyance, it was made in record time.
“Whoa, yo’ Nancy Hanks!” shouted the driver, surging back on the reins and stopping the animal so abruptly that Lefty was nearly pitched into theforward seat. “Did I heah yo’ say you wanted to git heah in a hurry, sah?”
Locke jumped out. “That’s the shortest mile I ever traveled,” he said, handing over the price promised. “But then, when it comes to driving, Barney Oldfield has nothing on you.”
Carrying his overcoat and bag, he hurried to the gate and paid the price of admission. A goodly crowd had gathered, and the local team was practicing on the field. Over at one side some of the visitors were getting in a little light batting practice. Mysterious Jones was warming up with Schaeffer. A short distance behind Jones stood Cap’n Wiley, his legs planted wide, his arms folded, his ear cocked, listening to Mit Skullen, who was talking earnestly. Lefty strode hastily toward the pair.
“Sell him!” said the Marine Marvel, in reply to the scout, as the southpaw approached behind them. “Of course I will. But you made one miscue, mate; you should have come straight to me in the first place, instead of superflouing away your time seeking to pilfer him off me by stealth. What price do you respectfully tender?”
Locke felt a throb of resentful anger. Regardless of a square bargain already made, Wiley was ready to negotiate with Skullen. However, Mithad not yet succeeded in his purpose, and the southpaw was on hand to maintain a prior claim. Involuntarily he halted, waiting for the scout’s offer.
“As you aren’t in any regular league,” said Mit, “by rights I don’t have to give you anything for him; but if you’ll jolly him into putting his fist to a contract, I’ll fork over fifty bones out of my own pocket. Garrity won’t stand for it, so I’ll have to come through with the fifty myself.”
“Your magnanimous offer staggers me!” exclaimed Wiley. “Allow me a moment to subdue my emotions. However and nevertheless, I fear me greatly that my bottom price would be slightly more than that.”
“Well, what is your bottom price?” demanded Skullen. “Put it down to the last notch.”
“I will. I’ll give you bed-rock figures. Comprehend me, mate, I’ll pare it right down to the bone, and you can’t buy Jones a measly, lonesome cent less. I’ll sell him to you for just precisely fifty thousand dollars.”
The scout’s jaw dropped, and he stared at the little man, who stared up at him in return, one eyelid slightly lowered, an oddly provocative expression on his swarthy face.
Slowly the look of incredulous disbelief turnedto wrath. The purple color surged upward from Mit’s bull neck into his scarred face; his huge hands closed.
“What are you trying to hand me, you blamed little runt?” he snarled. “Where’s the joke?”
“No joke at all, I hasten to postulate,” said Wiley. “The scandalous fact is that I couldn’t sell him to you at all without scuttling and sinking my sacred honor. But human nature is frail and prone to temptation, and for the sum of fifty thousand dollars I’d inveigle Jones into signing with you, even though never again as long as I should dwell on this terrestrial sphere could I look my old college chump, Lefty Locke, in the countenance.”
Skullen’s astonishment was a sight to behold. He made strange, wheezing, gurgling sounds in his throat. Presently one of his paws shot out and fastened on Cap’n Wiley’s shoulder.
“What’s that you’re saying about Lefty Locke?” he demanded. “What are you giving me?”
“Straight goods, Mit,” stated the southpaw serenely, as he stepped forward. “Too bad you wasted so much time making a long and useless trip.”
Skullen came round with something like his old deftness of whirling in the ring when engaged inbattle. Never in all his life had his battered face worn an uglier look. For a moment, however, he seemed to doubt the evidence of his eyes.
“Locke!” he gasped. “Here!”
“Yes, indeed,” returned the new manager of the Blue Stockings pleasantly. “I reckoned you would be ahead of me, Mit; but, as a man of his word, Wiley couldn’t do business with you. And without his aid there was little chance for you to make arrangements with Jones.”
Skullen planted his clenched fists upon his hips and gazed at the southpaw with an expression of unrepressed hatred. His bearing, as well as his look, threatened assault. Lefty dropped his traveling bag to the ground, and tossed the overcoat he had been compelled to wear in the North upon it. He felt that it would be wise for him to have both hands free and ready for use.
“Who sent you here?” demanded the belligerent individual. “What business have you got coming poking your nose into my affairs? You’d better chase yourself sudden.”
Instead of exhibiting alarm, Lefty laughed in the man’s face. “Don’t make a show of yourself, Mit,” he advised. “Bluster won’t get you any ball players; at least, it won’t get you this one. I’ve already made a deal for Jones.”
“You haven’t got his name on a contract; you hadn’t time. If you had, Wiley’d told me.”
“I made a fair trade for him before I went North.”
Into Skullen’s eyes there came a look of understanding and satisfaction. His lips curled back from his ugly teeth.
“You didn’t have any authority to make a trade then, for you weren’t manager of the Stockings. You can’t put anything like that over on me. If you don’t chase yourself, I’ll throw you over the fence.”
Sensing an impending clash, with the exception of the mute and the catcher, the Wind Jammers ceased their desultory practice and watched for developments. A portion of the spectators, also becoming aware that something unusual was taking place, turned their attention to the little triangular group not far from the visitors’ bench.
“You couldn’t get Jones if you threw me over into Georgia,” said Locke, unruffled. “It won’t do you any good to start a scrap.”
“Permit me to impersonate the dove of peace,” pleaded Cap’n Wiley. “Lefty is absolutely voracious in his statement that he made a fair and honorable compact with me, by which Jones is to become the legitimate chattel of the Blue Stockings. Still,” he added, shaking his head and licking his lips, “flesh is weak and liable to err. If I had seen fifty thousand simoleons coming my way in exchange for the greatest pitcher of modern times, I’m afraid I should have lacked the energy to side-step them. The root of all evil has sometimes tempted me from the path of rectitude. But now Lefty is here, and the danger is over. It’s no use, Skully, old top; the die is cast. You may as well submit gracefully to the inveterable.”
Muttering inaudibly, Skullen turned and walked away.
“I have a contract in my pocket ready for thesignature of Jones,” said Lefty. “Will you get him to put his name to it before the game starts?”
“It will give me a pang of pleasure to do so,” was the assurance.
There on the field, envied by his teammates, Mysterious Jones used Locke’s fountain pen to place his signature–A. B. Jones was the name he wrote–upon the contract that bound him to the Blue Stockings. What the initials stood for not even Wiley knew. For a moment the mute seemed to hesitate, but the Marine Marvel urged him on, and the deed was done.
“If you cater to his little giddyocyncracies,” said the sailor, “you’ll find him a pearl beyond price. Unless you’re afraid Skully may return and mar your pleasure, you may sit on the bench with us and watch him toy with the local bric-a-brac. It is bound to be a painfully one-sided affair.”
“Skullen,” laughed Lefty, “has ceased to cause me special apprehension. The contract is signed now.”
So Locke sat on the bench and watched his new pitcher perform. When he walked to the mound, Jones seemed, if possible, more somber and tragic than usual, and he certainly had his speed with him. Yet neither the ominous appearance of the mute nor his blinding smoke was sufficient to fazethe Vienna batters, who cracked him for three clean singles in the last half of the opening inning, and then failed to score because of foolish base running.
“He seems to be rather hittable to-day,” observed Locke. “What’s the matter, Wiley? This Vienna bunch doesn’t look particularly good to me; just a lot of amateurs who never saw real players, I should say.”
“That’s it; that’s what ails them, for one thing,” replied the manager of the Wind Jammers. “They have accumulated together no special knowledge of Simon poor baseball talent, and so they don’t know enough to be scared. Even the great Mathewson has confessed that the worst bumping he ever collided with was handed out by a bunch of bushers who stood up to the dish, shut their blinkers when he pitched, and swung blind at the pill. These lobsters don’t realize that Jonesy’s fast one would pass right through a batter without pausing perceptibly if it should hit him, and so they toddle forth without qualms, whatever they are, and take a slam at the globule. Next round I’ll have to get out there on the turf and warn them; I’ll put the fear of death into their hearts. Get them to quaking and they won’t touch the horsehide.”
But such a program didn’t suit Locke. “Ifall Jones has is his speed and the fear it inspires, he won’t travel far in fast company. You ought to know that, Wiley. Big League batters will knock the cover off the fast one unless a pitcher puts something else on it. Sit still once, to please me, and let’s see what Jones can do without the assistance of your chatter.”
“It’s hardly a square deal,” objected the Marine Marvel. “The jinx has been keeping company with us ever since we struck Fernandon. From that occasion up to the present date, Anno Domino, we haven’t won a single consecutive game. Such bad luck has hurt my feelings; it has grieved me to the innermost abscess of my soul.”
“Do you mean to say that these country teams have been trimming you, with Jones in the box?”
“Alas and alack! I can’t deny it unless I resort to fabrication, which I never do. The Euray Browns tapped Jonesy for seventeen heart-breaking bingles, and the Pikeville Greyhounds lacerated his delivery even more painfully. My own brilliant work in the box has been sadly insufficient to stem, the tide of disaster.”
Locke frowned. What success, or lack of it, Wiley had had as a pitcher was a matter of no moment; but the statement that amateur teams of no particular standing had found Mysterious Jones an easy mark was disturbing. Was it possiblethat he had been led, with undue haste, to fritter away good money for a pitcher who would prove worthless in the Big League? True, the mute had seemed to show something in the Fernandon game, but in similar contests Lefty had seen many a pinheaded, worthless country pitcher give a fine imitation of Walter Johnson in top-notch form. The test of the bush was, in reality, no test at all.
Throughout five innings the southpaw succeeded in restraining Wiley, and during that portion of the game the Viennas found Jones for nine singles and two doubles, accumulating four runs. Only for bad judgment on the paths they might have secured twice as many tallies. In the same period the local pitcher, using a little dinky slow curve, held the visitors to one score. The mute seemed to be trying hard enough, but he could not keep his opponents from hitting.
With the opening of the sixth, Wiley broke the leash of restraint. “I’ve got to get out and get under,” he declared. “You can’t expect me to sit still and watch my barkentine go upon the rocks. Here’s where we start something. Get into ’em, Schepps! Begin doing things! We’ll back you up, for in onion there is strength.”
Schepps led off with a hit, and immediately the Wind Jammers, encouraged by Wiley, leaped out from the bench, dancing wildly and tossing thebats into the air. Locke smiled as he watched them. He had seen Big League teams do the same thing in an effort to drive away the jinx and break a streak of bad luck. But although Lefty smiled, he was not wholly happy.
“If Jones is a quince,” he thought, “I’ve wasted my time trying to brace up our pitching staff. Even Mit Skullen will have the laugh on me.”
His anxiety had led him to come straight from New York to Vienna, without stopping at Fernandon. He had sent a message to Janet telling her that he would be home the following day.
The Wind Jammers kept after the local twirler, and succeeded in pounding two men round to the registry station. Then Wiley did some wigwagging to Jones, and the gloomy mute nodded assurance. After which he walked out and fanned three batters in a row.
“You see, Lefty!” exulted the Marine Marvel. “That’s what he needs. Give him proper encouragement, and he’s there with the damsons.”
“Temperamental or yellow, which?” speculated the southpaw. “Either sort of a pitcher is worthless in pinches.”
The visitors failed to continue their hitting streak in the seventh. Whether or not Jones was disheartened by this, he let down in the last halfof the inning, and Vienna added another score, Wiley’s warnings having no impression upon them. Nor did the mute show any remarkable form in the remainder of the game, which terminated with the score six to four in favor of the locals.
“The old jinx is still with us,” lamented the dejected manager of the Wind Jammers. “Wouldn’t it congeal your pedal extremities!”
“It is enough to give one cold feet,” admitted Locke. “But with Jones doing any real pitching to-day four tallies would have been sufficient for you.”
Picking up his overcoat and traveling bag, he started to follow the well-satisfied crowd from the field. As he approached the gate, Mit Skullen stood up on the bleachers and singled him out. Mit’s face wore a leering grin.
“You’re welcome to that lemon, Locke!” he cried. “I wouldn’t take him now for a gift. You’ve got stung good and proper.”
Lefty walked on without replying.
When Locke reached Fernandon, he found, as he expected, a furious message from Weegman awaiting him. In it he was savagely reprimanded, and warned under no circumstances to make any further deals without consulting Collier’s private secretary. He was also commanded to report at the office of the Blue Stockings baseball club without unnecessary delay.
Lefty merely smiled over this, but he did not smile over a long telegram from Franklin Parlmee, stating that he had not seen Virginia Collier nor heard anything further from her. Parlmee averred that he could not believe Virginia was in New York; he expressed the conviction that Locke had not seen her in the limousine with Bailey Weegman, but had been deceived by a resemblance. But if she were not in New York, where was she? And why had he received no word from her?
Janet watched Lefty frowning and biting hislip over Parlmee’s message. Her own face showed the anxiety she felt.
“What do you think?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem possible that Virginia could have been with that man, as you thought. You must have been mistaken.”
He shook his head. “I’m positive, Janet. I would be willing to wager anything that I made no mistake.”
“Then what does it mean? I can’t imagine Virginia being in New York without letting Frank know.”
“It’s got me guessing,” Locke admitted. “There’s a snarl that needs to be untangled.”
She grabbed his arm. “You don’t suppose–”
“What?” he asked, as she hesitated.
“You don’t suppose anything terrible could have happened to Virginia? Perhaps that villain has carried her off–shut her up somewhere! Perhaps she is helpless in his power this minute. He may be trying to force her into marrying him.”
Lefty laughed. “That sounds too much like a dime novel, my dear. Scoundrel though he is, Weegman would scarcely have the nerve to try anything like that with the daughter of Charles Collier. That’s not the answer.”
“But something’s wrong,” insisted Janet.
“No doubt about that,” her husband replied.“A lot of things seem to be wrong. Somebody is dealing the cards under the table.”
“I know,” said Janet, “that Virginia didn’t care for Mr. Weegman, and the more her father sought to influence her the less she thought of him. She was proud of Franklin because he had proved his business ability, and she thought Mr. Collier would give in soon. But I can’t understand why she stopped writing to me. She hasn’t written since arriving on this side.”
“We’re not getting anywhere by speculating like this,” said Lefty. “Can you be ready to go North with me to-morrow?”
“You are going back so soon?”
“Just as soon as we can start. I’m thinking I ought to have remained there. I only came South at all in order to make sure of Mysterious Jones, and now it looks as though I wasted both time and money by doing so. Perhaps I would have been better off if Skullen had succeeded in getting Jones away from me.”
“But the cottage–our lease runs another full month.”
“It can’t be helped. We’ll have to pay the rental and give it up.”
“And your arm–you thought another month down here might give you time to work it back into condition.”
“I’ve got plenty to worry about besides my arm. I’ve been told plainly that I’ve been picked to be the goat by a set of scoundrels who are trying to put over a dirty piece of work, and, if I fool them, I’ll have to do it with my head, not my arm. I’m going to stake everything on my ability to put the kibosh on their crooked game, and to stand any chance of succeeding I must be on the field of battle. So we must leave Fernandon to-morrow, my dear.”
To accomplish this necessitated no small amount of hustling, but Janet did her part. With the assistance of her maid and a colored man, the work was speedily done. There were tears in Janet’s eyes when she looked back at the deserted little cottage, as they drove away in a carriage to catch the train.
“It has been pleasant here,” she said. “I’ll never forget it. We were so quiet and so happy. Now, somehow, I have a feeling that there’s nothing but trouble ahead of us. You’ve taken a big contract, Phil.”
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
She looked up at him and smiled proudly. “Not a bit. You are not the sort of man who fails. I know you’ll win out.”
His cheeks glowed and a light leaped into his eyes. “After hearing you say that, I couldn’tfail, Janet, dear,” he said quietly but earnestly. “It’s going to be some fight, but let it come–I’m ready.”
The journey northward was uneventful. Locke had wired both Kennedy and Parlmee when he would arrive in New York, asking them to meet him at the Great Eastern. He did not stop off at the home town of the Blue Stockings, choosing to disregard for the present Weegman’s imperative order for him to report at once at the office of the club. By mail he had formally notified the secretary of the club of the trade with Frazer and the purchase of Mysterious Jones, directing that checks be sent immediately to the manager of the Wolves and to Cap’n Wiley. He had done this as a matter of formality, but he felt sure that Weegman would interfere and hold up the payments, even though they could, sooner or later, be legally enforced. Delay matters as he might, the rascal could not bring about the repudiation of business deals entered into by the properly authorized manager of the team. Locke hoped to have the situation well in hand before he should find it necessary to beard the lion in all his fury. The showdown must come before long, but ere that time the southpaw hoped to fill his hand on the draw.
When he had sent out the players’ contracts from Indianapolis he had instructed the men, aftersigning, to mail them directly to him in New York. He had made this request emphatic, warning each man not to return his signed contract to the office of the Blue Stockings. He had Kennedy to thank for suggesting this procedure.
“If the contracts go back to the club office,” old Jack had said, “Weegman may get hold of them and hold out on you. That would leave you in the dark; you wouldn’t know who had signed up and who hadn’t, and so you couldn’t tell where you stood. It would keep you muddled so you wouldn’t know what holes were left to be plugged. If you undertook to find out how the land lay by wiring inquiries to the players, you’d make them uneasy, and set them wondering what was doing. Some of them might even try belated dickering with the Feds, and, while you could hold them by law, it would complicate things still more. If the newspapers got wise and printed things, the stock of the club would slump still more, which would help the dirty bunch that’s trying to knock the bottom out of it.”
Beyond question, Kennedy was foxy and farseeing, and Locke looked forward expectantly to another heart-to-heart talk with the old man at the Great Eastern.
A big bundle of mail was delivered to Lefty after he registered at the hotel. Immediately onreaching his rooms he made haste to open the letters.
“Look, Janet!” he cried exultantly, after he had torn open envelope after envelope. “Here are the contracts–Grant, Welsh, Hyland, Savage, Dillon, Reilley, and Lumley all have signed, as well as the youngsters who didn’t attract special attention from the Feds. Not a man lost that the outlaws hadn’t gobbled up before Weegman so kindly forced the management upon me. We’ve got the makings of a real team left. Some of the deadwood has been cleared away, that’s all.”
With scarcely an exception, the players had sent, along with their contracts, brief, friendly letters congratulating Locke and expressing confidence in his ability to manage the Blue Stockings successfully. He had won the regard of them all; in some cases that regard fell little short of genuine affection. With him as their leader they would fight with fresh spirit and loyalty.
“It’s fine, Lefty!” exclaimed Janet, as she read some of those cheery letters. “There was a time when I could not have believed professional ball players were such a fine lot of men.”
“I might have had some doubts myself before I was associated with them,” he admitted; “but experience has taught me that they measure up inmanhood as well as any other class. Of course, black sheep may be found in every business.”
As he spoke, he hurriedly opened a letter that had just attracted his attention among those remaining. He read it aloud: