Lefty o' the Big League

“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.