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 got bats 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; for it 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 to hope 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:

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:

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 the man 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 set out 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.