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 the forward 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, Mit had 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 turned to 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 in battle. 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.