Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager

CHAPTER XIX

A FLEETING GLIMPSE

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:

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 an Imperator cargo 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.

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.

CHAPTER XX

A RIDDLE TO SOLVE

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 recalled something 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 the Victoria, 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 courage had 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 opposition seemed 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 the Herald clock 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 discovered by 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.

CHAPTER XXI

THE MAN AHEAD

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.”