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CHAPTER XII
TOO MUCH TEMPTATION

“Is it poss-i-bill!” gasped Cap’n Wiley, staggering and clutching at his forehead. “I am menaced by a swoon! Water! Whisky! I’ll accept anything to revive me!”

Fred Hallett hurried to the pan with his bat. “It’s my turn now,” he said. “We’ve started on him, and we should all hit him.”

Locke signalled that he would steal, and Hallett let the first one pass. Lefty went down the line like a streak, but Schaeffer made a throw that forced him to hit the dirt and make a hook slide. He caught his spikes in the bag and gave his ankle a twist that sent a pain shooting up his leg.

“Safe!” declared the umpire.

Locke did not get up. The crowd saw him drag himself to the bag and sit on it, rubbing his ankle. Schepps bent over him solicitously.

“Dat was a nice little crack, pal,” said the sandlotter, “and a nifty steal. Hope youse ain’t hoited.”

But Lefty had sprained his ankle so seriously that he required assistance to walk from the field. A runner was put in his place, although Wiley informed them that they need not take the trouble. And Wiley was right, for Jones struck Hallett out.

It was impossible for Locke to continue pitching, so Matthews took his place. And the southpaw was left still uncertain and doubtful; the game had not provided the test he courted. Weegman apparently had departed; there was no question in the mind of Charles Collier’s representative, and, angered by the rebuff he had encountered, he was pretty certain to spread the report that the great southpaw was “all in.” He had practically threatened to do this when he declared that every manager and magnate in the business would soon know that Locke’s pitching days were over.

The Wind Jammers, spurred on by Cap’n Wiley, went after Matthews aggressively, and for a time it appeared certain that they were going to worry him off his feet. With only one down, they pushed a runner across in the eighth, and there were two men on the sacks when a double play blighted their prospect of tying up, perhaps of taking the lead, at once.

As Jones continued invulnerable in the last of the eighth, the visitors made their final assault upon Matthews in the ninth. But fortune was against them. The game ended with Wiley greatly disappointed, though still cheerful.

“A little frost crept into my elbow in the far-away regions of the North,” he admitted. “I’ll shake it out in time. If I’d started old Jonesy against Lefty, there would have been a different tale to tell.”

The Wind Jammers were booked to play in Jacksonville the following afternoon, but they remained in Fernandon overnight. Seated on the veranda of the Magnolia, Wiley was enjoying a cigar after the evening meal, and romancing, as usual, when Locke appeared, limping, with the aid of a cane.

“It grieves me to behold your sorry plight,” said the Marine Marvel sympathetically. “I cajole with you most deprecatingly. But why, if you were going to get hurt at all, weren’t you obliging enough to do it somewhat earlier in the pastime? That would have given my faithful henchmen a chance to put the game away on ice.”

“You can’t be sure about that,” returned Lefty. “You collected no more scores off Matthews than you did off me.”

“But you passed us six nice, ripe goose eggs, while he dealt out only one. There was a difference that could be distinguished with the unclothed optic. Nevertheless, it seems to me that Jones had something on you; while he officiated, you were the only person who did any gamboling on the cushions, and what you did didn’t infect the result. What do you think of Jones?”

“Will you lend me your ear while I express my opinion privately?”

“With the utmost perspicacity,” said Wiley, rising. “Within my boudoir–excuse my fluid French–I’ll uncork either ear you prefer and let you pour it full to overflowing.”

In the privacy of Wiley’s room, without beating around the bush, Locke stated that he believed Jones promising material for the Big League, and that he wished to size up the man.

“While I have no scouting commission or authority,” said Lefty, “if Kennedy should manage the Blue Stockings this season, he’d stand by my judgment. The team must have pitchers. Of course, some will be bought in the regular manner, but I know that, on my advice, Kennedy would take Jones on and give him a show to make good, just as he gave me a chance when I was a busher. I did not climb up by way of the minors; I made one clean jump from the back pastures into the Big League.”

“Mate,” said Wiley, “let me tell you something a trifle bazaar: Jones hasn’t the remotest ambition in the world to become a baseball pitcher.”

Locke stared at him incredulously. The swarthy little man was serious–at least, as serious as he could be.

“Then,” asked the southpaw, “why is he pitching?”

“Tell me! I’ve done a little prognosticating over that question.”

“You say he does not talk about himself. How do you–”

“Let me elucidate, if I can. I told you I ran across Jones in Alaska. I saw him pitch in a baseball match in Nome. How he came to ingratiate himself into that contest I am unable to state. Nobody seemed able to tell me. All I found out about him was that he was one of three partners who had a valuable property somewhere up in the Jade Mountain region–not a prospect, but a real, bony-fido mine. Already they had received offers for the property, and any day they could sell out for a sum salubrious enough to make them all scandalously wealthy. They had entered into some sort of an agreement that bound them all to hold on until two of the three should vote to sell; Jones was tied up under this contraction.

“I had grown weary of the vain search for the root of all evil. For me that root has always been more slippery than a squirming eel; every time I thought I had it by the tail it would wriggle out of my eager clutch and get away. I longed for the fleshpots of my own native heath. Watching that ball game in Nome, my blood churned in my veins until it nearly turned to butter. Once more, in my well-fertilized fancy, I saw myself towering the country with my Wind Jammers; and, could I secure Jonesy for my star flinger, I knew I would be able to make my return engagement a scintillating and scandalous success. With him for a nucleus, I felt confident that I could assemble together a bunch of world beaters. I resolved to go after Jones. I went, without dalliance. I got him corralled in a private room and locked the door on him.

“Mate, I am a plain and simple soul, given not a jot or tittle to exaggeration, yet I am ready to affirm–I never swear; it’s profane–that I had the tussle of my life with Jones. Parenthetically speaking, we wrestled all over that room for about five solid hours. I had supplied myself with forty reams of writing paper, a bushel basket full of lead pencils, and two dictionaries. When I finally subdued Jones, I was using a stub of the last pencil in the basket, was on the concluding sheet of paper, had contracted writer’s cramp, and the dictionaries were mere torn and tattered wrecks. In the course of that argument, I am certain I wrote every word in the English language, besides coining a few thousand of my own. I had practically exhausted every form of persuasion, and was on the verge of lying down and taking the count. Then, by the rarest chance, I hit upon the right thing. I wrote a paregoric upon the joys of traveling around over the United States from city to city, from town to town, of visiting every place of importance in the whole broad land, of meeting practically every living human being in the country who was alive and deserved to be met. Somehow that got him; I don’t know why, but it did. I saw his eyes gleam and his somber face change as he read that last wild stab of mine. It struck home; he agreed to go. I had conquered.

“Now, mark ye well, the amount of his salary had not a whit to do with it, and he entertained absolutely no ambish to become a baseball pitcher. He was compelled to leave his partners up there running the mine, and to rely upon their honesty to give him a square deal. You have been told how he promulgates around over every new place he visits and stares strangers out of countenance. Whether or not he’s otherwise wrong in his garret, he’s certainly ‘off’ on that stunt. That’s how I’m able to keep him on the parole of this club of mine.”

“In short, he’s a sort of monomaniac?”

“Perhaps that’s it.”

Lefty did a bit of thinking. “You’ve been touring the smaller cities and the towns in which an independent ball team would be most likely to draw. In the large cities of a Big League circuit there are thousands upon thousands of persons Jones has never met. He could work a whole season in such a circuit and continue to see hosts of strangers every time he visited any one of the cities included. Under such circumstances he would have the same incentive that he has now. If he can be induced to make the change, I’ll take a chance on him, and I’ll see that you are well paid to use your persuasive powers to lead him to accept my proposition.”

“But you stated that you had no legal authority to make such a deal.”

“I haven’t; but I am willing to take a chance, with the understanding that the matter is to be kept quiet until I shall be able to put through an arrangement that will make it impossible for any manager in organized ball to steal him away.”

Wiley shook his head. “I couldn’t get along without him, Lefty; he’s the mainsheet of the Wind Jammers. It would be like chucking the sextant and the compass overboard. We’d be adrift without any instrument to give us our position or anything to lay a course by.”

“If you don’t sell him to me, some manager is going to take him from you without handing you as much as a lonesome dollar in return. You can’t dodge the Big League scouts; it’s a wonder you’ve dodged them as long as you have. They’re bound to spot Jones and gobble him up. Do you prefer to sell him or to have him snatched?”

“What will you give for him?”

“Now you’re talking business. If I can put through the deal I’m figuring on, I’ll give you five hundred dollars, which, considering the conditions, is more than a generous price.”

“Five hundred dollars! Is there that much money to be found in one lump anywhere in the world?”

“I own some Blue Stockings stock, so you see I have a financial, as well as a sentimental, interest in the club. I’m going to fight hard to prevent it from being wrecked. As long as it can stay in the first division it will continue to be a money-maker, but already the impression has become current that the team is riddled, and the stock has slumped. There are evil forces at work. I don’t know the exact purpose these forces are aiming at, but I’m a pretty good guesser. The property is mighty valuable for some people to get hold of if they can get it cheap enough.”

“They’re even saying that you’re extremely to the bad. What do you think about it yourself, Lefty?”

Locke flushed. “Time will answer that.”

“You look like a fighter,” said Wiley. “I wish you luck.”

“But what do you say to my proposition? Give me a flat answer.”

“Five hundred dollars!” murmured the Marine Marvel, licking his lips. “I’m wabbling on the top rail of the fence.”

“Fall one way or the other.”

Heaving a sigh, the sailor rose to his feet, and gave his trousers a hitch. “Let’s interview Jones,” he proposed.

CHAPTER XIII
THE PERPLEXING QUESTION

The following morning Lefty Locke received two letters. One was from the Federal League headquarters in Chicago, urging him to accept the offer of the manager who had made such a tempting proposal to him. The position, it stated, was still his for the taking, and he was pressed to wire agreement to the terms proposed.

The other letter was from Locke’s father, a clergyman residing in a small New Jersey town. The contents proved disturbing. The Reverend Mr. Hazelton’s savings of a lifetime had been invested in a building and loan association, and the association had failed disastrously. Practically everything the clergyman possessed in the world would be swept away; it seemed likely that he would lose his home.

Lefty’s face grew pale and grim as he read this letter. He went directly to his wife and told her. Janet was distressed.

“What can be done?” she cried. “You must do something, Lefty! Your father and mother, at their age, turned out of their home! It is terrible! What can you do?”

Locke considered a moment. “If I had not invested the savings of my baseball career in Blue Stockings stock,” he said regretfully, “I’d have enough now to save their home for them.”

“But can’t you sell the stock?”

“Yes, for half what I paid for it–perhaps. That wouldn’t he enough. You’re right in saying I must do something, but what can I–” He stopped, staring at the other letter. He sat down, still staring at it, and Janet came and put her arm about him.

“Here’s something!” he exclaimed suddenly.

“What, dear?”

“This letter from Federal League headquarters, urging me to grab the offer the Feds have made me. Twenty-seven thousand dollars for three years, a certified check for the first year’s salary, and a thousand dollars bonus. That means that I can get ten thousand right in my hand by signing a Federal contract–more than enough to save my folks.”

Janet’s face beamed, and she clapped her hands. “I had forgotten about their offer! Why, you’re all right! It’s just the thing.”

“I wonder?”

She looked at him, and grew sober. “Oh, you don’t want to go to the Federals? You’re afraid they won’t last?”

“It isn’t that.”

“No?”

“No, girl. If there was nothing else to restrain me, I’d take the next train for Chicago, and put my fist to a Fed contract just as soon as I could. I need ten thousand dollars now, and need it more than I ever before needed money.”

Janet ran her fingers through his hair, bending forward to scan his serious and perplexed face. She could see that he was fighting a battle silently, grimly. She longed to aid him in solving the problem by which he was confronted, but realizing that she could not quite put herself in his place, and that, therefore, her advice might not come from the height of wisdom and experience, she held herself in check. Should he ask counsel of her she would give the best she could.

“I know,” she said, after a little period of silence, “that you must think of your financial interest in the Blue Stockings.”

“I’m not spending a moment’s thought on that now. I’m thinking of old Jack Kennedy and Charles Collier; of Bailey Weegman and his treachery, for I believe he is treacherous to the core. I’m thinking also of something else I don’t like to think about.”

“Tell me,” she urged.

He looked up at her, and smiled wryly. Then he felt of his left shoulder. “It’s this,” he said.

She caught her breath. “But you said you were going to give your arm the real test yesterday. The Grays won, and the score was three to one when you hurt your ankle and were forced to quit. I thought you were satisfied.”

“I very much doubt if the Grays would have won had not Cap’n Wiley insisted upon pitching the opening innings for his team. The man who followed him did not permit us to score at all. I was the only one who got a safe hit off him. The test was not satisfactory, Janet.”

Her face grew white. It was not like Lefty to lack confidence in himself. During the past months, although his injured arm had seemed to improve with disheartening slowness, he had insisted that it would come round all right before the season opened. Yet lately he had not appeared quite so optimistic. And now, after the game which was to settle his doubts, he seemed more doubtful than before. She believed that he was holding something back, that he was losing heart, but as long as there was any hope remaining he would try not to burden her with his worries.

Suddenly she clutched his shoulders with her slender hands. “It’s all wrong!” she cried. “You’ve given up the best that was in you for the Blue Stockings. You’ve done the work of two pitchers. They won’t let you go now. Even if your arm is bad at the beginning of the season, they’ll keep you on and give you a chance to get it back into condition.”

“Old Jack Kennedy would, but I have my doubts about any other manager.”

“You don’t mean that they’d let you go outright, just drop you?”

“Oh, it’s possible they’d try to sell me or trade me. If they could work me off on to some one who wasn’t wise, probably they’d do it. That’s not reckoning on Weegman. He’s so sore and vindictive that he may spread the report that I’ve pitched my wing off. I fancy he wouldn’t care a rap if that did lose Collier the selling price that could be got for me.”

“Oh, I just hate to hear you talk about being traded or sold! It doesn’t sound as if you were a human being and this a free country. Cattle are traded and sold.”

“Cattle and ball players.”

“It’s wrong! Isn’t there any way–”

“The Federals are showing the way.”

“Your sympathy’s with them. You’re not bound to the Blue Stockings; you’re still your own free agent.”

“Under the circumstances what would you have me do?”

At last he had asked her advice. Now she could speak. She did so eagerly.

“Accept the offer the Federals have made you.”

“My dear,” he said, “would you have me do that, with my own mind in doubt as to whether or not I was worth a dollar to them? Would you have me take the ten thousand I could get, knowing all the time that they might be paying it for a has-been who wasn’t worth ten cents? Would that be honest?”

“You can be honest, then,” she hurriedly declared. “No one knows for a certainty, not even yourself, that you can’t come back to your old form. You can go to the manager and tell him the truth about yourself. Can’t you do that?”

“And then what? Probably he wouldn’t want me after that at any price.”

“You can make a fair bargain with him. You can have it put in the contract that you are to get that money if you do come back and make good as a pitcher.”

Lefty laughed. “I think it would be the first time on record that a ball player ever went to a manager who was eager to sign him up, and made such a proposition. It would be honest, Janet; but if the manager believed me, if he saw I was serious, do you fancy he’d feel like coming across with the first year’s salary in advance and the bonus? You see I can’t raise the money I need, and be honest.”

She wrung her hands and came back to the first question that had leaped from her lips: “What can you do?”

“I don’t think I’ll make any decisive move until I find out what sort of queer business is going on in the Blue Stockings camp. I could get money through Kennedy if he were coming back. Everything is up in the air.”

“How can you find out, away down here? You’re too far away from the places where things are doing.”

“I’ve been looking for a telegram from old Jack, an answer to mine. I feel confident I’ll get a wire from him as soon as he reads my letter. Meanwhile I’ll write to my parents and try to cheer them up. It’s bound to take a little time to settle up the affairs of that building and loan association. Time is what I need now.”

That very day Locke received a telegram from Jack Kennedy:

Meet me at the Grand, Indianapolis, the twenty-third. Don’t fail.

A train carried Lefty north that night.

CHAPTER XIV
ONLY ONE WAY

The registry clerk stated that no Mr. Kennedy was stopping at the Grand Hotel. Locke was disappointed, for he had expected old Jack would be waiting for him. However, the veteran manager would, doubtless, appear later. Lefty registered, and the clerk tossed a room key to the boy who was waiting with the southpaw’s traveling bag.

As the pitcher turned from the desk he found himself face to face with a man whom he had seen on the train. The man, Locke believed, had come aboard at Louisville. There was something familiar about the appearance of the stranger, yet Lefty had not been able to place him. He had narrow hips, a rather small waist, fine chest development, and splendid shoulders; his neck was broad and swelling at the base; his head, with the hair clipped close, was round as a bullet; his nose had been broken, and there was an ugly scar upon his right cheek. He did not look to be at all fat, and yet he must have weighed close to one hundred and ninety. His hands, clenched, would have resembled miniature battering-rams.

This person had not taken a look at the register, yet he addressed the pitcher by name.

“How are you, Locke?” he said, with a grin that was half a sneer, half a menace. “I guessed you’d bring up here.”

Lefty knew Mit Skullen the moment he spoke. One-time prize fighter and ball player, Skullen now posed as a scout employed by the Rockets; more often he acted as the henchman and bodyguard of Tom Garrity, owner of the team, and the best-hated man in the business. Garrity had so many enemies that he could not keep track of them; a dozen men had tried to “get” him at different times, and twice he had been assaulted and beaten up. Skullen had saved him from injury on other occasions.

Garrity was the most sinister figure in organized baseball. Once a newspaper reporter, he had somehow obtained control of the Rockets by chicanery and fraud. Sympathy and gratitude were sentiments unknown to him. He would work a winning pitcher to death, and then send the man shooting down to the minors the moment he showed the slightest symptom of weakness. He scoffed at regulations and bylaws; he defied restraint and control; he was in a constant wrangle with other owners and managers; and as a creator of discord and dissension he held the belt. And he snapped his fingers in the face of the national commission. The league longed to get rid of him, but could not seem to find any method of doing so.

“Been lookin’ ’em over a little down South,” explained Skullen superfluously. “Not much doin’ this season, but I spotted one pitcher with a rovin’ bunch o’ freaks who had more smoke and kinks than you ever showed before you broke your arm, old boy. And he won’t cost a cent when we get ready to grab him. Nobody’s wise to him but me, either. S’pose you’ve come on to meet Weegman, hey?”

“Where’d you run across this find?” asked Locke casually, endeavoring not to appear curious.

Skullen pulled down one corner of his mouth, and winked. “T’ink I’ll tell youse, old boy. But then Texas is a big bunch o’ the map.”

Texas! The Wind Jammers had come to Florida from Galveston.

“Did you have a talk with this unknown wizard?” questioned Lefty.

“He didn’t talk much,” returned the scout. “Oh, you can’t pump me! I know your old Blue Stocks ain’t got a pitcher left that’s worth a hoot in Halifax, or hardly a player, for that matter; but I ain’t goin’ to help you out–you an’ Weegman. You gotter get together an’ do your own diggin’.”

“Weegman is in Indianapolis?”

“As if you didn’t know! Never had no use for that guy; but, all the same, I advise you to grab on with him. It’s your only chanct for a baseball job; everybody in the game’s wise that you’ll never do no more hurlin’.”

Boiling inwardly, Locke permitted himself to be conducted to the elevator. While he was bathing he thought, with increasing wrath and dismay, of the insolent words of Skullen. The question that perplexed him most was how the bruiser knew anything of Weegman’s business, especially the attempt to sign Locke as a manager. And Weegman was in Indianapolis!

Coming down, Lefty went again to the desk to inquire about Kennedy. He was handed a telegram. Tearing it open, he saw that it was from the Federal manager who had offered him a three years’ contract. It stated curtly that the offer was withdrawn. Skullen was right; the story had gone forth that the star southpaw of the Blue Stockings would do no more pitching. Weegman was getting in his fine work.

Lefty felt a hand grip his elbow.

“Locke!” A well-dressed, youngish man grasped his hand and shook it. It was Franklin Parlmee, who, for a long time, had evinced deep interest in Virginia Collier. Parlmee, with family behind him, and a moderate income, had shown a distaste for business and a disposition to live the life of an idler. Collier had refused to countenance his daughter’s marriage to Parlmee until the latter should get into some worthy and remunerative employment, and make good. For two years Parlmee had been hustling, and he had developed into a really successful automobile salesman.

“By Jove!” said Parlmee. “I didn’t expect to run across you here, old man. I’m mighty glad to see you. Perhaps you can tell me something about Virginia. What has Mrs. Hazelton heard from her?”

The man seemed worried and nervous, and his question surprised Lefty.

“If any one should know about Miss Collier, you are the person,” returned the pitcher. “Janet has scarcely heard from her since she sailed with her father. We supposed you were corresponding with her regularly.”

Parlmee drew him toward a leather-covered settee. “I’m pegged out,” he admitted, and he looked it. “Business forced me to run on or I’d not be here now. I’m going back to New York to-night. Do you know, I’ve received only two letters from Virginia since she reached the other side, one from London, the other from Eaux Chaudes, in France. The latter was posted more than a month ago. It stated that Virginia and her father were leaving Eaux Chaudes for Italy. Since then no letters have come from her.”

“Do you mean to say you haven’t an idea where Miss Collier and her father are at the present time?”

Parlmee lighted a cigarette. His hands were not steady. “I haven’t an idea where Charles Collier is. As for Virginia, she cabled me that she was sailing on the Victoria, which reached New York four days ago. I was at the pier to meet her, but she didn’t arrive, and her name was not on the passenger list.”

Lefty uttered an exclamation. “That was strange!”

The other man turned on the settee to face him. “The whole thing has been queer. I had practically overcome Mr. Collier’s prejudice and won his entire approval. Then he broke down; his health went to the bad, and his manner toward me seemed to change. I had an idea he went abroad more to take Virginia away than for any other reason. Anyway, I knew there was something wrong, and the two letters I got from her added to that conviction. Her father was trying to get her to break with me! There was another man whom he preferred.”

“Another!”

“Yes, Bailey Weegman.”

Locke gave a great start, as if he had received an electric thrust. “Weegman!” he cried guardedly. “That scoundrel! Collier is crazy, Parlmee!”

“Now you’ve said something! I believe the man’s mind is affected. Business reverses may have done it.”

“Do you know that he left his baseball interests practically in the control of Weegman?”

“No; but it doesn’t surprise me. In some way, that scoundrel has got a hold on him. Weegman has tried hard to undermine me with Virginia. I’ve always disliked him and his detestable laugh. Who is he, anyway? Where did he come from, and what are his antecedents?”

“You’ll have to ask somebody else.”

“It’s Virginia I’m worrying about now,” said Parlmee, tossing aside his half-smoked cigarette.

“But if she was contemplating sailing for the United States with her father–”

“Her cablegram to me didn’t mention her father. I got the impression that she was sailing alone.”

“Alone! Great Scott!”

“And she didn’t sail! Where is she? What happened to her? Do you wonder I’m rattled? I’ve made arrangements so that I can have a month, if necessary, to dig into this business. If that isn’t enough, I’ll take all the time needed. It’s the deuce to pay, Locke, as sure as you’re a foot high.”

“In more ways than one,” agreed Lefty. “I could tell you some other things, but you’ve got enough to worry about. We must arrange to keep in touch with each other. I presume I’ll go back to Fernandon when I get through here.”

“Here’s my New York address,” said Parlmee, handing over his card, and rising.

Five minutes after they separated old Jack Kennedy arrived, dusty and weary from his railroad journey. His shoulders were a trifle stooped, and he looked older by years, but his keen eyes lighted with a twinkle as he grasped Locke’s hand.

“I knew you’d beat me to it, Lefty,” he said. “Wouldn’t have called on you to make the jaunt, but I had to chin with you face to face. Let’s talk first and feed our faces afterward.”

The veteran registered, and they took the elevator. Carrying Kennedy’s traveling bag, a boy conducted them. A bar boy, bearing a tray that was decorated with drinks, was knocking on a door. Within the room somebody called for him to enter, and he did so as Locke was passing at old Jack’s heels. By chance Lefty obtained a glimpse of the interior of that room before the door closed behind the boy. Two men, smoking cigars, were sitting at opposite sides of a table on which were empty glasses. They were Mit Skullen and Bailey Weegman.

Left together in Kennedy’s room, Locke told the old manager what he had seen, and immediately Kennedy’s face was twisted into a wrathful pucker.

“You’re sure?”

“Dead sure,” replied Locke.

“Well, it sorter confirms a little suspicion that’s been creepin’ inter my noddle. The Blue Stockings are up against somethin’ more’n the Feds, and the Feds have chewed the team to pieces. Within the last three days they’ve nailed Temple, Dayly, and Hyland. There’s only the remnants of a ball club left.”

Locke was aghast. “Gene Temple, too!” he cried. “The boy I found! I thought he would stick.”

“Money gets the best of ’em. Why shouldn’t it, when them lads ought to have been tied up before this with Blue Stockings contracts? The bars have been left down for the Feds, and they’ve raided the preserves. Seems just like they’ve been invited to come in and help themselves. Why not, with a team without a manager, and everything left at loose ends? Never heard of such criminal folly! But mebbe it ain’t folly; mebbe it’s plain cadougery. I’ve had an idea there was somethin’ crooked behind it, but couldn’t just quite nose it out. Now, with Weegman and Mit Skullen gettin’ together private, I see a light. Garrity’s the man! You know how he got his dirty paws on the Rockets. Well, if he ain’t workin’ to gobble the Blue Stockings I’ll eat my hat! I’ll bet that right now Tom Garrity’s gathered in all the loose stock of the club that he could buy, and he’s countin’ on havin’ enough to give him control before the season opens. He saw his chance, with the Feds reachin’ for every decent player they could lay their hands on, and he went for it. What if the Blue Stockings do have a busted team this season? In three years the club might be built up again, and it’s a sure money-maker just as long as it can keep in the first division. Lynchin’ is what a crook like Garrity deserves!”