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CHAPTER XVIII
THE FIRST DEAL

“Just in time to get in on the eats, I see,” said the manager of the famous Wolves, shaking hands with Locke. “It’s a rotten night, my feet are wet, and I’m awfully hungry. Only for Kennedy’s message I’d be on my way to Chicago.”

A waiter placed a chair, and he sat down, took the menu card, and quickly gave his order. He was a short, thick-set, shrewd-faced man; his hair was turning gray on the temples, but he seemed to have lost little of the nervous energy and alertness that had been his in the old days when he had been called the swiftest second sacker in the business. He had been an umpire baiter then, but in later years his methods had changed, and never once since becoming a manager had he been given the gate. Nevertheless, while he had gained in diplomacy, he had relaxed no whit in aggressiveness. Led by old Ben, the Wolves fought to the last ditch. “Now, tell me about it,” he requested, turning to Lefty. “How in thunder did you happen to let them rope you into such a mess?”

“You mean–”

“Getting tied up as manager of the Blue Stockings. Boy, you’re the goat; you’ve been chosen for the sacrifice. Somebody had to fall, of course, but it’s a shame that you should be the victim. I’d thought you too wise to tumble into that trap.”

“Then you think it is a trap?” asked the southpaw, feeling the blood hot in his cheeks.

“Of course it is! The Stockings have been undermined and blown wide open. They’ve got as much show this year as a snowball would have in a baker’s oven. They’ll land in the subcellar with a sickening thud, and there’s no way of stopping them.”

“No way–”

“No way under heaven, take it from me! I’ve been in the business long enough to know what I’m talking about. It takes years to build up such a fighting machine, and, when it’s torn to pieces, rebuilding is bound to be another job of years. The public won’t understand. You’ll get the kicks and the curses. As a successful pitcher you’ve been a favorite; as an unsuccessful manager you’ll be about as popular as a rusty spike in an automobile tire. Crowds are always fickle. When a man’s winning they howl their heads off for him; but let him strike a losing streak and they scramble like mad to pelt him with mud and brick-bats.”

“But somebody has to build up a team.”

“Somebody has to start it and get the blame. He’s the goat. Where’s Burkett, who managed the Wolves before I came in? Out in the Border League. Where’s Ashton and Gerrish, who struggled with the Blue Stockings before Kennedy stepped in on the turn of the tide? One’s running a cigar store in Kewanee, the other’s drinking himself to death in Muskegon; both left the game with busted reputations and broken hearts. Where’s McConnell, who tried to make a ball team of the Hornets before Brennan’s day? He took to the coke, and his friends are paying for his keep in a private bug-house. Where’s Decker, who had a crack at the Panthers–But what’s the use! There’s no surer way for a good man to ruin his career than to manage a losing ball team.”

“In that case,” said Locke, “I’ve got to manage a winner.”

Frazer gazed at him pityingly. “Swell chance you’ve got! About one in fifty thousand. You haven’t got the makings of an ordinary second-division team left.”

“I know the Feds have copped off some of our best men, but–”

“Some! Some! I should so remark! But don’t blame it all on the Feds. They were practically invited to come in and take their pick. The bars were let down. All your players knew there was trouble. They heard all sorts of rumors that made them nervous and uncertain. They didn’t see any contracts coming their way to be signed. They knew there was something the matter with Collier. It was even said he’d gone crazy. They knew Kennedy was going to get out from under. There was gossip about old men being shunted and new blood taken on. What they didn’t know was where they were at. It was all nicely worked to get them to take the running long jump.”

“Then you believe there was a plot to smash the team?”

“You don’t have to be a mind reader to get my opinion, but I’m saying this here private, man to man. I’m not goin’ round talking for publication.”

“But you’re wrong about Kennedy getting out; he was dropped.”

“Was he?”

“Sure.”

Frazer twisted his face into a queer grimace. “Old Jack Kennedy was too wise to stick on under any such conditions. He knew what it meant, and I’ll guarantee that he wouldn’t have managed the Blue Stockings this year for twice the salary he got last. What I’ve got against him is that he didn’t put you wise before you tied up.”

“It was on his advice that I consented to manage the team,” replied Locke.

“What?” exclaimed Frazer. “Is that straight? He advised you to–The infernal old scoundrel!”

Locke warmed immediately in defense of Kennedy. The manager of the Wolves listened, uncertain, shaking his head doubtfully.

“He may not have meant it,” he admitted presently, “but he’s got you in bad, boy. You haven’t got a show against the powers you’ll have to buck, and the conditions that were fixed up for you in advance.”

“As to that, time will tell,” said Lefty. “I’m going to make one almighty try. First, I’ve got to plug the gaps. What have you got to sell that I want?”

“Nothing that you’ll pay the price for. I know Collier’s policy.”

“Collier is in Europe, and I’m manager of the team, with full authority to make any deals I please. Here’s my contract.” He placed it before old Ben. “Collier will have to stand for any trade I put through. I’ll buy Smoke Jordan off you.”

“You won’t! I won’t sell him.”

“Then how about Jack Keeper? You’ve got Red Callahan, and I need a third baseman.”

Frazer finished his soup. “I won’t sell you Keeper,” he said; “but I’ll trade him. I need a center fielder in the place of Courtney, who’s retired. I’ll trade Keeper for Herman Brock.”

At first Locke had no relish for a trade that would add to the Blue Stockings infield at the expense of the outfield, even though in his secret heart he knew Brock had during last season shown vague symptoms of slowing down. Then he remembered the list of reserves given him by Kennedy, on which there was one fast, hard-hitting youngster who had been sent back to the Western Canada League, and had made a brilliant record covering the middle garden for Medicine Hat.

“I don’t want to trade, I want to buy,” he persisted. Then, as if struck by second thought: “I’ll tell you what I will do; I’ll give you Brock for two men. That’ll help. We need a catcher. After King broke his leg you found a great catcher in Darrow. I’ll trade you Brock for Keeper and King.”

“Brick King!” exploded Frazer indignantly. “What do you take me for?”

“A business man. You’ve got three first-string catchers now; two are all you need. You don’t even know that King’s leg is all right. I’m willing to take a chance on him. Brock batted over three hundred last season. He’s the hitter you need to fill that vacancy.”

“Not Brick King,” said the manager of the Wolves. “If I didn’t use him behind the bat for the whole season, he’s a fancy pinch hitter. You’ve gotter have pitchers. How about O’Brien?”

But Locke knew that Chick O’Brien, the veteran, had cracked already. Even though on hot days, when he could get his wing to work, he showed flashes of his former brilliant form, and had, under such conditions, last year pitched three shut-out games for the Wolves, Chick’s record for the season showed a balance on the wrong side. The southpaw held out for King. Frazer offered one of the second-string catchers. Lefty waved the offer aside.

“Hang it!” snapped Frazer. “Give me Brock and ten thousand dollars, and you may have Keeper and King.”

“You don’t want much!” laughed Locke. “I’ll give you Brock and five thousand.”

All the way through to the dessert they dickered and bargained. Frazer wanted Brock, and wanted him bad. Sympathetic though he might feel toward Lefty, he never permitted sympathy to interfere with business. Brock was the man to fill the position left vacant by Bob Courtney, and he was sure the Wolves would not be weakened by the loss of Keeper. But Brick King–“What salary are you paying King?” Lefty suddenly asked.

“Five thousand. The Feds got after him, and I had to make it that.”

The southpaw laughed. “With Darrow doing most of the backstopping, and Larson ready to fill in any moment he’s needed, you’re going to keep a five-thousand-dollar catcher on the bench for a pinch hitter! I just called you a business man, but I feel like taking it back. Isn’t Madden likely to kick over a five-thousand-dollar pinch hitter?” Madden owned the team.

“Madden be hanged!” rasped Frazer, biting off the end of a cigar he had taken from his case. “I’m the manager! Madden isn’t always butting in and paring down expenses, like Collier.” He pulled vigorously at the cigar, while the attentive waiter applied a lighted match.

Lefty had declined a cigar. He smoked occasionally, and would have done so now, but to do so would indicate an inclination to settle down and continue the dickering, and he had decided to make a bluff at bringing the affair to an end. He called for the check, and insisted on paying the bill for both.

“Sorry I’ve put you to so much trouble, Frazer,” he said. “It was Kennedy’s idea that I might do business with you, but it’s evident he was mistaken. I’ve got some other cards to play, and time is precious.” He settled the bill and tipped the waiter.

Old Ben sat regarding Locke thoughtfully, rolling out great puffs of smoke. The younger man was about to rise.

“Hold on,” requested the manager of the Wolves. “You’re a regular mule, aren’t you? How do you expect to make a trade without compromising at all? You won’t even meet me halfway, confound you! You–”

“I’ll own up that I was a bit hasty,” said Lefty, showing a nervous desire to get away. “I made that five-thousand offer without thinking much, but you understand I’m rather desperate. If Collier were here, he’d probably put the kibosh on it–if he found out before the trade was closed. After that he’d have to stand for it, no matter how hard he kicked. Let’s forget it.”

Then Frazer showed that peculiar trait of human nature that makes a person doubly eager for something that seems to be on the point of slipping away. In his mind he had already fitted Herman Brock into that gap in center field that had given him more or less worry. The adjustment had pleased him; it seemed to balance the team to a hair. It would give him renewed assurance of another pennant and a slice of the World’s Series money. It was Courtney’s hitting in the last series that had enabled the Wolves to divide the big end of that money; and, like Courtney, Brock was a terror with the ash.

“You mule!” said Frazer. “Let’s go up to your room and fix up the papers. It’s a trade.”

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.