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Kennedy’s eyes were flashing, and he was literally quivering with wrath. Despite the fact that he was tired, he strode up and down the room.
“Weegman must be Garrity’s tool, the creature who is helping him do the dirty work,” said Locke.
“You’ve got his number! How he came to pick you for a mark, I don’t know, unless it was because he thought you let me work you to death, havin’ no mind of your own. He knew he couldn’t put anythin’ over with me, and so he decided to get rid of me; but he had to have somebody for a manager who would appear to be all right. He’s got to be blocked. There’s only one way.”
“How?”
“You’ll have to accept, and sign a contract to manage the team.”
Lefty gasped. “But,” he said, “I can’t do that! You–”
“I’m out. He wouldn’t have me, even if I’d do the work for no salary.”
“But I can’t agree to Weegman’s terms. I couldn’t do anything of my own accord; I couldn’t sign a player unless he agreed. He made that plain.”
“But he wouldn’t dare put anything like that in the contract. It would be too barefaced. The minute you have the authority you can get to work savin’ the remnants of the team by signin’ up the players the Feds haven’t grabbed already. I have a line on a few good youngsters who went back to the minors last year because there wasn’t room for them. Put proof of Weegman’s treachery before Collier, and Weegman’s done for! It’s the one play that’s got to be made in this here pinch.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” called Kennedy.
Bailey Weegman entered, smiling.
CHAPTER XV
SIGNING THE MANAGER
Weegman came in boldly. His manner was ingratiating, yet somewhat insolent, and he chuckled as he saw the look of surprise on the face of Lefty Locke. “Well, well!” he said. “Here we are! This is first rate. Now we can get together and do things.”
To the southpaw’s increasing astonishment, Kennedy stepped forward quickly, seized Weegman’s hand, and shook it cordially and heartily.
“I wired for Locke,” said the old manager. “I felt sure I could talk sense into his head. Didn’t like to see him make a fool of himself and let a great opportunity slip through his fingers just because of a false notion about loyalty to me. But I didn’t expect you before to-morrow.”
Lefty was a trifle bewildered. Kennedy had known Weegman was coming to Indianapolis; in fact, had arranged to meet him there. Collier’s representative beamed on Locke.
“Sorry I couldn’t wait to see the finish of that game in Fernandon,” he said; “but I saw enough to satisfy me. You did well to beat the Wind Jammers with that bunch of half invalids behind you, and your own arm all to the bad. Still, Wiley sort of handed you the game.”
“The score was three to two,” reminded Lefty.
“The Wind Jammers couldn’t hit. They were a lot of freaks, a burlesque baseball team.” Weegman turned again to old Jack. “If you can talk some sense into Locke, you’ll succeed where I failed. I wasted time, money, and breath on him; gave him up then. Let me tell you a joke.” He began to laugh, and the southpaw writhed inwardly. “Who do you think wants to manage the Blue Stockings? You can’t guess? Well, it’s Skullen; yes, Mit Skullen. Actually came after the job. Got me cornered and gave me a great game of talk, trying to convince me that he could fill the bill. I was listening to his spiel when I caught a glimpse of you two passing the door of my room. Called the desk and asked the number of your room. Then I shook old Mit and came around. The idea of Mit Skullen managing a Big League club! Isn’t that funny?” His whole body shook with merriment as he spoke.
Kennedy seemed to be amused also, and joined in Weegman’s laughter. “Wonder what Tom Garrity would say to that? Skullen must have forgotten his old nemesis, John Barleycorn. It was John that put him down and out as a prize fighter and a ball player.”
“He says he hasn’t looked at the stuff for four months. You should have heard him trying to convince me that he had the makings of a great manager.”
Lefty knew Weegman was lying regarding the nature of the private consultation that had been held in a nearby room. But Kennedy seemed to be unaware of this.
“You wouldn’t take Skullen under any conditions, would you?” asked old Jack.
“I wouldn’t have him if he was ready to pay to manage the team. Collier would lift my scalp if I fell for anything like that. But I’ve got a line on a good man if–if–” He faltered, and looked at Locke, smiling.
“We’ll settle that right here,” declared Kennedy, with a growl. “Locke’s the lad. I haven’t had time to talk to him much, but I was telling him before you came in that he’d have to accept. As for me, a Class AA team ain’t so worse. You’re dead sure I can hook up with St. Paul?”
“I wired you about the proposition from Byers. He wants you, but he wasn’t going to try to cut in on us. Did you send him word?”
“Not yet. Decided to have my talk with Lefty first.”
“I’ve always liked you, Kennedy,” said Weegman. “You’ve been a great man in your day. You’re a good man now, but it needs younger blood, especially in this fight against the Feds, confound them! About so often a team needs to change managers, especially when it begins to slip. The Blue Stockings began to slip last year, and the Feds have given us a push. Locke’s young, and he’s got the energy to build the team up. Working together, we can put it on its feet again. He’ll have the very best counsel and advice. He’s a favorite with the fans, and he’ll be tolerated where you would be blamed. He’ll come through and win out. Of that I am certain. The Feds will blow before the season’s over, and the woods will be full of first-class players begging for jobs. Next season should see the Stockings stronger than ever, and the man who’s managing the team’s bound to be popular. He’ll get a lot of credit.”
Lefty had taken a chair. He opened his lips to speak, but stopped when he caught a warning sign from old Jack behind Weegman’s shoulder.
“Is that contract ready for the boy?” asked Kennedy.
“I’ve got it in my pocket.”
“Then nail him right now. Push it at him, and we’ll make him sign. Don’t let him get away.”
Weegman produced the document. Then, for a moment, he seemed to hesitate, flashing old Jack a look and giving Locke a hard stare.
“You understand the conditions?” he said, addressing the latter.
“Yes,” answered Lefty, “you made them plain enough for a child to understand when you talked to me in Fernandon.”
“Course he understands,” cut in Kennedy. “He told me, and I told him to grab on without makin’ no further talk. Just as you say, Weegman, with proper advice he can swing the thing. It looks pretty big to him, and he’s doubtful. Let him look at that paper.”
He took it from Weegman’s hand and looked it over himself. It was practically the same sort of an agreement old Jack had signed himself when he took control of the team, and the name of Charles Collier, properly witnessed, had already been affixed to it. With the contract in his possession, along with Collier’s power of attorney, Weegman could sign up any one he chose to manage the Blue Stockings. For a fleeting instant Kennedy’s face was twisted into an expression of rage, which, however, Collier’s private secretary did not catch.
Locke saw that flash of anger and understood; old Jack was playing the fox, and losing no time about it.
“Skullen will do for the other witness,” said Weegman, going to the room telephone. “He’ll feel bad, of course, but I told him he didn’t have a show in the world.” He called the operator and gave the number of a room.
While Weegman was engaged, Kennedy handed the agreement over to Locke. “You sign it just as it is,” he directed. “You’ve had your talk with Mr. Weegman, and you know what he said to you. You don’t have to chin it over any more.”
By this time Weegman had got Skullen on the phone and asked him to come round to Kennedy’s room, giving him the number. Locke sat grimly reading the contract until Skullen knocked at the door.
“Maybe you’ll feel bad, Mit,” said Weegman, admitting the man, “but you know I told you there wasn’t a show in the world of me signing you up as manager. It’s settled with Locke, and I want you to witness him put his autograph to the paper. Now don’t make a growl, but do as you’re wanted.”
Skullen kept still as directed, but he looked as if Weegman’s first words had surprised him a trifle.
Kennedy had produced a fountain pen and thrust it into Locke’s hand. “Sign right here, son,” he urged. “Let’s see how pretty you write.”
“Wait!” cried Weegman, his eyes on the southpaw, who had promptly moved up to the little table. “You haven’t forgotten our talk? You understand?”
“I haven’t forgotten a thing,” asserted Lefty, boldly and swiftly writing his name. “There it is!”
CHAPTER XVI
THE WRONG STOOL PIGEON
Skullen and Kennedy attached their names as witnesses. The thing was done; Lefty Locke–Philip Hazelton was the name he wrote on the contract–was now manager of the Blue Stockings. He received a duplicate copy, which he folded and slipped into his pocket.
“Now we’re all set for business,” said Bailey Weegman. “I congratulate you, Locke. One time I was afraid you didn’t have sense enough to welcome Opportunity when she knocked. I’ll see you later, Mit, if you’re around. We’ve got to square away now and have a little conference. Don’t cry because you didn’t get the job.”
“Cry–nothin’!” said Skullen. “I wouldn’t have taken it if you’d handed it to me with twice the salary.”
“Old Mit’s disappointed,” chuckled Weegman, when the door closed behind him, “but he doesn’t want anybody to know it. He’ll deny he came looking for the position, of course.”
Kennedy had seated himself, and Weegman drew a chair up to the table, producing a packet of papers and running them over until he found the one he wanted.
“Here’s a list of the men the Feds have grabbed off us,” he said. “Grist, Orth, Temple, Nelson, Hyland, and Lewis. Grist is no particular loss, but Temple and Orth knock a hole in the pitching staff. Nelson was our reliance behind the bat. With Dayly and Lewis gone, the whole side of the infield is wide open. We ought to be able to fill Hyland’s place in right garden.”
“It’s a swell team that’s left!” said Locke. “And you told me that Dillon was negotiating with the outlaws.”
“He hasn’t jumped; he hasn’t had the nerve,” sneered Weegman, snapping his fingers. “Instead, he’s been howling for a contract. You’d find him waiting if you didn’t sign him until the first of April.” For just a flicker he had actually seemed to betray annoyance because Pink Dillon had not followed the example of the deserters, but he ended with a laugh.
“It seems to me,” said the new manager, “that I’d better get busy and try to save the pieces. The men who haven’t jumped should be signed up without delay.”
“Of course,” agreed Weegman blandly. “You must send out the contracts. Unluckily, I haven’t any blanks with me, but I’ll see that you are furnished with them to-morrow.”
“Every day counts, perhaps every hour; by to-morrow we may lose another good man, or more.”
“Not much danger, and you don’t want to make the mistake of getting into a panic and trying to do things in too much of a hurry. We’ve been farming some clever youngsters, more than enough to make up a team; but you should consult with Kennedy about them, and take only the right ones. You’ll have the most trouble getting hold of pitchers.”
“Youngsters,” said Locke, “are all right; but do you mean to suggest that we should stop the gaps wholly with men who lack Big League experience? You know how much show that sort of a team would have in the race. We’ve got to make some deals that will give us some players who have ripened. It’ll cost money, too.”
“Right there,” said Weegman, “is where you’re going to need the check-rein. Charles Collier won’t stand for needless extravagance in that line, I know, and I shall not countenance the purchasing of high-priced men.”
The blood rose into Lefty’s face; he tingled to tell the rascal something, but again a warning flicker of Kennedy’s left eye restrained him.
“There are lots of good youngsters coming on,” said the veteran soothingly. “There were three or four I could have used last season if I’d had room for them. We’ll run over the list and see how they’ll fit in.”
For another hour they continued in conclave, and a dozen times Weegman took occasion to impress upon Locke that he should do nothing definite without receiving Weegman’s approval. When he seemed to feel that he had driven this into the new manager’s head, he excused himself on the pretext of attending to a pressing matter, and departed, leaving old Jack and Lefty together. Kennedy quietly locked the door. Lefty jumped to his feet and began pacing the floor like a caged tiger.
“Never had such a job to keep my hands off a man!” he raged. “Only for you, I’d–”
“I know,” said old Jack, returning and sitting down heavily. “I wanted to kick him myself, and I think I shall do it some day soon. He’s crooked as a corkscrew and rotten as a last year’s early apple. But he ain’t shrewd; he only thinks he is. He’s fooled himself. You never agreed to his verbal terms, and, just as I said, he didn’t dare put them in writing. According to that contract, you’ve got as much power as I ever had, and you can exercise it. It’s up to you to get busy. Don’t wait for contract forms from Weegman; they’ll be delayed. I have plenty. Wire the old players who are left that contracts will be mailed to them to-night.”
Locke stopped by Kennedy’s chair and dropped a hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“And you’re going to St. Paul?” he said. “You’ve been handed a wretched deal.”
“Nix on the St. Paul business, son; there’s nothing to it. That wolf thought I swallowed that guff. Byers is Garrity’s friend, and it’s plain now that Garrity’s mixed up in this dirty business. It was easy enough to ask if I’d consider hooking up with St. Paul. By the time I got round to saying yes, Byers could tell me it was off. This time, Lefty, I’m out of the game for good.” His voice sounded heavy and dull, and his shoulders sagged.
The southpaw was silent, words failing him. After a few minutes old Jack looked up into the face of his youthful companion, and smiled wryly.
“You’ve got a little glimpse of what goes on behind the scenes in baseball,” he said. “The fans that pay their money to see the games look on it, generally, as a fine, clean sport–which, in one way, it is. That part the public pays to see, the game, is on the level. There’s a good reason: the crookedest magnate in the business–and, believe me, there’s one who can look down the back of his own neck without trying to turn round–knows it would spell ruin to put over a frame-up on the open field. By nature the players themselves are like the average run of human critters, honest and dishonest; but experience has taught them that they can’t pull off any double deals without cutting their own throats. People who talk about fixed games, especially in the World’s Series, show up their ignorance. It can’t be done.
“But when it comes to tricks and holdups, and highway robberies and assassination, there’s always somethin’ doing off stage. What you’ve seen is only a patch. The men who run things are out for the coin, and they aren’t any better, as a rule, than the high financiers who plunder railroads and loot public treasuries. They’ll smile in a man’s face while they’re whetting the knife for his back. Some of them have put the knife into Charles Collier now, and they intend to sink it to the hilt. You’ve been picked as a cat’s-paw to help them pull their chestnuts off the coals. They intend to fatten their batting average at your expense, and when it’s all over you’ll be knocked out of the box for good. You’ll get the blame while they pluck the plums.”
“Kennedy,” said Locke, his voice hard as chilled steel, “they’ve picked the wrong stool pigeon. My eyes aren’t sewed up. With your help, I’m going to find a way to spoil their villainous schemes. I know you’ll help me.”
The veteran sprang up, a bit of the old-time fire in his face. “You bet your life, son! That’s why I wired for you to come on, and that’s why I wanted you to pretend to take the hook and sign up with Weegman. I knew we could work together, and it puts us in position to get the harpoon into them before they wise up to what’s doing. Let’s get busy.”
CHAPTER XVII
GETTING INTO ACTION
Locke was for open work and defiance of Weegman, but Kennedy argued against it.
“You want to get the jump on that snake,” said the old man, digging a package of contract forms for players out of his traveling bag. “He won’t be looking for you to get into action so sudden, and you’ll gain a lap before he knows it. When it comes to fighting a polecat, a wise man takes precautions. Weegman’s gone to send word to his pals of the slick job he’s put over, and he’ll be coming back to bother us pretty soon. We don’t want to be here when he comes.”
So, for the purpose of conducting their private business, another room was engaged, and an arrangement made whereby no person, no matter how insistent he might be, should be told where to find them. Then a telegraph messenger boy was summoned to that room, and telegrams were sent to the still loyal Blue Stockings players, stating that contracts were being mailed for their signatures. Then the contracts were filled out, sealed, and dropped into the mail chute.
A square meal was ordered and served in the private room, and for nearly three hours Lefty and Jack talked. They had many things to tell each other, but their principal topic was the filling of the frightful gaps made in the team by the Federal raids, and both agreed that the time had come when the close-fisted financial policy of the Blue Stockings must be abandoned; players fully as good as the ones lost, or better, if possible, must be obtained at any cost. Various team combinations that seemed to balance to a nicety were made up on paper, but how to get the men coveted was the problem.
“We’ve got two catchers left,” said Kennedy, “but the best of the pair ain’t in the same class as the man we’ve lost. We’ve got to have a backstop as good as Nelson. And when it comes to pitchers–say, son, is it possible there ain’t any show at all of your coming back?”
“I wish I could answer that,” confessed Locke. “At any rate, we’ve got to have two more first-string men. If this Mysterious Jones I told you of is anywhere near as good as he looked to–”
“Not one chance in a hundred that he’s good enough to carry a regular share of the pitching the first season, no matter what he might develop into with experience. The Wolves have been hurt least by the Feds, and you might pick something worth while off Ben Frazer if you paid his price. Last fall he offered to trade me that youngster, Keeper, for Dayly, and since then he’s bought Red Callahan from Brennan. That’ll put Keeper on the bench. You know what Keeper is, and I’ve always regretted letting Frazer get him off me for five thousand, but it was Collier’s idea. The boy’d look well on our third cushion about now. But don’t lose sight of the fact that it’s pitchers we’ve got to have.”
Locke took the five-fifty train for New York, leaving Weegman, whom he had succeeded in avoiding, frothing around the Grand in search of him. Kennedy knew how to reach Frazer by wire, and he had received a reply to his telegram that the manager of the Wolves would meet Lefty at the Great Eastern the following night. Between Kennedy and Frazer there had always existed a bond of understanding and friendship.
Despite the burden he had assumed, the new manager of the Blue Stockings slept well. It was this faculty of getting sleep and recuperation under any circumstances that had enabled him to become known as the “Iron Man.”
At breakfast the following morning he received a slight shock. Three tables in front of him, with his back turned, sat a man with fine shoulders, a bull neck, and a bullet head. Mit Skullen was traveling eastward by the same train. Lefty cut his breakfast short and left the diner without having been observed.
“If he should see me, he’d probably take the first opportunity to wire back to Weegman,” thought Locke, “and I’m going to follow old Jack’s advice about leaving Weegman in the dark for a while.”
There was a possibility, of course, that Skullen would come wandering through the train and discover him, but, to his satisfaction, nothing of the kind happened. All the long forenoon he was whirled through a snow-covered country without being annoyed by the appearance of Garrity’s henchman, and he had plenty of time to meditate on the situation and the plans laid by himself and Kennedy.
But it was necessary to eat again, and shortly before Albany was reached he returned to the diner, hoping Skullen had already had lunch. The man was not there when he sat down, but he had scarcely given his order when the fellow’s hand dropped on his shoulder.
“Hully smokes!” exclaimed Mit, staring down, wide-eyed, at the southpaw. “What’s this mean? I can hardly believe me lamps. You must have left Indianap’ same time I did, and Weeg asked me twice if I’d seen anything of you.”
“Weegman?” said Lefty, startled, but outwardly serene. “Is he on this train?”
“Nix. Last I know, he was tearing up the Grand looking for you. How’s it happened you skipped without dropping him word?”
“I’m going to see my folks, who live in Jersey,” Locke answered, truthfully enough.
“But you’ll stop in the big town to-night? Where do you hang out?”
“Usually at the Prince Arthur.” This was likewise true, although the southpaw had now no intention of putting up there on this occasion.
Mit looked at his watch. “We must be pulling into Albany,” he said. “I want to get a paper. See you later.”
“Go ahead and shoot your telegram to Weegman,” thought Locke. “Any message sent me at the Prince Arthur is liable to remain unopened for some time.”
He had finished his lunch and was back in the Pullman when Skullen found him again. The man planted himself at Lefty’s side and passed over a newspaper, grinning as he pointed out an item on the sporting page:
Even though it was rumored that old Jack Kennedy was to be let out, the selection of Locke as his successor is a surprise. As a pitcher Locke has had an amazingly successful career and has made an enviable reputation, but he has had no managerial experience, having come to the Big League directly from the bushes. Whether or not he has the stuff of which capable managers are made is a matter of uncertainty; but, with the Blue Stockings badly chewed to pieces by the Feds, Collier might have been expected, had he decided to drop Kennedy, to replace the veteran with a man of some practical knowledge in that line. The policy of the Stockings for the last year or two has been rather queer, to say the least, and the effect upon the team can be seen in its present rating.
That was the final paragraph. Collier, sick and absent in Europe, was credited with the deal; not a word about Weegman. The rascal, pulling the wires, was keeping himself in the background. For a moment Lefty thought of Jack Stillman, a reporter friend, and felt a desire to give him some inside information which, in cold type, would be pretty certain to make the interested public sit up and take notice. But the time was not ripe for a move like that, and he dismissed the thought.
Still grinning, Skullen jammed his elbow into Locke’s ribs. “How do you like that?” he inquired gloatingly. “That’s the way them cheap newspaper ginks pans you out when they get a chance.”
The southpaw was suddenly attacked by an intense distaste for the company of Tom Garrity’s coarse hireling. He handed the paper back in silence. But the feeling of dislike and antagonism was evidently felt by Skullen, for, after a few minutes’ silence, he got up and walked out of the car; and, to his satisfaction, Lefty saw no more of him during the remainder of the journey.
An uncomfortable storm of rain and sleet was raging when New York was reached shortly after nightfall. A taxi bore Locke to the Great Eastern, where he learned that Frazer had not yet arrived. Having registered, he took the elevator for his room on the seventh floor, and, as he was borne upward, a descending car, well filled with people, slipped silently past, and Lefty caught a momentary glimpse of their faces through the iron grillwork. One face he saw quite plainly, that of a charming young woman in her early twenties–a face he recognized at once.
“Virginia Collier!” gasped Lefty, in astonishment.
He did not leave the car; back to the main floor he went. After hastily looking around for the young woman he sought, he made inquiries at the desk. He was informed that no Miss Collier was stopping in the hotel. Still confident that he had not been mistaken, and thinking it probable she was dining there with friends, he had her paged. Even when the report came that no one answered to the name, he did not give up. From various vantage points, he spent at least twenty minutes looking over the people at dinner in the main dining room, the grill, and the palm room. At the end of that time he was confident that Charles Collier’s daughter was not dining at the Great Eastern.
“Of course,” he admitted to himself, “it’s possible I was mistaken, but I would have sworn it was Virginia.”
He went up to his room and prepared for dinner, burdened by the conviction that he had been baffled; that fate had played him a trick. He would have given much for fifteen minutes’ conversation with the daughter of the Big Chief, and he was impressed with the belief that he had passed her almost within an arm’s reach.
This feeling was followed by one of uncertainty regarding Frazer. Old Jack had assured him that the manager of the Wolves would meet him at the Great Eastern, and he had relied on Kennedy without attempting to get into direct communication with Frazer, and perhaps, after all, he would not come.
“Then I’ll have to run him down,” considered Lefty. “And I want to get to him before Weegman can get to me. If I don’t, he’ll be sure to try to ball up any deal I attempt to put across.”
Choosing to eat in the grill, he notified the desk where he could be found should any one ask for him. But he had scarcely begun on the first course when he heard his name spoken, and looked up to find Ben Frazer smiling down upon him.
