CHAPTER II
SOMETHING QUEER

The expression of amazement that leaped into the eyes of Lefty Locke was masked by a shadow. He stiffened, and sat bolt upright, speechless.

Bailey Weegman, having stated the business that had unexpectedly brought him down from the North to the Florida town where the great left-hander of the Blue Stockings was spending the winter with his wife, once more settled back, taking a long, satisfied pull at the stump of his fragrant Havana. He was chuckling beneath his breath. A gentle breeze crept into the leaves of the vine-covered porch and set them whispering like gossips. The dynamo droned drowsily in the distance.

Presently Lefty found his voice. “What’s the joke?” he asked a trifle harshly.

“No joke,” assured the jovial visitor. “I’m not given to joking. I’m a man of business.”

“But it’s preposterous! A pitcher for manager!”

“Clark Griffith isn’t the only pitcher who has succeeded as a manager.”

“Griffith’s success came when he was on the decline as a pitcher.”

“What’s the use to argue, Locke? There’s really no good reason why a pitcher shouldn’t manage a ball team. You’ve been doing it with the little amateur club you’ve been running down here in Fernandon this winter.”

“Because necessity compelled. Nobody else would take hold of it. I organized the team for a special reason. It’s made up mainly of visitors from the North. No salaries are paid. I had located here for the winter, and I wanted to keep in trim and work my arm into shape for the coming season. I couldn’t find anybody else to organize the club and handle it, so I had to. I have only three other players who have been with me from the start. The rest of the nine has been composed of changing players who came and went, college men, or just plain amateurs who have taken to the sport. We have played such teams as could be induced to come here from Jacksonville, St. Augustine, and other places. Handling such a club has given me absolutely no reason to fancy myself qualified to manage one in the Big League.”

“I’ve been keeping my eye on you,” said Weegman patronizingly, “and I am satisfied that you can fill the position of playing manager for the Blue Stockings.”

“You’re satisfied–you! How about Charles Collier?”

“As you know, he’s a sick man, a very sick man. Otherwise he’d never have dropped everything just at this time to go to Europe along with a physician and trained nurses. He has been too ill to attend properly to his regular business outside baseball, and therefore his business has suffered. He has had heavy financial reverses that have worried him. And now the meddling of the Feds has hurt the value of the ball club. The stock wouldn’t bring at a forced sale to-day half what it should be worth. Mr. Collier trusts me. He was anxious to get some of the load off his shoulders. He has left me to straighten out matters connected with the team.”

“Where is Mr. Collier now?” asked Locke quietly.

“He was taking the baths at Eaux Chaudes when last heard from, but he has since left there. I can’t say where he is at the present time.”

“Then how may he be communicated with in case of emergency?”

Chuckling, Weegman lighted a fresh cigar, having tossed the remnant of the other away. The glow of the match fully betrayed an expression of self-satisfaction on his face.

“He can’t be,” he said. “It was his doctor’s idea to get him away where he could not be troubled by business of any nature. He may be in Tunis or Naples for all I know.”

“It’s very remarkable,” said Lefty slowly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” purred the other man, locking his fingers over his little round stomach which seemed so incongruous for a person who was otherwise not overfat. “Really, he was in a bad way. Worrying over business reverses was killing him. His only salvation was to get away from it all.”

Locke sat in thought, watching the serene smoker through narrowed lids. There was something queer about the affair, something the southpaw did not understand. True, Collier had seemed to be a nervous, high-strung man, but when Lefty had last seen him he had perceived no indications of such a sudden and complete breakdown. It had been Collier’s policy to keep a close and constant watch upon his baseball property, but now, at a time when such surveillance was particularly needed because of the harassing activities of the Federals, having turned authority over to a subordinate, not only had he taken himself beyond the range of easy communication, but apparently he had cut himself off entirely from the sources of inside information concerning baseball affairs. Furthermore, it seemed to Locke that the man who claimed to have been left in full control of that branch of Collier’s business was the last person who should have been chosen. What lay behind it all the pitcher was curious to divine.

Presently Weegman gave a castanet-like snap of his fingers. “By the way,” he said sharply, “how about your arm?”

“My arm?” said Lefty. “You mean–”

“It’s all right, isn’t it? You know there was a rumor that you hurt it in the last game of the season. Some wise ginks even said you’d never pitch any more.”

“I’ve been doing some pitching for my team here in Fernandon.”

“Then, of course, the old wing’s all right. You’ll be in form again, the greatest left-hander in the business. How about it?”

“I’ve never been egotistical enough to put that estimate on myself.”

“Well, that’s what lots of the sharps call you. The arm’s as good as ever?”

“If you stop over to-morrow you’ll have a chance to judge for yourself. We’re scheduled to play a roving independent nine known as the Wind Jammers, and I hear they’re some team, of the kind. I shall pitch part of the game, anyhow.”

“You’ve been pitching right along?”

“A little in every game lately. I pitched four innings against the Jacksonville Reds and five against the Cuban Giants. We’ve lost only one game thus far, and that was our second one. The eccentric manager and owner of the Wind Jammers, who calls himself Cap’n Wiley, threatens to take a heavy fall out of us. He has a deaf-mute pitcher, Mysterious Jones, who, he claims, is as good as Walter Johnson.”

Weegman laughed derisively. “There’s no pitcher as good as Johnson anywhere, much less traveling around with a bunch of hippodromers and bushwhackers. But about your arm–is it all right?”

“I hope to win as many games with it this year as I did last.”

“Well, the team’s going to need pitchers. The loss of Orth is bound to be felt, and if Dillon jumps–Look here, Locke, we’ve got to get busy and dig up two or three twirlers, one of top-notch caliber.”

“We!”

“Yes, you and I. Of course we can’t expect to get a first-stringer out of the bushes; that happens only once in a dog’s age. But perhaps Kennedy has some good youngsters up his sleeve. You should know about that. I’m wise that he has consulted you regularly. He’s sought your advice, and listened to it; so, in a way, you’ve had considerable to do with the management of the team. You say you’ve corresponded with him right along. You ought to know all about his plans. That’s one reason why I came to figure on you as the man to fill his place.”

“I wondered,” murmured Locke.

“That’s one reason. For another thing, you’ve got modesty as well as sense. You don’t think you know it all. You’re not set in your ways, and probably you’d listen to advice and counsel. Old Jack is hard-headed and stiff; when he makes up his mind there’s no turning him. He takes the bit in his teeth, and he wants full swing. He’s always seemed to feel himself bigger than the owners. He’s butted up against Mr. Collier several times, and Collier’s always had to give in.”

“As I understand it,” said Lefty smoothly, “you think the manager should be a man with few fixed opinions and no set and rigid policy.”

“In a way, that’s something like it,” admitted Weegman. “He mustn’t go and do things wholly on his own initiative and without consulting anybody, especially those who have a right to say something about the running of the team. Mr. Collier has placed me in a position that makes it imperative that I should keep my fingers on the pulse of things. I couldn’t conscientiously discharge my duty unless I did so. I know I could never get along with Kennedy. The manager must work with me; we’ll work together. Of course, in most respects he’ll be permitted to do about as he pleases as long as he seems to be delivering the goods; but it must be understood that I have the right to veto, as well as the right to direct, policies and deals. With that understanding to start with, we’ll get along swimmingly.” He finished with a laugh.

Lefty rose to his feet. “You’re not looking for a manager, Weegman,” he said. “What you want is a putty man, a figurehead. Under any circumstances, you’ve come to the wrong market.”

CHAPTER III
THE FEDERAL POLICY

Weegman was startled. “What–what’s that?” he spluttered, staring upward at the towering figure in white. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I’ve said,” replied the pitcher grimly. “Under no circumstances would I think of stepping into old Jack Kennedy’s shoes; but even if he were a perfect stranger to me you could not inveigle me into the management of the Blue Stockings on the conditions you have named. Management!” he scoffed. “Why, the man who falls for that will be a tame cat with clipped claws. It’s evident, Mr. Weegman, that you’ve made a long journey for nothing.”

For a moment the visitor was speechless. Lefty Locke’s modest, unassuming ways, coupled with undoubted ambition and a desire to get on, had led Charles Collier’s secretary to form a very erroneous estimate of him.

“But, man alive,” said Weegman, “do you realize what you’re doing? You’re turning down the chance of a lifetime. I have the contract right here in my pocket, with Collier’s name properly attached and witnessed. If you doubt my authority to put the deal through, I can show you my power of attorney from Mr. Collier. In case sentiment or gratitude is holding you back, let me tell you that under no circumstances will Kennedy again be given control of the team. Now don’t be a chump and–”

“If I were in your place,” interrupted Locke, “I wouldn’t waste any more breath.”

Weegman snapped his fingers, and got up. “I won’t! I didn’t suppose you were quite such a boob.”

“But you did suppose I was boob enough to swallow your bait at a gulp. You thought me so conceited and greedy that I would jump at the chance to become a puppet, a manager in name only, without any real authority or control. It’s plainly your purpose to be the real manager of the team, for what reason or design I admit I don’t quite understand. Just how you hypnotized Charles Collier and led him to consent to such a scheme I can’t say; but I do say that no successful ball team has ever been run in such a way. You’re not fit to manage a ball club, and you wouldn’t dare assume the title as well as the authority; probably you know Collier wouldn’t stand for that. Yet you intend to force your dictation upon a pseudo-manager. Such meddling would mean muddling; it would knock the last ounce of starch out of the team. If the Blue Stockings didn’t finish a bad tailender it would be a miracle.”

Bailey Weegman was furious all the way through, but still he laughed and snapped his fingers.

“You’re a wise guy, aren’t you?” he sneered. “I didn’t dream you were so shrewd and discerning. Now let me tell you something, my knowing friend: I’ve tried to save your neck, and you won’t have it.”

“My neck!” exclaimed the pitcher incredulously. “You’ve tried to save my neck?”

“Oh, I know your old soup bone’s on the blink; you didn’t put anything over me by dodging and trimming when I questioned you about your arm. You knocked it out last year, and you’ve been spending the winter down here trying to work it back into shape. You can pitch a little against weak bush teams, but you can’t even go the whole distance against one of them. That being the case, what sort of a figure do you expect to cut back in the Big League? Up against the slugging Wolves or the hard-hitting Hornets, how long would you last? I’ve got your number, and you know it.”

“If that’s so, it seems still more remarkable that you should wish to hold me. Certainly I’d be a great addition to a pitching staff that’s smashed already!”

“Did I say anything about your strengthening the pitching staff? I offered to engage you in another capacity. Think I didn’t know why you declined to dicker with the Feds when they made you a big offer? You didn’t dare, for you know you couldn’t deliver the goods. Having that knowledge under my hat, I’ve been mighty generous with you.” Weegman descended to the top step, chuckling.

“Good night,” said Locke, longing to hasten the man’s departure.

“Think it over,” invited Charles Collier’s representative. “Now that I’m here, I’ll stick around and watch you pitch against these bushwhacking Wind Jammers to-morrow. I imagine your efforts should be amusing. Perhaps you’ll change your mind before I catch the train north at Yulee.” His chuckling became open laughter.

Lefty turned and entered the cottage, while Weegman walked away in the moonlight, the smoke of his cigar drifting over his shoulder.

Certain circumstances had led Philip Hazelton to enter professional baseball under the pseudonym of “Tom Locke,” to which, as he was a left-hander, his associates had added the nickname of “Lefty.” These names had stuck when he abruptly moved upward into the Big League. His rise having been rocketlike, the pessimistic and the envious had never wholly ceased to look for the fall of a stick. Thus far, in spite of the fact that each year of his service with the Blue Stockings saw him shouldering more and more of the pitching load, until like Jack Coombs and Ed Walsh he had become known as “the Iron Man,” they had looked in vain. And it came to pass that even the most prejudiced was forced to admit that it was Lefty who kept his team “up there” fighting for the bunting all the time.

Toward the close of the last season, however, with the jinx in close pursuit of the Blue Stockings, Locke had pushed himself beyond the limit. At one time the club had seemed to have the pennant cinched, but through the crippling of players it had begun to slip in the latter part of the season. In the desperate struggle to hold on, going against Manager Kennedy’s judgment and advice, Lefty did more pitching than any other two men on the staff, and with a little stronger team to support him his winning percentage would have been the highest of any pitcher in the league. It was not his fault that the Blue Stockings did not finish better than third.

In the cozy living room of the little furnished cottage Locke had leased for the brief winter months a remarkably pretty young woman sat reading by a shaded lamp. She looked up from the magazine and smiled at him as he came in. Then she saw the serious look upon his face, and the smile faded.

“What is it, Phil?” she asked, with a touch of anxiety. “Is anything wrong?”

He sat down, facing her, and told her all about his interview with Bailey Weegman. As she listened, her mobile face betrayed wonderment, annoyance, and alarm.

“It’s a raw deal for Kennedy,” he asserted in conclusion; “and I believe it’s wholly of Weegman’s devising. I’m sure, when the season ended, Collier had no idea of changing managers. There isn’t a more resourceful, astute man in the business than old Jack.”

“You’re always thinking of others, Phil,” she said. “How about yourself? What will happen to you if you don’t come to Weegman’s terms?”

“Hard to tell,” he admitted frankly. “In fact, I’ve been wondering just where I’d get off. If my arm fails to come back–”

She uttered a little cry. “But you’ve been telling me–”

“That it was growing better, Janet, that’s true. But still it’s not what it should be, and I don’t dare put much of a strain on it. I don’t know that I’d last any time at all in real baseball. Weegman is wise, yet he offered me a contract to pitch and to manage the team. On paper it would seem that he had retained one star twirler for the staff, but if I failed to come back we wouldn’t have a single first-string slabman. As a manager, I would be sewed up so that I couldn’t do anything without his consent. There’s a nigger in the woodpile, Janet.”

She had put the magazine aside, and clasped her hands in her lap. He went on:

“It looks to me as if somebody is trying to punch holes in the team, though I don’t get the reason for it. Following Jack Kennedy’s advice, I’ve invested every dollar I could save in the stock of the club. As Weegman says, it’s doubtful if the stock would bring fifty cents on the dollar at a forced sale to-day. Collier has met with heavy financial reverses in other lines. He’s sick, and he’s in Europe where no one can communicate with him. Is somebody trying to knock the bottom out of his baseball holdings in order to get control of the club? It looks that way from the offing.”

“But you,” said Janet, still thinking of her husband, “you’re not tied up with Weegman, and the Federals have made you a splendid offer. You can accept that and land on your feet.”

He smiled, shaking his head slowly. “There are several reasons why I don’t care to follow that course. The first, and strongest, is my loyalty to Jack Kennedy, the man who gave me a square deal. Then I don’t care to bunko anybody, and unless my arm comes back I won’t be worth the money the Feds have offered for my services. Lastly, I’m not sure the new league is going to be strong enough to win out against organized baseball.”

“But you’ve said that they seem to have plenty of money behind them. You’ve said, too, that their plan of dealing directly with players, instead of buying and selling them like chattels or slaves, was the only system that gave the players a just and honest deal.”

“That’s right,” affirmed Lefty. “Slavery in baseball is something more than a joke. The organization has been one of the biggest trusts in the country, and it has dealt in human beings. It has been so that when a man signed his first contract he signed away his right to say what he would do as long as he remained in the game. After that he could be bought, sold, or traded without receiving a dollar of the purchasing or trading price. He had to go where he was sent, regardless of his personal likes, wishes, or convenience. He had to accept whatever salary a manager chose to give him, or get out. Even if his contract had expired with one manager, he couldn’t go to another and make a bargain, no matter how much the other manager was willing to give him; the reserve clause held him chained hand and foot. To-day, if the powers chose, I could be sent down to the minors at any old salary the minors chose to pay. I could be sold, like a horse or a dog, and if I didn’t like it I could quit the game. That would be my only recourse.”

“It’s terribly unfair,” said Janet.

“Unfair? That’s a tame word! On the other hand, the Federals are dealing directly with the players. If they think he’s worth it, they give a man a good salary and a bonus besides. The bonus goes to the player, not to the club owner. Added to that, the Federal contracts provide that a club must increase a player’s salary at least five per cent. each year, or give him his unconditional release, thus making it possible for him to deal with any other club that may want him.”

“It’s plain your sympathy is with the Federals.”

“If they’re not trying to jack up organized baseball and sell out,” said Lefty, “I hope they come through.”