Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager

The man outside slipped the letters and papers into his pocket, and turned away after the manner of a person who has suddenly decided upon something. He had not walked ten steps, however, before he turned back. The southpaw was paying for the call. The man watched him now without further effort to avoid notice, and when the pitcher turned from the switchboard he stepped forward deliberately to meet him.

“Hello!” said the man in a voice distinctly husky and unpleasant. “How are you, Locke?”

Lefty stopped short and stared. It was Garrity, coarse, complacent, patronizing. The owner of the Rockets grinned, showing the numerous gold fillings in his teeth. His features were large, and his jaw was square and brutal. His clothes were those of a common race-track follower.

“Quite well, thank you,” answered Lefty coldly, thinking of the pleasure it would be to tell Garrity his private opinion of him.

“Seems to me you look worried. I don’t wonder, though, considering the job they’ve handed you. Some job piecing together the tattered remnants, hey? It’s going to make you a busy little manager.”

“I’m busy now,” said the southpaw, moving as if to pass on; but Garrity detained him. “You’ve got some positions to fill. The Feds got at you hard. Shame to see a team like the Stockings shot to pieces. You’ve got three or four bad holes, and I’d like to help you.”

“You would?”

“Sure. I’ve got the very lads you need, too–Mundy and Pendexter. Both fast men. They work together like two parts of a machine. Mundy covers the short field like Maranville, and Pendexter sure can play that keystone cushion. They’re the boys for you.”

“How’s it happen you are willing to let go of them?” asked Locke, feeling some curiosity to know what lay behind this particular proposition.

“Well, this is between us, mind? I’d just about as soon give up an eye as part with either Mundy or Pendexter, but it’s easier to lose them than dispense with Pressly, my third sacker. That’s been the trouble with my team. Pressly loves Mundy and Pendexter as he loves aconite, and they reciprocate. You know what a feud like that means. It knocks the bottom out of any team. I can’t fill Pressly’s place, but I’ve got a couple of youngsters that I can work in at short and second. I’m not going through another season with those three scrapping. You need the very players I’m willing to part with, and there we are.”

Locke knew the man was not honest, and that he was holding something up his sleeve. In order to make him show his hand, the southpaw asked:

“What do you want for Mundy and Pendexter?”

Garrity considered for a minute. “Well,” he answered slowly, “I’ll trade them with you for Spider Grant–and cash.”

Lefty stared at him in amazement. Was it possible the man could think he was such a soft mark? He laughed loudly.

“You don’t want much, do you, Garrity? The ‘and cash’ was a capper! Man, I wouldn’t trade you Spider Grant for your whole team–and cash!”

The owner of the Rockets scowled, glaring at Locke, the corners of his thick-lipped mouth drooping.

“Oh, you wouldn’t, hey?” he growled huskily. “I suppose you think that’s a joke?”

“Not at all; it’s serious. I couldn’t use the players you offer, anyhow. Mundy does cover the short field like Rabbit Maranville–sometimes; but he’s got a yellow streak, and he quits. Pendexter knows how to play second, and at the beginning of last season he hit like old Sockalexis when the Indian first broke into the league. But the pitchers all got wise to his weak spot, close and across the knees, and from a three-hundred-and-sixty batter he slumped into the two-hundred class. You were thinking of asking for waivers on him. Spider Grant–and cash–for that pair! I didn’t imagine that even you could think me such a boob.”

As he listened, Garrity’s face showed his anger; his breath came short and quick; his eyes were blazing with the fury of a wild animal.

“Have you got that all out of your system?” he asked, when Lefty stopped. “You’re a wise gazabo, ain’t you? You know all about baseball and players and such things! You’ve got a head bigger than a balloon. But it’ll shrink, give it time. It’s plain you think you really know how to manage a team. By the middle of the season, and maybe considerable before that, your head will be about the size of a bird shot. And you’ll know a lot more then than you do now, believe me!”

The southpaw laughed in his face. “Don’t lose your temper,” he advised, “just because you couldn’t put a raw one over on me. Go ahead and ask waivers on Pendexter. You’ll get mine. I wouldn’t carry him on my team if you agreed to pay his season’s salary for me. My trade with Frazer gave you the notion that you could pick another good man off me, and weaken the Stockings still more. You fooled yourself that time, Garrity. Perhaps you’ll find out before long that you are fooling yourself in other ways.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’ll let you guess. But just remember what Bobby Burns said about ‘the best-laid plans o’ mice and men.’”

With this, Locke passed on, leaving the wrathy owner of the Rockets glaring after him.

“You poor fool!” muttered Garrity. “I’ll have you whimpering like a whipped dog before I’m done with you. Your head’s liable to roll into the basket before the season opens. When the time comes, I’ll lift my finger, and the ax’ll fall.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE GAGE OF WAR

Janet had let some friends know that she was in the city, and had been invited out to a matinée performance at one of the theaters. Lefty urged her to go. “That’s better than sitting around the rooms alone,” he said, “and I’ll be so busy that I can’t be with you.”

So when, shortly after lunch, her friends appeared in a comfortable limousine, they had little trouble in persuading her to join them.

Kennedy dropped in a little later, and Locke told him of Garrity’s proposed trade.

“He sure did pick you for a mark,” said the ex-manager. “You handed it to him straight about Mundy and Pendexter. You’re going to need a pair of fast boys to stop the holes, but there’s better men in the minors than those two. You’ve got better ones on the reserve list. Besides that, I’m doin’ a little free scouting on my own hook. I’ve got friends scattered all over the country. Whenever an old player, gone to the scraps, has touched me up for a five or a ten, I’ve stood for the touch, asking him to keep his eyes open for anything good he might run across in the sticks. That way I’ve got a good deal of inexpensive scouting done for me. Maybe it’ll be worth something in this pinch. I’m going to interview an old friend over in Jersey this afternoon.”

“I’m not worrying over players just now,” said Lefty. “I’m anxious to get hold of Stillman.”

“You’ll hear from him in time–and Weegman, too. What Garrity knows Weegman knows, and so he’s wise that you’re right here. Be ready for him when he shows up.”

Kennedy had only just gone when Weegman appeared. He laughed when he saw Locke, but it was an ugly laugh.

“What do you think you’re trying to do?” he demanded. “Didn’t you get my telegram ordering you to report at the office of the club?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why didn’t you obey? What did you mean by coming right through without even sending me word?”

“I had immediate business here in New York.”

“Business! I had business for you to attend to. You’ve been doing a lot of things without consulting me. Why didn’t you wait until I gave you the contracts for the old players?”

“There had been too much waiting, and time was precious. Kennedy had plenty of blanks, so I got them from him, filled them out, and sent them to the boys without further delay. It was the proper thing to do.”

“Don’t tell me what’s proper to do! I’ll tell you. That was the distinct understanding, and you know it. Sent out the contracts, did you? Well, some of them ought to be coming back by this time.”

“They’ve all come back.”

“What?”

“Every one of them. The Federals’ll get no more players off us this year.”

Weegman choked, and the sound that came from his lips was not a laugh.

“I haven’t seen anything of them. They didn’t come to the office.”

“No, certainly not.”

“Certainly not! Then where–where are they?”

“I have them in my pocket.”

Lefty said it quietly, not at all disturbed by the wrath of the outraged schemer. It gave him much satisfaction to see Bailey Weegman shake and squirm.

“In your pocket!” spluttered the rascal. “You had them returned to a different address? Confound your crust! How’d you ever have the nerve to do a thing like that? Let’s see them. Hand them over!”

Locke made no move to obey. “I think I’ll keep them a while,” he answered coolly. “I’ll deliver them personally to be locked in the club safe.”

For a moment it seemed that Weegman would lose all control of himself and attack the southpaw.

“You fool!” he raged. “Do you think you’re going to get by with this stuff?”

“I’ve made a pretty fair start at it.”

“So you never meant to stand by the private agreement between us when you signed as manager? That’s it, eh?”

“There never was any private agreement between us. I signed to handle the team, but I did not agree to become your puppet.”

“You did. You said that–”

“That I understood the conditions you had proposed, but I did not say that I consented to them. I had no intention of letting you dictate to me.”

“Fool! Fool!” snarled Weegman. “How long do you think you’ll last? And you made that crazy trade with Frazer! Do you know what I’ve done? Well, I’ve notified Frazer that the deal was irregular, and won’t be recognized by the club. Not a dollar of that five thousand will he ever get.”

“You know better than that. The trade was legitimate, and it will stand. Frazer can collect by law. Any other deal that I make will go through, too, whether you are aware of it at the time or not. Until Charles Collier himself takes away my authority, I’m manager of the team with the legal right to carry out my own plans, and I intend to do so. I shall ask no advice from you, and any suggestion you may make I shall look upon with distrust.”

They fought it out, eye to eye, and presently Weegman’s gaze wavered before that of the unawed southpaw. The man he had sought to make his blind tool was defying him to his face.

“I see your finish!” he declared.

“And I see yours,” countered Locke. “You think you’re a clever crook. You’re merely an instrument in the hands of a bigger and cleverer scoundrel who doesn’t care a rap what happens to you if he can put his own miserable scheme over. Your partnership with him will be your ruin, anyhow. If you had half the sense you think you possess, you’d break with him without losing any time.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve only planned to do my best to save a team that has been raided by the Feds. You’re killing the last chance for the Blue Stockings.”

“Tell it to Sweeny!” exclaimed Lefty. “You’re trying to deliver the team into the hands of Tom Garrity. Deny it if you wish, but it isn’t necessary to lie. You’ve played Judas with Collier.”

“Be careful! Better take that back!”

Lefty laughed. “I’m ready to add more to it. I haven’t told you half what I know. If I were to do so, you’d realize what a dumb fool you have made of yourself. You think you’re wise to all that was planned, but you’ve been let in on only a very little of it. You’ll tear your hair when you get a squint at the foundation stone of this neat little conspiracy.”

“I–I don’t know what you mean.”

“That’s right, you don’t; but you will know in time. You’ll be kept in the dark as long as it suits Tom Garrity.”

“What’s Garrity got to do with it?”

Locke smiled on him pityingly. “Don’t be childish, Weegman. That sort of a bluff is too thin. I was wise when I signed to manage the team.”

In vain the man stormed, threatened, coaxed, cajoled; he could not bend Lefty in the least, and at last he realized that he had made a big blunder in estimating the character of the southpaw.

“So it’s war between us, is it?” he finally asked.

“I have looked for nothing else,” answered the pitcher.

Weegman snapped his fingers in Locke’s face. “All right!” he cried. “You would have it! Just you wait! You’re going to regret it! We’ll see how long you last!” And, turning round, he strode away, muttering to himself.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE JAWS OF THE TRAP

Lefty had defied Weegman. Henceforth it was to be open war, and he was glad of it. What the rascal would attempt to do he did not know, and cared less. It did not seem likely that he could do much, if anything, that he had not already made preparations to do. Of course, he might call Collier into the affair, and that, should it bring the owner of the Blue Stockings back to his own country, was something earnestly to be desired. Could he but get Collier in private for twenty minutes, Locke felt sure he could make him realize that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and that his trusted private secretary had sought to sell him out into the hands of a rival owner.

The telephone rang, and, thinking Stillman was calling at last, he hastened to answer. It was not the reporter’s voice that he heard, but he was informed that some one was speaking from the office of the Blade, and that, after making a fruitless effort to get Locke on the wire, Stillman had found it necessary to hustle away to keep an important appointment.

“But where can I find him?” asked the disappointed pitcher. “How can I get hold of him?”

“He wants to talk to you as much as you do to him,” was the answer. “Said it was absolutely necessary. That’s why he had me call you. Says he has something to tell you, personally and privately. He’ll try to be at Mike’s saloon, Thompson Street, near Broome, at three o’clock. If you get there first, wait for him. And don’t fail to come, for he’ll have important information. Got that straight?”

“Yes, but–”

“All right. I’ve done my duty. Good-by.” There was a click, and the wire was silent.

Lefty looked at his watch as he left the phone. It was twenty-two minutes to three.

“Just about time enough to make it comfortably,” he decided. “Stillman must be on the track of something.”

The subway being convenient, he chose it instead of a taxi, getting off at Spring Street. Five minutes ahead of time, he found Mike’s saloon, a somewhat disreputable-looking place when viewed from the exterior. The neighborhood, likewise, seemed sinister. However, a reporter’s business, thought Locke, carried him into all sorts of places.

Within the saloon a single patron, who looked like a vagrant, was picking at the crumbs of a sickly free lunch in a dark corner. A husky-looking, red-headed bartender was removing an emptied beer schooner and mopping up the counter. He surveyed the southpaw from head to foot with apparent interest.

“I’m looking for a man named Stillman who made an appointment to meet me here at three,” explained Lefty. “I was to wait for him if I got here first.”

“Jack’s here,” stated the man behind the bar, in a manner that bespoke considerable familiarity with the reporter. “Came in three or four minutes ago. Reckon you’re Lefty Locke?”

“That’s right.”

“He told me you might come round. He’s in the back room. Walk right in.” The speaker jerked a heavy thumb toward a closed door at the far end of the bar.

At the sound of Locke’s name the vagrant, who had been picking at the free lunch, turned to look the famous pitcher over with apparent curiosity and interest.

“Lefty Locke,” he mumbled huskily. “Lemme shake han’s. Ruther shake han’s with Lefty Locke than any man livin’.”

Locke pushed past him and placed his hand on the knob of the door. The fellow followed, insisting upon shaking hands, and, as Lefty opened the door, the vagrant staggered, lurched against the pitcher, and thrust him forward, the door closing behind him with the snap of a spring lock.

It is remarkable how seldom any one ever heeds premonitions. Even as he opened that door, Lefty was aware that ever since the telephone call had come to him some subtle intuition, thus far wholly disregarded, had been seeking to sound a warning. It had caused him to hesitate at last. Too late! The push delivered by the vagrant had pitched him forward into the snare, while the sound of the clicking spring lock notified him that his retreat was cut off.

Through a dirty skylight above another door that probably opened upon a back alley some weak and sickly rays of daylight crept into the room. A single gas jet, suspended from the center of the cracked and smoky ceiling, gave a feeble, flickering light, filling the corners with fluttering shadows. The furniture in the room consisted of a table and a few chairs.

At the table three men were sitting, drinking and smoking. Locke, recovering from the push he had received, stepped back against the closed door, and looked at them.

“Hello!” said Mit Skullen. “Don’t hurry away, Lefty. Folks that come in by that door sometimes go out by the other one.”

He was grinning viciously, triumphantly. The look upon his face was one of satisfaction and brutal anticipation, and amply proclaimed his purpose.

Skullen’s companions were tough characters, fit associates and abettors of such a man. That they were thugs of the lowest type, who would not hesitate at any act of violence, there could be no question. One looked like a prize fighter who had gone to the bad, his drink-inflamed face and bleary eyes advertising the cause of his downfall. The other had the appearance of a “coke” fiend, and the criminally bent habitual user of that drug has neither scruples nor fear of consequences.

Locke regarded them in silence. His pulses were throbbing somewhat faster, yet he was cool and self-possessed, and his brain was keenly active. He knew precisely what he was up against. Slipping one hand behind him, he tried the knob of the door; but, as he had expected, the door held fast.

Skullen continued to grin gloatingly, fancying that Locke’s inactivity was evidence that he was practically paralyzed by amazement and fear.

“Your friend Stillman was too busy to come,” he said, “and so I kept the appointment for him. Maybe I’ll do just as well. Anyhow, I’ll do–for you!”

He had risen to his feet, and the light of the flickering gas jet played over his evil face. Lefty flashed another look around, taking in the surroundings. To his ears came the distant, muffled sound of an elevated train rumbling along the trestle. Behind him, in the front of the saloon, all was still. Probably the door leading to the street was now also locked to prevent any one from entering and hearing any disturbance that might take place in the back room. The jaws of the trap held him fast.

“Oh, it ain’t any use to think about runnin’ away, Lefty,” croaked Mit. “Not a chance in the world. I fixed it so’s we could have our little settlement without any one buttin’ in to bother us. You remember I told you I had a score to settle with you?”

As Locke spoke, his voice was calm and steady. “And you engaged a pair of worthy pals to assist you! You’re a brave man, Skullen!”

“Aw, these lads are only here to see fair play, that’s all. They won’t mix in. They won’t have to. Last time we met you reckoned you put it all over me, didn’t you? Maybe I ought to thank you for keepin’ me from gettin’ a rotter on me hands, for that’s what you got in Dummy Jones. You’re welcome to that piece of cheese.”

The southpaw made no retort. He was measuring his chances against all three of the ruffians, having no doubt that he must soon find himself pitted against such odds.

“Some baseball manager, that’s what you are!” scoffed Mit, taking keen delight in prolonging the suspense that he fancied must be getting the nerve of the intended victim. “You’re rattlin’ around like a buckshot inside a bass drum. A busy little person, you are, but you won’t be so busy after I finish with you. You’ll find it convenient to take a nice long rest in a hospital.”

“You fight a lot with your mouth, Mit,” said Locke contemptuously.

“Go ahead an’ sail inter him, Skully,” urged the ruffian who looked like a broken-down prize fighter. “You been itchin’ fer him to show up so you could get inter action. Go to it!”

“Plenty of time, Bill. I enjoy seein’ him try to push that door down with his back. Wasn’t he a mut to walk right into this? I’m goin’ to change the look of his face so that his handsome wife won’t know him when she sees him next.”

He began to remove his coat, and Lefty knew the time for action had come. For an instant his imagination had sought to unnerve him by presenting a vivid picture of himself as he would appear, battered, bleeding, beaten up, if the trio of thugs carried out their evil design; but he put the vision aside promptly. In cases where a smaller force is compelled to contend with a greater, the advantage is frequently obtained through swift and sudden assault. Knowing this, Locke did not wait to be attacked. He hurled himself forward with the spring of a panther and the force of a catapult.

CHAPTER XXX

ONE AGAINST THREE

Skullen, in the act of removing his coat, was caught unprepared. Before he could fling the garment aside Locke was upon him, aiming a well-meant blow for the point of Mit’s jaw.

Skullen realized that it was no trifling thing to stop such a blow as that, and he jerked his head aside, as he dropped his coat. The blow caught him glancingly and sent him staggering, upsetting the chair from which he had recently risen. Locke grabbed the edge of the table and pitched it against the ruffian’s two companions, who had hastily started to get up. They fell over, with the table on top of them.

Lefty followed up his advantage, and kept right on after Skullen. Uttering a snarl of astonished rage, the latter sought to grapple, but the southpaw knew that he could not afford to waste time in that sort of a struggle. Whatever he did must be done swiftly, effectively, and thoroughly. Delay meant only disaster to him. Avoiding the clutching hands of his antagonist, he struck Mit on the neck, below the ear, staggering him again.

Skullen had not looked for such a whirlwind assault. He had fancied the trapped man would wait until set upon, and he had believed he would have little trouble in beating Lefty to the full satisfaction of his revengeful heart. He was strong and ponderous, and he could still strike a terrible blow, but years had slowed him down, his lack of exercise had softened his muscles, his eye had lost its quickness, while indulgence in drink and dissipation had taken the snap and ginger out of him. He had not realized before how much he had deteriorated, but now, witnessing the lightning-like movements of Lefty Locke, he began to understand, and sudden apprehension overcame him.

“Bill! Snuff!” he roared. “Get into it! Get at him, you snails! Soak him!”

His appeal to his companions was an unintentional admission that he suddenly realized he was no match for the man he had attempted to beat. The flickering gaslight had given him a glimpse of a terrible blazing look in Locke’s eyes. Once, in the ring, he had seen a look like that in the eyes of an opponent who had apparently gone crazy. And he had been knocked out by him!

Scrambling up from beneath the capsized table, Bill and Snuff responded. Lefty knew that in a moment they would take a hand in the fight, and then the odds would be three against one, and none of the three would hesitate at any brutal methods to smash the one. Once he was beaten down, they would kick and stamp him into insensibility; and later, perhaps, he would be found outside somewhere in the back alley, with broken bones, possibly maimed and disfigured for life.

The knowledge of what would happen to him, if defeated, made him doubly strong and fierce. He endeavored to dispose of Skullen first, believing that by doing so he would have half the battle won.

Skullen’s howls to his companions came to an abrupt termination. Like an irresistible engine of destruction, Locke had smashed through the defense of the ruffian, and, reaching him with a terrible blow, sent him spinning and crashing into a corner of the room. At the same instant, Bill, joining in, was met by a back kick in the pit of his stomach, and, with a grunt, he doubled up, clutching at his middle with both hands.

This gave the southpaw a chance to turn on Snuff, who had not, so far, shown any great desire to help his pals. The creature had seemed physically insignificant, sitting at the table, but now, in action, he moved with the quickness of a wild cat, in great contrast to the ponderousness of Skullen. And he had a weapon in his hand–a blackjack!