Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager E-Book

Burt L. Standish

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Burt L. Standish wrote another excellent sports history. Lefty is a pitcher in the baseball team. The dream of every coach. His dedication in the game hit every fan in the stands. However, things are not so simple, baseball is not just a sports game. Each opponent wants to knock out the best player from game.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. AN UNEXPECTED OFFER

CHAPTER II. SOMETHING QUEER

CHAPTER III. THE FEDERAL POLICY

CHAPTER IV. THE MAGNETIZED BALL

CHAPTER V. A MAN OF MYSTERY

CHAPTER VI. PECULIAR BEHAVIOR

CHAPTER VII. THE TEST

CHAPTER VIII. AT NECESSITY’S DEMAND

CHAPTER IX. TORTURING DOUBT

CHAPTER X. THE ONLY DOOR

CHAPTER XI. BURNING SPEED

CHAPTER XII. TOO MUCH TEMPTATION

CHAPTER XIII. THE PERPLEXING QUESTION

CHAPTER XIV. ONLY ONE WAY

CHAPTER XV. SIGNING THE MANAGER

CHAPTER XVI. THE WRONG STOOL PIGEON

CHAPTER XVII. GETTING INTO ACTION

CHAPTER XVIII. THE FIRST DEAL

CHAPTER XIX. A FLEETING GLIMPSE

CHAPTER XX. A RIDDLE TO SOLVE

CHAPTER XXI. THE MAN AHEAD

CHAPTER XXII. A DOUBTFUL VICTORY

CHAPTER XXIII. ALL WRONG

CHAPTER XXIV. WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

CHAPTER XXV. HIDDEN TRACKS

CHAPTER XXVI. NOT MUCH SHOW

CHAPTER XXVII. THE SUSPENDED AX

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE GAGE OF WAR

CHAPTER XXIX. THE JAWS OF THE TRAP

CHAPTER XXX. ONE AGAINST THREE

CHAPTER XXXI. LIGHT ON A DARK SPOT

CHAPTER XXXII. ONE CHANCE

CHAPTER XXXIII. ONE IN A MILLION

CHAPTER XXXIV. WEEGMAN’S PROPOSAL

CHAPTER XXXV. THE SHATTERING STROKE

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE TEST OF MYSTERIOUS JONES

CHAPTER XXXVII. THE RETURN OF LEFTY

CHAPTER I. AN UNEXPECTED OFFER

Lefty Locke gave the man a look of surprise. The soft, bright moonlight was shining full on Weegman’s face, and he was chuckling. He was always chuckling or laughing outright, and Locke had grown tired of it. It was monotonous.

“What do you mean?” the pitcher asked. “Tinware for Kennedy! I don’t believe I get you.”

Weegman snapped his fingers; another little trick that was becoming monotonous and irritating. “That’s poor slang perhaps,” he admitted; “but you’ve been in the game long enough to understand it. Collier is going to tie the can to old Jack.”

Lefty moved his chair round on the little vine-covered porch in order to face his visitor squarely. Frogs were chorusing in the distance, and the dynamo in the electric power house on the edge of the town kept up its constant nocturnal droning.

“I could scarcely believe you meant just that,” said the star slabman of the Blue Stockings soberly. “Being Charles Collier’s private secretary, and therefore to a large extent aware of his plans, I presume you know what you’re talking about.”

“You can bet on it,” laughed Weegman, leaning back and puffing at his cigar. “I’m the man Collier left to carry out his orders regarding the team. I have full instructions and authority.”

“But I’m sure Kennedy has no inkling of this. I correspond with him regularly, and I know he expected a new contract to sign before Mr. Collier went abroad. He wrote me that the contract was to be mailed him from New York, but that he supposed Collier, being a sick man, forgot it at the last moment.”

Weegman took the cigar from his mouth, and leaned forward on the arm of his chair. “A new manager of the right sort is hard to find,” he stated confidentially, “and Collier wasn’t ready to let go all holds until he had some one else in view at least.”

Locke uttered a smothered exclamation of incredulity. “Do you mean to tell me that Charles Collier was handing old Jack Kennedy a deal as deceitfully crooked as that?” he cried. “I can’t believe it. Kennedy has been a faithful and loyal manager. Three years ago, when Collier secured the controlling interest in the club, his bad judgment led him to drop Kennedy and fill his place with Al Carson. You know what happened. Carson made a mess of it, and old Jack was called back at the last moment to save the day. He did it and won the championship for the Blue Stockings by a single game. Since then–”

“Come now!” chuckled Weegman, snapping his fingers again. “You know you were the man who really won that championship by your air-tight pitching. Why do you want to give somebody else the credit? Kennedy merely went in as a pinch hitter–”

“And pounded the only run of the game across the rubber. No matter how air-tight a pitcher’s work may be, to win games the team behind him has got to hit. Kennedy was there with the goods.”

“That’s ancient history now. What has he done since then? As a player, he’s a has-been. He’s lost his eyes so that he can’t even bat in the pinches now. His sun has set, and he may as well retire to his farm and settle down for old age.”

“He hasn’t lost his brains,” asserted Locke warmly. “Playing or pinch hitting is a small part of a manager’s business. Once since then he’s copped the bunting for us, and last year it was hard luck and injury to players that dropped us into third position.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Weegman good naturedly. “You ought to stand up for him. It shows the right spirit. He gave you your chance–practically plucked you from the brambles. But,” he supplemented disparagingly, “he was desperately hard up for twirlers that season. You were sort of a lucky guess on his part. Save for the fact that he’s never been able to win a world’s championship, old Jack’s been picking four-leaf clovers all his life. He’s too soft and easy-going for a manager; not enough drive to him.”

It was Lefty Locke’s turn to laugh, but his merriment held more than a touch of irony. “Jack Kennedy has won pennants or kept in the first division, at least, with teams that would have been fighting for the subcellar under any other manager. When meddlers have not interfered he’s always been able to get the last ounce of baseball out of every man under him. While he has handled it the club has always been a big paying proposition. What he has done has been nothing short of miraculous considering the niggardly policy forced upon him by those in power. It’s the lowest-salaried team in the league. We have men getting twenty-five hundred or three thousand who should be drawing down twice as much, and would be with any other winning Big League club. Only a man with Kennedy’s magnetism and tact could have kept them going at high pressure, could have kept them from being dissatisfied and lying down. What they’ve accomplished has been done for him, not for the owners. And now you tell me he’s to be canned. There’s gratitude!”

“My dear man,” chirruped Weegman, “baseball is business, and gratitude never goes far in business. Granting what you say may have been true in the past, it’s plain enough that the old man’s beginning to lose his grip. He fell down last season, and now that the Feds are butting in and making trouble, he’s showing himself even more incompetent. Talk about gratitude; it didn’t hold Grist or Orth, and now it’s reported that Dillon is negotiating with the outlaws. You know what that means; our pitching staff is all shot to pieces. If the players were so true to Kennedy, why didn’t they wait for their contracts?”

“How could Jack send them contracts when he hasn’t one himself? If he had the authority now, perhaps he could save Dillon for us even yet. Billy Orth is hot-headed and impulsive, and he thought he wasn’t given a square deal. As for Grist, old Pete’s days are numbered, and he knows it. He was wise to the talk about asking waivers on him. It was a ten-to-one shot he’d have been sent to the minors this coming season. With the Federals offering him a three-year contract at nearly twice as much as he ever received, he’d have been a fool to turn it down. All the same, he had a talk with Kennedy before he signed. Jack couldn’t guarantee him anything, so he jumped.”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Weegman triumphantly. “There’s a sample of Kennedy’s incompetence right there. He should have baited Grist along, and kept him away from the Feds until the season was well under way, when they would have had their teams made up, and probably wouldn’t have wanted Pete. Then, if he didn’t come up to form, he could be let out to the minors.”

Lefty’s face being in the shadow, the other man did not see the expression of contempt that passed over it. For a few minutes the southpaw was too indignant to reply. When he did, however, his voice was level and calm, though a trifle hard.

“So that would have been your way of doing it! Grist has had hard luck with all his investments; I understand he’s saved very little. He’s a poor man.”

Weegman lolled back again, puffing at his cigar. “That’s his lookout. Anyway, he’s not much loss. But these confounded Feds aren’t through; they’re after Dirk Nelson, too. What d’ye know about that! Our best catcher! They seem to be trying to strip our whole team.”

“Knowing something about the salaries our players get, probably they figure it should be easy stripping.”

Suddenly the visitor leaned forward again, and gazed hard at Locke. He was not laughing now. “Have they been after you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I thought likely. Made you a big offer?”

“Yes.”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“Good!” exclaimed Weegman. “It’s a good thing for you that you kept your head. They’re outside organized ball, and any man who jumps to them will be blacklisted. All this talk about the money they have behind them is pure bluff.”

“Think so?”

“I know it. They’re plunging like lunatics, and they’ll blow up before the season’s over. They haven’t got the coin.”

“Then how does it happen they are signing players for three years, and handing over certified checks in advance for the first year, besides guaranteeing salaries by bank deposits for the full tenure of contracts?”

“Oh, they’ve got some money, of course,” admitted Weegman lightly; “but, as I say, they’re spending it like drunken sailors. When the Feds explode, the fools who have jumped to them will find themselves barred from organized ball for all time; they’ll be down and out. The outlaws may hurt us a little this year, but after that–nothing doing. Just the same, I own up we’ve got to put a check on ’em before they rip the Blue Stockings wide open. That’s what brings me down here to Fernandon to see you.”

“Really!” said Lefty interestedly. “You seem to be shouldering a lot of responsibility.”

“I am,” chuckled Charles Collier’s private secretary. “It was all arranged with Mr. Collier before he sailed. He left me with proper authority. I am to sign up the manager for the team.”

“Is that right?” exclaimed Locke, surprised. “Then, according to your own statement, if you want to save the Blue Stockings from being riddled, you’d better be about it.”

“I am,” said Weegman. “That’s why I’ve come to you.”

“For advice?”

“Oh, no!” He laughed heartily. “I don’t need that. I know what I’m about. I’ve brought a contract. I want you to put your name to it. Your salary will be advanced fifteen hundred dollars.”

“The Feds offered to double it. As a pitcher–”

“You’re not getting this extra money on account of your pitching,” interposed Weegman promptly. “I’m offering you the increase of salary to assume the additional duties of manager.”

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.”