Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager

Crouching like a creature stung by the pitiless lashing of a whip, the accused wretch appealed chokingly to the officers who had arrested him: “Don’t let him touch me! Look at his eyes! He’s mad! Keep him off! Take me away!”

“Yes, take him away,” said Jones. “And if he doesn’t get a prison sentence for this last piece of work, I’ll keep after him until he’s punished for his other crimes.”

“Take him away!” said Charles Collier, with a wave of his hand.

Tottering weakly, the rascal who had met retribution at last was led out.

The rejoicing players were stripping for their showers. Locke and Jones appeared among them.

“Boys,” said Lefty, “let me introduce Martin Bowman, whom you have hitherto known as Jones. For reasons of his own, he made a vow never to speak until a certain thing should happen. Happily, events now make it possible for him to talk.”

“For which I am very thankful,” said Martin Bowman quietly.

They stared at him in limitless astonishment. At last Spider Grant said:

“Well, this game to-day was enough to make a deaf-and-dumb man talk!”

Eph, the colored rubber, touched Locke on the arm.

“Yo’ wife and a pahty o’ frien’s am outside, sah,” he said. “Dey said as how dey’d wait fo’ you.”

“Tell them I’ll join them as soon as possible,” directed Lefty.