Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager

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.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE FIRST DEAL

“Just in time to get in on the eats, I see,” said the manager of the famous Wolves, shaking hands with Locke. “It’s a rotten night, my feet are wet, and I’m awfully hungry. Only for Kennedy’s message I’d be on my way to Chicago.”

A waiter placed a chair, and he sat down, took the menu card, and quickly gave his order. He was a short, thick-set, shrewd-faced man; his hair was turning gray on the temples, but he seemed to have lost little of the nervous energy and alertness that had been his in the old days when he had been called the swiftest second sacker in the business. He had been an umpire baiter then, but in later years his methods had changed, and never once since becoming a manager had he been given the gate. Nevertheless, while he had gained in diplomacy, he had relaxed no whit in aggressiveness. Led by old Ben, the Wolves fought to the last ditch. “Now, tell me about it,” he requested, turning to Lefty. “How in thunder did you happen to let them rope you into such a mess?”

“You mean–”

“Getting tied up as manager of the Blue Stockings. Boy, you’re the goat; you’ve been chosen for the sacrifice. Somebody had to fall, of course, but it’s a shame that you should be the victim. I’d thought you too wise to tumble into that trap.”

“Then you think it is a trap?” asked the southpaw, feeling the blood hot in his cheeks.

“Of course it is! The Stockings have been undermined and blown wide open. They’ve got as much show this year as a snowball would have in a baker’s oven. They’ll land in the subcellar with a sickening thud, and there’s no way of stopping them.”

“No way–”

“No way under heaven, take it from me! I’ve been in the business long enough to know what I’m talking about. It takes years to build up such a fighting machine, and, when it’s torn to pieces, rebuilding is bound to be another job of years. The public won’t understand. You’ll get the kicks and the curses. As a successful pitcher you’ve been a favorite; as an unsuccessful manager you’ll be about as popular as a rusty spike in an automobile tire. Crowds are always fickle. When a man’s winning they howl their heads off for him; but let him strike a losing streak and they scramble like mad to pelt him with mud and brick-bats.”

“But somebody has to build up a team.”

“Somebody has to start it and get the blame. He’s the goat. Where’s Burkett, who managed the Wolves before I came in? Out in the Border League. Where’s Ashton and Gerrish, who struggled with the Blue Stockings before Kennedy stepped in on the turn of the tide? One’s running a cigar store in Kewanee, the other’s drinking himself to death in Muskegon; both left the game with busted reputations and broken hearts. Where’s McConnell, who tried to make a ball team of the Hornets before Brennan’s day? He took to the coke, and his friends are paying for his keep in a private bug-house. Where’s Decker, who had a crack at the Panthers–But what’s the use! There’s no surer way for a good man to ruin his career than to manage a losing ball team.”

“In that case,” said Locke, “I’ve got to manage a winner.”

Frazer gazed at him pityingly. “Swell chance you’ve got! About one in fifty thousand. You haven’t got the makings of an ordinary second-division team left.”

“I know the Feds have copped off some of our best men, but–”

“Some! Some! I should so remark! But don’t blame it all on the Feds. They were practically invited to come in and take their pick. The bars were let down. All your players knew there was trouble. They heard all sorts of rumors that made them nervous and uncertain. They didn’t see any contracts coming their way to be signed. They knew there was something the matter with Collier. It was even said he’d gone crazy. They knew Kennedy was going to get out from under. There was gossip about old men being shunted and new blood taken on. What they didn’t know was where they were at. It was all nicely worked to get them to take the running long jump.”

“Then you believe there was a plot to smash the team?”

“You don’t have to be a mind reader to get my opinion, but I’m saying this here private, man to man. I’m not goin’ round talking for publication.”

“But you’re wrong about Kennedy getting out; he was dropped.”

“Was he?”

“Sure.”

Frazer twisted his face into a queer grimace. “Old Jack Kennedy was too wise to stick on under any such conditions. He knew what it meant, and I’ll guarantee that he wouldn’t have managed the Blue Stockings this year for twice the salary he got last. What I’ve got against him is that he didn’t put you wise before you tied up.”

“It was on his advice that I consented to manage the team,” replied Locke.

“What?” exclaimed Frazer. “Is that straight? He advised you to–The infernal old scoundrel!”

Locke warmed immediately in defense of Kennedy. The manager of the Wolves listened, uncertain, shaking his head doubtfully.

“He may not have meant it,” he admitted presently, “but he’s got you in bad, boy. You haven’t got a show against the powers you’ll have to buck, and the conditions that were fixed up for you in advance.”

“As to that, time will tell,” said Lefty. “I’m going to make one almighty try. First, I’ve got to plug the gaps. What have you got to sell that I want?”

“Nothing that you’ll pay the price for. I know Collier’s policy.”

“Collier is in Europe, and I’m manager of the team, with full authority to make any deals I please. Here’s my contract.” He placed it before old Ben. “Collier will have to stand for any trade I put through. I’ll buy Smoke Jordan off you.”

“You won’t! I won’t sell him.”

“Then how about Jack Keeper? You’ve got Red Callahan, and I need a third baseman.”

Frazer finished his soup. “I won’t sell you Keeper,” he said; “but I’ll trade him. I need a center fielder in the place of Courtney, who’s retired. I’ll trade Keeper for Herman Brock.”

At first Locke had no relish for a trade that would add to the Blue Stockings infield at the expense of the outfield, even though in his secret heart he knew Brock had during last season shown vague symptoms of slowing down. Then he remembered the list of reserves given him by Kennedy, on which there was one fast, hard-hitting youngster who had been sent back to the Western Canada League, and had made a brilliant record covering the middle garden for Medicine Hat.

“I don’t want to trade, I want to buy,” he persisted. Then, as if struck by second thought: “I’ll tell you what I will do; I’ll give you Brock for two men. That’ll help. We need a catcher. After King broke his leg you found a great catcher in Darrow. I’ll trade you Brock for Keeper and King.”

“Brick King!” exploded Frazer indignantly. “What do you take me for?”

“A business man. You’ve got three first-string catchers now; two are all you need. You don’t even know that King’s leg is all right. I’m willing to take a chance on him. Brock batted over three hundred last season. He’s the hitter you need to fill that vacancy.”

“Not Brick King,” said the manager of the Wolves. “If I didn’t use him behind the bat for the whole season, he’s a fancy pinch hitter. You’ve gotter have pitchers. How about O’Brien?”

But Locke knew that Chick O’Brien, the veteran, had cracked already. Even though on hot days, when he could get his wing to work, he showed flashes of his former brilliant form, and had, under such conditions, last year pitched three shut-out games for the Wolves, Chick’s record for the season showed a balance on the wrong side. The southpaw held out for King. Frazer offered one of the second-string catchers. Lefty waved the offer aside.

“Hang it!” snapped Frazer. “Give me Brock and ten thousand dollars, and you may have Keeper and King.”

“You don’t want much!” laughed Locke. “I’ll give you Brock and five thousand.”

All the way through to the dessert they dickered and bargained. Frazer wanted Brock, and wanted him bad. Sympathetic though he might feel toward Lefty, he never permitted sympathy to interfere with business. Brock was the man to fill the position left vacant by Bob Courtney, and he was sure the Wolves would not be weakened by the loss of Keeper. But Brick King–“What salary are you paying King?” Lefty suddenly asked.

“Five thousand. The Feds got after him, and I had to make it that.”

The southpaw laughed. “With Darrow doing most of the backstopping, and Larson ready to fill in any moment he’s needed, you’re going to keep a five-thousand-dollar catcher on the bench for a pinch hitter! I just called you a business man, but I feel like taking it back. Isn’t Madden likely to kick over a five-thousand-dollar pinch hitter?” Madden owned the team.

“Madden be hanged!” rasped Frazer, biting off the end of a cigar he had taken from his case. “I’m the manager! Madden isn’t always butting in and paring down expenses, like Collier.” He pulled vigorously at the cigar, while the attentive waiter applied a lighted match.

Lefty had declined a cigar. He smoked occasionally, and would have done so now, but to do so would indicate an inclination to settle down and continue the dickering, and he had decided to make a bluff at bringing the affair to an end. He called for the check, and insisted on paying the bill for both.

“Sorry I’ve put you to so much trouble, Frazer,” he said. “It was Kennedy’s idea that I might do business with you, but it’s evident he was mistaken. I’ve got some other cards to play, and time is precious.” He settled the bill and tipped the waiter.

Old Ben sat regarding Locke thoughtfully, rolling out great puffs of smoke. The younger man was about to rise.

“Hold on,” requested the manager of the Wolves. “You’re a regular mule, aren’t you? How do you expect to make a trade without compromising at all? You won’t even meet me halfway, confound you! You–”

“I’ll own up that I was a bit hasty,” said Lefty, showing a nervous desire to get away. “I made that five-thousand offer without thinking much, but you understand I’m rather desperate. If Collier were here, he’d probably put the kibosh on it–if he found out before the trade was closed. After that he’d have to stand for it, no matter how hard he kicked. Let’s forget it.”