Chapter IV: The Unexpected

“That’s not as easy as it sounds, considering that your scouts have raked the field with a fine-tooth comb,” Lefty said slowly as Kennedy awaited his answer. “Have you thought of Liddell, of Minneapolis?”

“Yes, but they’ve had a man drafted from ’em already. It’s the same with McGargle, of St. Paul, and Jerry Knight, of the Internationals.”

“How about―― By Jove! There is a lad who might make good, Jack! He pitched all last season on the Sharks, of the Seaboard League. I saw one of the early games, and he was certainly there with the goods. He kept it up, too, for I got interested in the boy and followed his record. Name’s Temple――Gene Temple――and――”

“Oh, shucks!” interrupted Kennedy, in a disappointed tone. “I know him. He’s nothing but a kid, Lefty. Only out of school a year or so. Bushers need ripening, son. You’re one big exception, of course, but I couldn’t expect that luck again in a hundred years. I’ve got all the raw material I want――and more, too. What I’m after now is something sure.”

“I’ve an idea you’d find this boy worth trying,” was the composed reply; “and you can’t exactly call a Class A League the bushes. Wait till I tell you a few things.”

Without waiting for the manager’s acquiescence, he proceeded to draw from his exceptional memory facts and figures concerning the brief career of this youth from a small Eastern college who had so aroused his interest. Kennedy was bored at first, but soon became attentive.

“Humph!” he grunted. “Mebbe, as you say, he’s worth trying. We can draft a man from that club, too. Hanged if I won’t do it――or, better yet, I’ll let you put through the deal. I’ll have my hands full locating a first baseman, and there isn’t any time to be lost.”

Now that his mind was made up, the manager wasted not a minute in arranging the necessary details. Lefty happened to remember that Temple came from one of the small Jersey towns not far from New York, and it was natural to suppose that he would spend the winter at home. They decided, therefore, that Locke should take the eastbound train which passed through Deering in little more than an hour, and so save a good twelve hours.

Word was sent out to the stableman to hitch up and have the cutter around in half an hour, and the brief interval of waiting was well occupied by a discussion of every possible candidate for the vacant position at first. Lefty made a number of suggestions, and old Jack had become really cheerful when the sound of sleigh bells brought them out of their chairs.

“Mighty glad we’ve had this talk, Lefty,” said Kennedy, with a friendly hand on Locke’s shoulder. “I feel better already. Nail this wonder of yours. Best thing you can do is to bring him South with you. Training for the cubs will start in about ten days, and I reckon you won’t mind coming that early, will you?”

“Not a bit, if I can help any,” said Lefty, sliding into his heavy overcoat. “Don’t come outside. It’s cold after sitting in front of that fire. Good-by.”

He held out a hand, and Kennedy gripped it.

“So long!” cried the manager. “Remember, this Temple wonder is your find, and if he falls down you can expect to be just about scalped by your Uncle Dudley.”

“I’ll have to see that he makes good, then,” returned Lefty.

A moment later the door had closed behind him. He paused a second to pull up the collar of his ulster, for it had begun to snow. A man was coming up the veranda steps, his figure bulking indistinctly through the flying flakes. Lefty wondered idly whether he could be the one who was to drive him to the station, and, if so, why he had left the cutter. The fellow stopped before him, and, with a quick intake of astonishment, the Big League pitcher recognized the unpleasant, evil eyes and rough-hewn features of the disgruntled busher he had encountered on the train.

The recognition was mutual. Uttering an exclamation of triumph, Nelson stepped swiftly forward, his fists clenched.

“So it’s you, is it?” he cried. “This is luck! You slipped away from me before, but there ain’t nobody here to hide behind. Put up your hands! Ain’t you got any nerve at all?”

So amazed was Lefty at the appearance of the fellow there, of all places, that for a second or two he stood perfectly still, staring at him.

“Say, have I got to lam you into showin’ a little fight?” fumed Nelson, shaking a fist in Locke’s face. “If you don’t――”

He stopped abruptly as the door was jerked suddenly open to reveal the spare figure of the Blue Stockings’ manager standing on the threshold, his glance flashing from one to the other of the two men.

“Well,” old Jack inquired curtly, “what’s all this about, Savage? What do you mean holding up Locke on his way to make a train?”

The busher’s blustering manner vanished with ludicrous swiftness before the stern glare of Jack Kennedy. He dropped his lids, and, shuffling his feet awkwardly, began a mumbled, halting explanation.

Of this Lefty heard scarcely a word. He was staring dazedly at the flushed, sullen face of the embarrassed minor leaguer. What under the sun did Jack mean by calling him Savage? He couldn’t be the new pitcher of whom Kennedy had just been boasting. Distinctly Locke had heard the Englishman on the train call him Nelson――not once, but several times.

“Well, beat it into the house, and I’ll talk to you directly,” came in the manager’s sharp, incisive voice. “Now, Lefty,” he went on, when the fellow had vanished, “what the deuce is up? You didn’t tell me you knew him.”

Locke shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t until a few hours ago. I ran into him on the train, and got mixed up in a little altercation. Did I hear you call him Savage, Jack, or was I mistaken?”

“Sure, he’s Savage,” Kennedy answered. “Nelson Savage is the new twirler I was telling you about. What you got against him, anyhow?”

Lefty’s lips parted, and then closed swiftly. “Oh, nothing,” he answered, turning abruptly away. “I was surprised, that’s all. Thought his name was Nelson. Time to get going, Jack. Good-by.”

He ran down the steps, and climbed quickly into the cutter waiting there. Once out on the highroad, headed for the village, the driver resumed his gossipy chat, but discovered his companion oddly reticent.

The truth was that Lefty found it impossible to keep his mind off Kennedy’s new pitcher, and the more he thought about the fellow the greater became his disapproval. Personally he was not in the least troubled by the discovery that this Savage was destined to become a rival. He could hold his own both on the diamond and off. But dissension and ill feeling always play havoc with a ball team, and here were both with a vengeance. Besides, Lefty’s opinion of the newcomer was distinctly unfavorable. A man such as Savage had shown himself to be was not at all the caliber of which first-rate Big League players are made.

“I certainly hope Jack didn’t pick a lemon,” the twirler said to himself, with a troubled frown; “but I’ll be hanged if it don’t look that way.”