THE TWO MANAGERS
A door opened, and a tall, thin man, with a slight stoop, stood on the
threshold, looking down upon the manager of the Hornets. His dark eyes
glimmered and a smile stretched his wide mouth, which transformed the
almost homely face into one that was positively good-looking.
At the sight of him, Jim Brennan sprang up from his desk so hurriedly
that he came near upsetting the revolving chair, and leaped toward the
newcomer with hand outstretched.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “Put it there, Ken, old boy! It sure does a
man good to see your smiling face again. How’s things?”
“Fine!” returned Kennedy, of the Blue Stockings, gripping the other’s
hand. “Couldn’t be better, in fact. You’re looking blooming yourself,
Jim. Taken on a few pounds over the winter, haven’t you?”
“A few, maybe. I can stand it, though. Once fat, a little more never
cuts any ice. Sit down and rest your face and hands. I see you’ve had
a clean sweep so far.”
Kennedy dropped into a chair beside the desk, crossing one long leg
over the other. Though antagonists on the diamond, in private life the
two men were the best of friends, and always enjoyed talking things
over in this way whenever they met.
“We have,” rejoined the taller man when Brennan had settled himself at
the desk again, “won four games straight, which isn’t so bad to start
in the season with.”
Brennan grinned. “Well, you’re up against a team of real ball players
to-day, Ken,” he chuckled. “Doing some stunts with a bunch of has-beens
on the firing line. I’ve a sort of hunch that we’re going to break up
that streak of luck.”
“I should worry,” smiled Kennedy. “I’ve never seen the men in better
shape. We’re going to make ’em all take our dust this year.”
“Humph!” grunted Brennan. “That remains to be seen. Who you going to
dish up for us to knock the stuffing out of――Pete Grist?”
“Nope. I’ve got a man I had farmed out to a Southern independent team,
with a string attached. He turned out to be a regular bush wonder, so I
pulled the string the other day, and yanked him in here to try him out
on you. It’s always best to give a youngster something easy to start
with.”
Brennan laughed. “Say, Ken, that’s sort of funny, though. I was
counting on putting in a dark horse myself. He’s a kid I picked up
last fall. I’ll guarantee right now that he’ll lick the pants off your
Southern wonder.”
“If it wasn’t so much like highway robbery, I’d make you back your talk
up with cash,” Kennedy returned calmly. “As it is, I’ll have to content
myself with a sight of your face after the game.”
Brennan was scoffing at Kennedy’s folly in imagining he could take a
fall out of the Hornets with a raw busher on the slab, when suddenly he
stopped abruptly, frowning.
“Say!” he burst out the next moment. “Did a fellow named Locke come
around for a job within the last month? I meant to drop you a line
about him, but I’ll be hanged if I didn’t forget it. He’s a southpaw,
and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he applied under another name.”
Kennedy shook his head. “No, he didn’t change his name. He couldn’t,
seeing as I knew about him before. He blew in the day before we broke
camp in Georgia; but I was a bit wary when I found out you’d dropped
him that way. He didn’t stay long.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t get stuck with him,” Brennan exclaimed
emphatically. “I’d sort of felt it was my fault if you had, seeing as
I forgot to put you wise about him. Believe me, Ken, he isn’t any use,
but he shows up good at first. It took me the whole training season to
get on to the fact that he’s yellow right through――one of the worst
quitters I ever saw. We’re both well rid of him. Say, look at the time!
I didn’t think it was so late.”
He sprang up as he spoke, and slammed his desk down. Kennedy arose more
leisurely, and together they left the office for the dressing rooms of
their respective teams.