THE REPORTER
Everyone had heard that Locke would pitch again on Monday, and, having
seen him wind up the game for Sullivan, their curiosity and interest
was whetted to the highest point. Doubtless Bristol would be fierce
and determined to get back into the running by downing the Deers, and
perhaps he would use again his wonderful new pitcher, who had held the
Deers scoreless until Stranger stole home on him in the eighth inning.
Naturally that man would be more than eager to retrieve himself in
another struggle against Locke.
Kennedy was on the steps of the Central House when Bristol, accompanied
by two or three of his players, came hustling up from the railroad
station.
“Hello, Hank!” said old Jack, in a friendly way. “Glad to see you.”
“Hello!” growled Bristol. “I s’pose you are. I’d be, if I was in your
place. Say, you’ve been having luck, ain’t yer? You put the jinx on us,
all right. Think of it, being beat by them Boobs! We’ve got to git
back at you to-day, and we’re goin’ to come blame near doing it, too!”
“That sounds interesting,” returned Kennedy. “I suppose you’ll pitch
Elgin again?”
“Elgin be――hanged!” rasped Bristol.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“He’s quit.”
“Quit?”
“Yep. That feller was yaller all the way through. He went to pieces
like a stick of dynamite. Didn’t even wait to collect the few dollars
that was due him. Jumped a train and got out.”
“Well, he _was_ a quitter,” agreed Kennedy. “I’m really sorry for you,
Hank. It makes a man sore to be stung in his judgment of a pitcher that
fashion.”
“Don’t seem that you got stung much in that feller Stranger. Say,
who is he, anyhow? You must ’a’ had him yarded out in the outlaws
somewhere, or back in the bush, with a string on him, so you could yank
him in any time you needed him.”
“I had him with a string on him, all right,” confessed Kennedy.
“I thought so. Well, we’re going after him to-day. He can’t repeat on
us. All the boys are just itching to have another crack at him.”
“You’d better buy some ointment for that itching, Hank. I judge
they’ll still need it after the game’s over.”
“Mebbe so,” said Bristol, walking on, “but I doubt it.”
He was not twenty feet away when a young, clear-eyed man came hurrying
toward Kennedy, who had turned to call McLaughlin from the hotel.
“I beg your pardon, Jack, old man,” called a familiar voice.
“Recognized you a block away. So this is the way you’re farming, is it?”
Kennedy, whirling sharply, found himself gazing into the eyes of Jack
Stillman, the _Blade_ reporter.
“Hello, boy!” he exclaimed, grasping the newspaper man’s outstretched
hand. “What are you doing here?”
“Hush!” chuckled Stillman, making an extravagant gesture of caution.
“I’m doing a little Sherlock Holmesing for the _Blade_. I’ve followed a
trail that has led me right here to this town of Deering.”
“You don’t say!”
“Oh, yes, I do. I repeat.”
“Who are you after?” Although Kennedy asked the question, he knew the
answer in advance.
“I suppose you’ve been reading the papers right along?” said Stillman.
“Then you’ve seen all about the railroad smash, and how Lefty Locke
hasn’t been found since that happened.”
“I read about it.”
“It was proved that he wasn’t among the killed or injured, so, of
course, he simply improved that opportunity to fade away. You know, he
and Carson didn’t seem to get along right well together. Carson favored
Grist, and Grist had some feeling about Locke.”
“I thought I had that pretty near cured before they took my scalp,”
said Kennedy. “Grist was the veteran with the experience, but he
was on the point of going backward. Locke was the youngster without
experience, but he was coming like a whirlwind. Both had their
supporters, and there were a few who tried to remain impartial. It
affected the playing of the team, and I was working hard to restore
harmony just when they handed me mine.”
“Well, there’s not much harmony left now, and Locke’s gone,” said the
reporter. “The Blue Stockings are getting it right and left, and only
for the fact that the Specters have had a bad streak they would be out
of the running already. The loss of Locke has put the whole team on the
blink. Take it from me, Charles Collier is getting sore himself, and
there’s liable to be something didding any day. Meantime, I am trying
to locate Lefty Locke. Where is he, Kennedy?”
“He’ll pitch for me this afternoon,” answered old Jack.