THE FEDERAL POLICY
Weegman was startled. "What--what's that?" he spluttered, staring
upward at the towering figure in white. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I've said," replied the pitcher grimly. "Under no
circumstances would I think of stepping into old Jack Kennedy's shoes;
but even if he were a perfect stranger to me you could not inveigle me
into the management of the Blue Stockings on the conditions you have
named. Management!" he scoffed. "Why, the man who falls for that
will be a tame cat with clipped claws. It's evident, Mr. Weegman, that
you've made a long journey for nothing."
For a moment the visitor was speechless. Lefty Locke's modest,
unassuming ways, coupled with undoubted ambition and a desire to get
on, had led Charles Collier's secretary to form a very erroneous
estimate of him.
"But, man alive," said Weegman, "do you realize what you're doing?
You're turning down the chance of a lifetime. I have the contract right
here in my pocket, with Collier's name properly attached and witnessed.
If you doubt my authority to put the deal through, I can show you my
power of attorney from Mr. Collier. In case sentiment or gratitude is
holding you back, let me tell you that under no circumstances will
Kennedy again be given control of the team. Now don't be a chump and--"
"If I were in your place," interrupted Locke, "I wouldn't waste any
more breath."
Weegman snapped his fingers, and got up. "I won't! I didn't suppose
you were quite such a boob."
"But you did suppose I was boob enough to swallow your bait at a gulp.
You thought me so conceited and greedy that I would jump at the chance
to become a puppet, a manager in name only, without any real authority or
control. It's plainly your purpose to be the real manager of the
team, for what reason or design I admit I don't quite understand. Just
how you hypnotized Charles Collier and led him to consent to such a
scheme I can't say; but I do say that no successful ball team has ever
been run in such a way. You're not fit to manage a ball club, and you
wouldn't dare assume the title as well as the authority; probably you
know Collier wouldn't stand for that. Yet you intend to force your
dictation upon a pseudo-manager. Such meddling would mean muddling;
it would knock the last ounce of starch out of the team. If the Blue
Stockings didn't finish a bad tailender it would be a miracle."
Bailey Weegman was furious all the way through, but still he laughed and
snapped his fingers.
"You're a wise guy, aren't you?" he sneered. "I didn't dream you
were so shrewd and discerning. Now let me tell you something, my knowing
friend: I've tried to save your neck, and you won't have it."
"My neck!" exclaimed the pitcher incredulously. "You've tried to save
my neck?"
"Oh, I know your old soup bone's on the blink; you didn't put anything
over me by dodging and trimming when I questioned you about your arm. You
knocked it out last year, and you've been spending the winter down
here trying to work it back into shape. You can pitch a little against
weak bush teams, but you can't even go the whole distance against one
of them. That being the case, what sort of a figure do you expect to
cut back in the Big League? Up against the slugging Wolves or the
hard-hitting Hornets, how long would you last? I've got your number,
and you know it."
"If that's so, it seems still more remarkable that you should wish to
hold me. Certainly I'd be a great addition to a pitching staff that's
smashed already!"
"Did I say anything about your strengthening the pitching staff? I
offered to engage you in another capacity. Think I didn't know why you
declined to dicker with the Feds when they made you a big offer? You
didn't dare, for you know you couldn't deliver the goods. Having that
knowledge under my hat, I've been mighty generous with you." Weegman
descended to the top step, chuckling.
"Good night," said Locke, longing to hasten the man's departure.
"Think it over," invited Charles Collier's representative. "Now
that I'm here, I'll stick around and watch you pitch against these
bushwhacking Wind Jammers to-morrow. I imagine your efforts should be
amusing. Perhaps you'll change your mind before I catch the train north
at Yulee." His chuckling became open laughter.
Lefty turned and entered the cottage, while Weegman walked away in the
moonlight, the smoke of his cigar drifting over his shoulder.
Certain circumstances had led Philip Hazelton to enter professional
baseball under the pseudonym of "Tom Locke," to which, as he was a
left-hander, his associates had added the nickname of "Lefty." These
names had stuck when he abruptly moved upward into the Big League.
His rise having been rocketlike, the pessimistic and the envious had
never wholly ceased to look for the fall of a stick. Thus far, in spite
of the fact that each year of his service with the Blue Stockings saw him
shouldering more and more of the pitching load, until like Jack Coombs
and Ed Walsh he had become known as "the Iron Man," they had looked
in vain. And it came to pass that even the most prejudiced was forced
to admit that it was Lefty who kept his team "up there" fighting
for the bunting all the time.
Toward the close of the last season, however, with the jinx in close
pursuit of the Blue Stockings, Locke had pushed himself beyond the
limit. At one time the club had seemed to have the pennant cinched, but
through the crippling of players it had begun to slip in the latter
part of the season. In the desperate struggle to hold on, going against
Manager Kennedy's judgment and advice, Lefty did more pitching than
any other two men on the staff, and with a little stronger team to
support him his winning percentage would have been the highest of any
pitcher in the league. It was not his fault that the Blue Stockings
did not finish better than third.
In the cozy living room of the little furnished cottage Locke had leased
for the brief winter months a remarkably pretty young woman sat reading
by a shaded lamp. She looked up from the magazine and smiled at him as he
came in. Then she saw the serious look upon his face, and the smile faded.
"What is it, Phil?" she asked, with a touch of anxiety. "Is anything
wrong?"
He sat down, facing her, and told her all about his interview with Bailey
Weegman. As she listened, her mobile face betrayed wonderment, annoyance,
and alarm.
"It's a raw deal for Kennedy," he asserted in conclusion; "and I
believe it's wholly of Weegman's devising. I'm sure, when the season
ended, Collier had no idea of changing managers. There isn't a more
resourceful, astute man in the business than old Jack."
"You're always thinking of others, Phil," she said. "How about
yourself? What will happen to you if you don't come to Weegman's
terms?"
"Hard to tell," he admitted frankly. "In fact, I've been wondering
just where I'd get off. If my arm fails to come back--"
She uttered a little cry. "But you've been telling me--"
"That it was growing better, Janet, that's true. But still it's
not what it should be, and I don't dare put much of a strain on it. I
don't know that I'd last any time at all in real baseball. Weegman
is wise, yet he offered me a contract to pitch and to manage the team. On
paper it would seem that he had retained one star twirler for the staff,
but if I failed to come back we wouldn't have a single first-string
slabman. As a manager, I would be sewed up so that I couldn't do
anything without his consent. There's a nigger in the woodpile, Janet."
She had put the magazine aside, and clasped her hands in her lap. He went
on:
"It looks to me as if somebody is trying to punch holes in the team,
though I don't get the reason for it. Following Jack Kennedy's advice,
I've invested every dollar I could save in the stock of the club. As
Weegman says, it's doubtful if the stock would bring fifty cents on the
dollar at a forced sale to-day. Collier has met with heavy financial
reverses in other lines. He's sick, and he's in Europe where no one
can communicate with him. Is somebody trying to knock the bottom out
of his baseball holdings in order to get control of the club? It looks
that way from the offing."
"But you," said Janet, still thinking of her husband, "you're not
tied up with Weegman, and the Federals have made you a splendid offer.
You can accept that and land on your feet."
He smiled, shaking his head slowly. "There are several reasons why I
don't care to follow that course. The first, and strongest, is my
loyalty to Jack Kennedy, the man who gave me a square deal. Then I
don't care to bunko anybody, and unless my arm comes back I won't be
worth the money the Feds have offered for my services. Lastly, I'm
not sure the new league is going to be strong enough to win out against
organized baseball."
"But you've said that they seem to have plenty of money behind them.
You've said, too, that their plan of dealing directly with players,
instead of buying and selling them like chattels or slaves, was the only
system that gave the players a just and honest deal."
"That's right," affirmed Lefty. "Slavery in baseball is something
more than a joke. The organization has been one of the biggest trusts in
the country, and it has dealt in human beings. It has been so that when
a man signed his first contract he signed away his right to say what he
would do as long as he remained in the game. After that he could be
bought, sold, or traded without receiving a dollar of the purchasing
or trading price. He had to go where he was sent, regardless of his
personal likes, wishes, or convenience. He had to accept whatever
salary a manager chose to give him, or get out. Even if his contract
had expired with one manager, he couldn't go to another and make a
bargain, no matter how much the other manager was willing to give him;
the reserve clause held him chained hand and foot. To-day, if the
powers chose, I could be sent down to the minors at any old salary
the minors chose to pay. I could be sold, like a horse or a dog, and
if I didn't like it I could quit the game. That would be my only
recourse."
"It's terribly unfair," said Janet.
"Unfair? That's a tame word! On the other hand, the Federals are
dealing directly with the players. If they think he's worth it, they
give a man a good salary and a bonus besides. The bonus goes to the
player, not to the club owner. Added to that, the Federal contracts
provide that a club must increase a player's salary at least five per
cent. each year, or give him his unconditional release, thus making it
possible for him to deal with any other club that may want him."
"It's plain your sympathy is with the Federals."
"If they're not trying to jack up organized baseball and sell out,"
said Lefty, "I hope they come through."