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."
Then Frazer showed that peculiar trait of human nature that makes a
person doubly eager for something that seems to be on the point of
slipping away. In his mind he had already fitted Herman Brock into
that gap in center field that had given him more or less worry. The
adjustment had pleased him; it seemed to balance the team to a hair. It
would give him renewed assurance of another pennant and a slice of the
World's Series money. It was Courtney's hitting in the last series
that had enabled the Wolves to divide the big end of that money; and,
like Courtney, Brock was a terror with the ash.
"You mule!" said Frazer. "Let's go up to your room and fix up the
papers. It's a trade."