The night being warm, the doors and windows were open everywhere. There were men and women and a few ragged, shrill-voiced children on the street. Lights shone from the windows and the open doorways. Some carousing sailors went staggering and singing along the street ahead of Tom Fernald. Profanity and the smell of beer was in the air. The appearance at that hour of a man dressed as well as Fernald was enough to cause the Pointers to survey him keenly. However, instead of creating surprise whenever he was recognized—and almost every one seemed to know him—his name was spoken and he was permitted to pass unmolested. Occasionally a man saluted him. No one paid the slightest attention to the trampish-looking young man who slouched at a distance behind Fernald, carefully keeping track of the deposed manager of the Rockford team. This was the chap who had been thrown out of the Corndike barroom. At last the hobo saw the man he was following pause a moment in front of a house from which came the sound of music, dancing, and bacchanalian laughter. The pursuer reeled forward, as if finding it difficult to keep on his feet, and paused at the open doorway to look in. Beyond a short hall was another open door, and beyond that a room in which the dancing was taking place. Fernald had paused in the second doorway. He surveyed the disreputable throng searchingly, and soon singled out a strapping, big youth who was waltzing with a girl. Fernald lifted his arm and the man nodded. A moment later, without asking to be excused, the fellow abandoned his partner on the floor and joined the man in the doorway. “Sorry to bother you, Bingo,” said Fernald. “No bother at all, boss,” was the answer. “Step over by this window,” invited Fernald, who did not fancy the odor of the place. “Want to speak with you a moment, McCord.” They stopped by the open window, neither of them aware that outside that window a man was leaning against the side of the building. “You know the Fairhaven catcher, don’t you, Bingo?” asked Fernald. “Sure t’ing,” nodded the youth, wiping the perspiration from his face with his shirt sleeve. “I know all dem ball players in der whole league.” “Well, I suppose you took my pointer and bet something on the game to-morrow, didn’t you?” “Dat’s what I did.” “I thought likely you would.” “Why, boss, I found some guys dat was bughouse. Dey have an idea dem kids is going to put it all over your team to-morrer. I borrowed ten plunks and shook it at um. De whole ten is up, and I count meself that much ahead. It’s like finding money.” “It was a safe thing as long as I remained manager of the team here, Bingo; but I am out of it now.” “W’at?” gasped McCord, in astonishment. “What’s dat you’re giving us, Tom, old man? Out of it! Ain’t you manager any more?” “No.” “How’s dat?” gasped the excited and astonished Bingo.