Two men sat talking in the room back of the Hotel Imperial bar, New York City. The slim, dark-eyed man, with the tiny mustache, was Melvin McGann, until recently a partial owner of the Philadelphia Athletics. The stout, sandy man, with the red face and red necktie, was Robert Gowan, at one time interested in the New York Giants. “I’m afraid it’s a wild scheme, McGann,” said the latter, in a husky voice, which seemed choked and somewhat smothered in the speaker’s thick throat. “You’re looking for revenge, regardless of consequences, that’s what’s the matter.” “I’m looking for revenge,” admitted McGann; “I admit that. But I’m no fool. The plan is practical. Hurley convinced me of that. We can’t lose much, and we may open up a field that will revolutionize baseball.” “I’m not a revolutionist,” wheezed Gowan. “If there’s money in it, I may be interested, not otherwise.” “Well, there’s a prospect of money in it. It might mean the forming of a new league, with you and me at its head.” “Huah!” grunted Gowan noncommittally. “Why not?” exclaimed McGann. “You know, as well as I, that every year the big leagues ‘try out’ a lot of good men who are not kept simply because there is not room for them. These men are held until after the season is fairly under way and then are dropped. They go to the minor leagues and to independent teams. Many times they are fast enough for the major-league teams, but they fail to land because old-stagers pan out and hold their jobs for another season. I’ll guarantee that this year the two big leagues will drop enough cracking good youngsters to form another fast six-team league. It has been done already.” “And most of the men have secured positions on minor leagues.” “I’m not talking about forming a league—this year. I’m talking about getting together one team, made up of outcasts, that can trim anything playing baseball.” “Can it be done?” “Sure.” “You’ll have to show me.” “Wait till Hurley comes,” nodded McGann, looking at his watch. “He should be here now. He’ll tell you what men he can get hold of.” “He’s a sorehead.” “Yes, he’s sore, and you can’t blame him. He had every reason to suppose he’d make the Cleveland team. He’s one of the greatest stickers in the country. Not even Lajoie can swat the ball harder or oftener. And he’s a great first baseman. As an organizer and captain he ranks with Collins.” “Then why didn’t he get there?” “Jealousy—that’s what he says.” “That’s what he says,” wheezed Gowan. “They all have some such tale to tell after they’re dropped.”