His voice dropped to a whisper, and Lefty walked away, his face slightly flushed, his eyes bright. Jack Kennedy was a manager who never hesitated about blowing up his men, and he could do it in a cutting, caustic manner much more thorough than mere loud-mouthed ranting. He had also the much rarer trait of judicious praise, which was, perhaps, one of the reasons why he was so popular with his players. The second inning presented no such spectacular features as had appeared in its predecessor. Elgin, cool, confident, and a little cocky, did not let a man pass second. The fans were beginning to yell rough pleasantries at him, and reporters who had been with the Hornets through the spring training harked back to the prophecies they had sent home regarding this youngster’s exceptional ability. Locke, on the other hand, was touched up for two singles, and had men on first and third with only one out. One of these was caught while trying to steal second, and put out by Nelson’s beautiful throwing. The other was cantering toward the home plate, with the full expectation of scoring, when he discovered that the southpaw had reached forth a bare hand and plucked the batted ball out of the air, thus spoiling a base hit and ending the inning. “Great work,” chuckled Jack Stillman, up at the reporters’ table, as he reached for his tobacco pouch. “Great luck, I should say,” retorted the newspaper man next to him. “Looks to me like a fine case of horseshoes.” “I’m not so sure about that,” put in the sporting editor of the _Blade_, who sat on Stillman’s other side. “The boy seems to have a little gray matter, and there’s a bulldog expression about his mouth and chin which makes me think he’ll stand the pace longer than this Elgin, who’s beginning to strut a little already. You saw quite a little of him down at Ashland, didn’t you, Jack?” Stillman did not answer. With the leather pouch, he had pulled from his pocket a crumpled envelope bearing the postmark of that very Texas town. For a second he stared at it in a puzzled way. Then he remembered. The hotel clerk had handed it to him just as he was leaving for the game with a bunch of fellows, and he had put it aside, intending to read it later, only to forget its existence completely. With a swift jerk of one finger, he tore the envelope open. There was a long letter in the cramped, laborious handwriting of William Bowers, the ex-sergeant, but that was not what his eyes were fixed on with such curious intentness. He had received many of those letters in the past month, and all to no purpose. What he had never had before was this inclosure, an affidavit bearing the seal of a notary public and signed by one Edward Black, and several witnesses. With a swift-drawn breath, Stillman fairly raced through the document, his face flushing, his eyes snapping, an expression of the most intense satisfaction swiftly overspreading his countenance.