Fargo grinned as he saw the damage. “Won’t you be stiff and sore to-morrow morning!” he chuckled. “It’s lucky you can lay it to the first day’s practice. Say, kid, how in thunder did you two start that riot? You look like a peaceable guy to me.” “I didn’t start it,” Lefty returned swiftly. “I broke into the game afterward.” “Humph! Let’s hear about it.” Briefly, Lefty told him what little he knew about the beginning of the trouble. He said nothing of his dislike for Bert Elgin, but Fargo must have guessed it from his manner. “So that’s it?” the catcher commented. “I gather you two ain’t very chummy.” “Not exactly,” Lefty returned shortly. Fargo eyed him curiously. “Then why did you butt in? He started the muss, and I should say he deserved what he got.” “But the whole push was against him,” protested Locke. “I couldn’t sneak off and let them hammer him to pieces.” “Strikes me that _he_ sneaked,” Fargo said swiftly. “When I came across the street to see what was doing, there wasn’t any use trying to get near the front, so I made for the corner to see if I could get a glimpse over the top of that tipped-over ticket cage. I hadn’t been there a minute before Elgin came crawling out from underneath. He was so blamed scared that I hadn’t more’n got out of him that you were in there alone when he beat it. Looks like it didn’t worry him any to leave you alone for the bunch to hammer.” Lefty smiled faintly. “Can’t help that. It was up to him. I’d have hated myself if I’d gone away and left any man in that kind of a hole.” He hesitated an instant, the color rising to his face. “Besides, even if we aren’t friends, he’s――one of the bunch.” Fargo stared at him oddly; then he broke into a laugh. “Time we was both in bed,” he said abruptly. “Don’t forget to keep your trap shut about this to-morrow. You was there and got a love tap or two in the scuffle. Lucky the old man can’t see that chest of yours.” Outside the door he paused, the queer look in his eyes again. “One of the bunch!” he muttered aloud. “Well, I’ll be hanged!” CHAPTER VI WHO WAS TO BLAME? On his way in to breakfast next morning, Manager Brennan bought a copy of the Ashland _Morning Chronicle_ to glance through during the progress of the meal. Having seated himself and given his order, he spread open the sheet. The first thing to catch his eye was the flaming headline, “Palace Theater Wrecked by Mob.” Having heard echoes of the affair the night before, the manager glanced over the account with interest. Halfway down the column he stopped short, clutched the paper, and stared with bulging eyes and purpling cheeks at a certain short paragraph: