The first delivery went so high that the cub backstop had difficulty in pulling it down. The second was equally erratic. Lefty flashed a swift glance at the stocky manager, whose face was set in a fierce scowl, and decided that he would have to take a brace at any cost. With an effort which sent a stinging twinge of pain through his bruised shoulder, he whipped over a speedy straight one, which the batter missed, following it by a drop that was quite as deceptive. Brennan’s scowl relaxed slightly, but more than once during the succeeding twenty minutes it deepened again; for Lefty managed to intersperse wild pitches with good ones in a manner which could not help being exasperating to one who knew nothing of the cause. “That’ll do!” growled the manager, at length. “You’re a winner, you are! What’s the matter with you to-day?” Lefty mumbled some excuse about not feeling very fit, and Brennan’s lips curled. “Huh!” he snorted. “Delicate, are you? Rot! Hey, Cy, come over and give this cub a few lessons in first principles.” There was a general grin from the watching group of cubs, and Lefty felt his cheeks burn. He recovered himself swiftly, however, and, at Brennan’s order, took his place with the batters. The fact that he smashed out a clean single the first time he was up before the Hornet’s star pitcher went far toward restoring his own self-respect, even though it had no visible effect on the Argus-eyed manager. Once during the course of the morning’s work Lefty caught Buck Fargo’s eyes fixed upon him, and as he was leaving the park toward noon the big backstop stepped out from the group of regulars and came over to him. “Looks like you were getting in bad with the old man,” he remarked seriously. “First impressions go a long distance with him. I’ve been thinking mebbe we made a mistake in keeping quiet about last night. He’d roar for a bit, but he couldn’t sling it into you like he would if you’d started that rough-house.” “You think it would be a good idea to tell him?” Lefty asked gravely. “That would put him wise to what was the matter with you.” The cub pitcher’s lips twitched. “Don’t you think it would be more sport to see if he could find it out by himself?” he suggested. Fargo let out a guffaw and brought one fist down on Locke’s shoulder with a force which made him wince. “For a cub, you ain’t half bad, kid,” he chuckled. That was all he said. The next instant he had turned away and rejoined his companions, leaving Lefty to jog on back to the hotel alone. But somehow, though he was alone, the cub was far from feeling that depressing isolation of the day before. The morning seemed to have been spent principally in stirring up an old enmity and getting in bad with the manager. But these things did not worry the bush pitcher as they might have done if he had not fancied that he had also made a friend, and one who was well worth while. CHAPTER VIII