XLV LEFTY’S TRIUMPH 299 XLVI HOW IT ALL HAPPENED 305 LEFTY O’ THE BIG LEAGUE CHAPTER I GETTING IN BAD “Say, fellows!” sang out Red Pollock, the snappy little shortstop of the famous Hornets. “Look who’s here!” There was a general turning of heads and craning of necks on the part of three or four players waiting their chance to wield the willow in batting practice. “Another Yannigan,” groaned Cy Russell, star pitcher of the organization. “The woods is full of ’em.” “He don’t look much to me, neither,” stated big Buck Fargo critically. “Say, Jim, who is it, an’ where’d you root it out?” Brennan, the short, stocky, belligerent-looking manager of the Big League team, did not answer. With his bushy eyebrows drawn down in a frown over his deep-set eyes, he was staring at the young fellow threading his way through the groups of players scattered about the field at all kinds of training work. The stranger wore a soiled and faded gray uniform, upon the shirt of which was sewn a letter K, and dangled a worn leather glove by one finger. His cap, pushed back on a mane of heavy, dark-brown hair, revealed a clean-cut, pleasant face, dominated by a pair of keen brown eyes, a firm chin, and sensitive mouth. As he took in these details Brennan’s scowl deepened and his bulldog chin protruded dangerously. Catching sight of his face, Pollock grinned and nudged the man nearest him. “Look at the old man,” he whispered. “Something doing.” The stranger came on without a pause, and, a moment or two later, stopped before the manager. His lips were pressed tightly together, but otherwise his face was perfectly composed. “I’ve come to report, sir,” he said quietly. The manager’s eyes narrowed. Several things had been fretting him all morning, and his temper was not even at its uncertain best. “Indeed!” he sneered. “And who are you?” “Locke――Lefty Locke.” “Never heard the name before,” retorted Brennan shortly. For an instant the newcomer seemed taken aback. A faint touch of color came into his cheeks, and he looked at the manager as if wondering whether he could possibly be in earnest. “I――thought――Mr. Toler had written you,” he stammered. “He――said he was going to.” Brennan’s eyes flashed. “Well, he didn’t,” he snapped. “Where’d you come from? What’s your record?” “I pitched last season with the Kingsbridge team of the Northern League,” Locke said briefly. “A twirler!” exclaimed the manager. “Well, I’ll be――” He stopped abruptly, gulped once or twice, and then asked, in an ominously quiet voice: “What did you do season before last?” “Nothing. It was my first year in professional baseball.”