During the early part of the evening the behavior of the Hornets was unexceptionable. Some lounged in the lobby, reading papers, or chatting lazily. Most of the cubs were gathered in a corner, discussing the morrow’s game, and perfecting a system of signals for use on the field. Quite a number of the regulars, gathered about the pool tables, indulged in an innocent game of penny ante, or shot craps. A few drifted off early to their rooms. Pop, making a round of inspection a little before nine, decided that all were harmlessly employed, and departed to bed. Instantly the click of cues and balls ceased, card games languished, and a state of general restiveness ensued. Lefty and two or three companions, who had drifted in a few minutes before from the lobby, wondered what was going to happen. They were not kept waiting long. At the end of fifteen minutes Bill Hagin sprang to his feet. “He’s safe,” he announced. “Come on up to my room, fellows. It’s the whole length of the house from his, and we can have a little racket without his getting wise.” The response was instantaneous, for the Hornets, as a crowd, were nothing if not lively. Every regular in the room arose promptly and started toward the door. The three or four cubs present followed more slowly. They had been long enough with the organization to learn the wisdom of not being too pushing. Hagin, glancing back from the doorway, sensed the situation, and grinned. “Everybody come along,” he invited good-humoredly. “We’ll teach you kids the first principles of draw poker.” His remark was general, but his eyes happened to rest lightly on the face of Lefty Locke in a manner which was distinctly challenging. Now, Locke was a very normal young chap, and the tone of condescension rasped him slightly. He fancied he played pretty good poker, and had an idea that even the famous Hornets couldn’t show him a whole lot about the game. Consequently he accepted the invitation with alacrity, and was presently seated at a table in the big double room which Hagin shared with one of the other members of the team. Buck Fargo was on one side of him and Pollock, the red-headed shortstop, on the other. Cigars were produced and lighted, cards appeared, and presently, amid the babble of talk and laughter, Hagin’s voice sounded: “What’ll you have to drink, fellows? Speak up sharp, now; the boy’s waiting.” As he cut for deal Lefty glanced up and saw one of the hotel bell boys standing near the door, order-blank in hand. From the character and number of the drinks he put down, it became swiftly evident that the crowd was certainly making the most of Jim Brennan’s absence. Calls for high-balls, fizzes, gin-rickeys, whisky straights, beers, and ales came from every side. If there were any scattering orders for soft drinks, Lefty did not hear them. The Hornets seemed to agree with Red Pollock that “them soft slops was the worst things a man could put into his stummick.”