Lefty straightened himself with a great effort. “Nothing,” he said, with laboriously distinct enunciation. “I’ve got a sort of headache. The bad air, I guess.” Then the men drifted over to the other table, bent on breaking up the game there, and Locke was left alone. He had given up wondering what was the matter with him. His one thought was to get out of the room while he could. Slowly he turned and faced the door. A shout of laughter, followed by the sounds of a good-natured rough-house, told him that the attention of the others was occupied for the moment. He let go his hold on the chair, reeled, recovered himself with an effort, and, with set teeth, slowly, laboriously crossed the room. It seemed an eternity before his hand touched the panels and fumbled for the knob. The next he knew he was in the still darkness of the hall, steadying himself against the wall. Somewhere in his head a sledge hammer was beating on an anvil. He wondered hazily how long flesh and bone could stand it. He took a step forward. Where was his room? Was it on this floor or the next? At last he remembered, and began a slow, painful progress down the hall. Several times before reaching the stairs he fell, but at last he struck the bottom step and began to crawl up on hands and knees. His room was directly opposite the elevator, or he would never have reached it. The door was, luckily, unlocked, and he managed to step in and close it behind him. As his finger instinctively pressed the electric button close at hand, flooding the room with light, he gave a sudden stifled cry. He was to pitch to-morrow in the first practice game of the season. The remembrance stabbed through his fading senses like a knife. He had meant to show Brennan what there was in him. He had planned to strain every effort in order that the manager should forget his first unfortunate fiasco. And now―― He groaned aloud. Then, with a long, shuddering sigh, he felt his legs crumple under him. A black curtain fell before his eyes. CHAPTER XI ALL IN When Lefty came to himself the electric lights were still blazing in sickly opposition to the bright sunshine which poured through the two windows. For a moment or two he lay wondering what had happened and why he was stretched out on the floor, fully dressed. Then the dull, throbbing pain in his head brought him to a sitting posture, with a groan. He glanced at the bed and saw that it was untouched. He looked up dazedly at the cluster of lights, then down at his rumpled shirtfront. The glitter of his gold fob caught his eye, and, with an effort, he pulled out his watch. “Twenty-five minutes to eight,” he muttered. “Time I was getting――” He broke off abruptly and drew his breath with a swift intake as he remembered. The game was to begin at eight-thirty. He was to pitch for the Yannigans!