The cubs were in high spirits, eager for the chance to win their spurs. As he watched their antics on the way out to the park, Lefty felt a pang of envy. He would have given anything to have that same snap and ginger, instead of feeling the lassitude and weariness which gripped him. Several of his teammates asked if he wasn’t feeling well, but he forced a laugh, and put them off. He would rather have died than give up his place to Bert Elgin. When the time came for him to go into the box surely he would brace up and be more himself. Halfway out to the field Andy Whalen, the cub catcher, came up, and they discussed briefly the signals which had been talked over the night before. Lefty wished desperately that he had gone off to bed directly afterward, instead of strolling into the pool room and allowing himself to be drawn into that game in Hagin’s room. Regrets were unavailing, however. Though some one had given him the double cross, Lefty realized that he alone was to blame for making the opportunity. Then and there he registered a silent vow that nothing under heaven should ever again induce him to deviate a hair’s breadth from his manager’s rules of training. And then he wondered whether that resolution had been made too late. The teams had ten minutes’ practice in which to warm up; then the coin was tossed. The Yannigans won, and, choosing the field, romped gayly out to their positions, tossing up gloves, yelling persiflage at one another, and altogether behaving coltishly. Lefty was with them, but not of them. He had never in his life felt in poorer condition for pitching. His head ached, and he was as tired and drooping as if he had not slept in forty-eight hours. But he could not bring himself to beg off, and there was no other way out. He caught the ball from Brennan, who acted as umpire, shot a swift, appraising glance at the manager’s impenetrable face, and then took the signal from Whalen. CHAPTER XII LEFTY’S FAILURE The call was for a curve ball, and Lefty did his best to respond. Unfortunately he put so much curve into it that the sphere missed the plate by at least two feet. Whalen looked surprised, but said nothing. Lefty felt the blood rushing into his face and making his head pound more than ever. The backstop then signaled for a fast straight ball, indicating with one hand that it was to cross the batter’s shoulders. It was straight enough, but woefully lacking in speed, and Carl Siegrist promptly hit it on the trademark and dusted to first. Had this been a championship game, the rangy infielder, who had hit well over three hundred for several seasons, would have made it good for two bags, or even three. Siegrist, like all the other old men, did not believe in straining himself unduly, however. He took things easy, and camped on the initial sack. “Rotten!” snapped Ogan, from first. “What in Sam Hill’s the matter with you, Locke?”