It was rather difficult for Lefty to tell what sort of an impression the day’s work had made on Jim Brennan. That astute individual was thoroughly proficient in the art of keeping his thoughts to himself, and it was almost impossible for any one to guess what was going on in his mind. Those who knew him well had long ago ceased to guess. He had watched Locke all day as a cat does a mouse, picking at the least fault, hurling criticisms in that brusque, snappy way of his at the slightest opening, and never once giving his cub pitcher a word of praise. There seemed to be nothing in this to encourage the southpaw. Nevertheless, Lefty knew that he was in good form. He felt that between his work of to-day and that disgraceful exhibition of twenty-four hours ago there was a vast gulf, and he was comforted. And when, along toward the middle of the afternoon, he began to notice quite lengthy periods of silence on the part of his mentor――spaces of five minutes, or even longer, in which the manager could find absolutely nothing to carp at――his spirits began to rise. On the way back to the hotel several of the older men who had been up before him during the afternoon paused and made brief, half-joshing comments on his improvement. Stillman was enthusiastic in his praise, and even one of his brother reporters delivered himself of a more guarded opinion, practically to the same effect. To be sure, the silence of the other cubs was deep and absolute. Not one of them opened his head to Lefty on any subject, much less to tell him that he was doing well. Evidently the ban against him was still in force. In spite of this, however, Locke was feeling more hopeful, more assured, more satisfied that he could make good, than at any time since his arrival at training camp. “I’ll write Janet to-night,” he thought, while he was dressing, “and tell her all about it. I should have done it before, but things have been pretty uncertain.” Janet might have been a sister, but――she wasn’t. Any one observing the length of the letter Lefty wrote after dinner, and the pains taken with its composition, would have guessed that instantly. A fellow rarely sends more than four pages of closely written hotel paper to a relative, and as for tearing up a nearly finished sheet, and rewriting it――well, that settled the question. When the epistle had been carefully sealed and the envelope directed, Locke found he was out of stamps, and purchased some at the desk. He had just affixed one to the letter when Buck Fargo appeared and pounced on him. “Been looking for you, kid,” the backstop announced, taking Locke by the arm. “Come out with me for a little walk. I want to talk to you.”