“Yes; all my mail is forwarded. But of course you’ll make good, Phil. I don’t see how you can have any doubt of it. Just look at the wonderful way you pitched last summer.” Lefty smiled whimsically. “It’s very nice of you to think that, Janet,” he said. “But there’s a lot of difference between last summer and now. This crowd is one of the fastest in the country, and I’ll have to be on the jump every minute of the time to keep up with them. I really do think I have a show, though, and that’s what made me write to you.” “I’m sure you have,” the girl returned positively. “Do you have any games? I’m crazy to see you pitch.” “There’s a short practice game every day, but I don’t know how soon they’ll give me a chance on the slab. I’ll tell you what: If I find I’m going to be used, I’ll tell you or send you word, and you can come out to see the game. If that doesn’t happen before you leave here, you’d better come, anyway; for the playing is worth seeing.” “Good!” returned Janet. “I’d love to come, and I can bring Jean Forsythe. She’s awfully nice, and crazy about baseball.” She paused for an instant, and then went on, more slowly: “I should think, now that you’re in the Big League, Phil, you’d play under your own name. You’re not ashamed to, are you?” “Great Scott, no!” Lefty exclaimed. “What put that notion into your head? You know how impossible it was to use my own name last summer, and, now that I’ve made what reputation I have under the name of Locke, it wouldn’t be good policy to change. You should remember that I have a father, also, who is strongly prejudiced against baseball, and I see no need of dragging the name of Hazelton into it. There’s not much in a name, anyhow. Many fellows take a different one, or have one thrust upon them by the fans.” There was a note of finality in his voice which made the girl realize the futility of continuing the subject. She was wise enough not to try, but after he had gone she could not help remembering Bert Elgin’s scornful remark that a professional could always find plenty of plausible excuses for playing under a name which was not his own. CHAPTER XXI THE YELLOW STREAK “Believe me, fellows,” Bill Hagin said fervently, “that cub, Elgin, is some scrapper.” There was a sniff of incredulity from the half dozen regulars gathered near the plate waiting their turn. They had heard before of these pugilistic prodigies, and were inclined to be doubtful. “I’m from Missouri, Bill,” drawled Russell. “Well, if you’d been up in my room last night, you’d been shown good and proper,” Hagin retorted. “Elgin put it all over One-round Nolan in the prettiest way you ever saw.” At this announcement several of the men began to sit up and take notice; for Ed Nolan, the Hornet’s crack third baseman, was also renowned for his skill with the gloves. “Quit your kidding, Bill,” admonished Red Pollock. “You can’t tell me no cub put it over Ed.”