Lefty was possessed by an irresistible impulse to see what he could do with the mighty pitcher, Cy Russell. He knew perfectly well that the discomfiture of one of their number might get the whole bunch down on him, but he was a very human individual, with a spice of obstinacy in his make-up. Moreover, he had failed to catch that quick glance of Fargo’s across the field, and so was quite unsuspecting. As Russell faced him, Locke deliberately sent over a drop which fooled the batter completely. A slow floater was equally successful, and a swift, straight one, cutting the center of the pan, completed the discomfiture of the notoriously poorest hitter in the organization. Fargo jeered out something about luck and “goose eggs,” and hustled the next man to the plate. Lefty, throwing prudence and common sense to the winds, resolved to give them what they clamored for if it was in his power. He fooled the batter into swinging at a clever bender, and then, oblivious to the sudden cessation of Fargo’s taunting voice, was just winding up to pitch again when a hand suddenly gripped his wrist, and a harsh voice sounded in his ear: “What the deuce do you think you’re doing, Locke?” Brought to earth, Lefty swung around, and stared for an instant, with mantling cheeks, at Jim Brennan’s angry face. “Gimme that ball!” rasped the manager. Locke handed it over without a word. “I s’pose you think you’re mighty smart showin’ off your cute tricks,” the older man went on, in a cold, biting tone; “but that’s where you fall down――hard. This is batting practice, not a Fourth of July celebration. When I want any fireworks I’ll let you know. Get that? Well, see you remember it. Another stage play like this will be your finish. All around the park, boys, and then back to dinner.” He turned from Lefty with an abruptness which made it impossible for the cub pitcher to say a word in his own defense, and perhaps it was just as well. To tell the truth, there was nothing to be said. Locke realized perfectly that he was totally in the wrong. A moment later, as he caught a glimpse of Buck Fargo’s grinning face, it flashed over him that the whole thing was a put-up job to get him a call. The big catcher could not have failed to see Brennan coming long before the manager got within hearing distance, yet he had kept up his taunts to the last minute in order that Locke might be taken by surprise. “Looks like my luck had deserted me,” Lefty thought, as he fell into the line of men trotting briskly around the field just inside the high board fence. “Haven’t been here an hour before I get a call from the manager and run into Bert Elgin.” At the thought of the latter’s presence in the squad, he frowned deeply. The call-down was swiftly forgotten, but this other annoyance was likely to be much more lasting and trouble-breeding in its results. CHAPTER III THE RIOT AT THE THEATER