“I’ll take a chance,” Lefty laughed. “I’ve been up against some tough characters before, and perhaps even this Texas steer can’t put much over me.” “That remains to be seen,” chuckled Stillman. “The old man’s heading this way with Ogan, and from the expression on his face I should say you’d been chosen for the goat.” His surmise proved to be correct. “You’ll start the game to-morrow, Locke,” the manager said abruptly, as he halted by Lefty’s chair. “I’m told this Schaeffer is a roughneck, so look out for squalls. No matter what he does, don’t let him badger you into anything. I’ll see to it that he’s kept within bounds, but them kind of ball players is so full of tricks you can’t catch ’em all. You and Ogan and Fargo better get together to-night and fix up your signals.” After Lefty and the cub captain had departed to hunt up their backstop, Jim Brennan stood for a moment looking at Stillman out of the corner of his eye. The latter was one of the few reporters with the squad that year who knew baseball from the ground up, and the stories he sent home to his paper usually had the manager’s entire approval. “You don’t seem much fretted about putting your cubs up against this young sagebrush fellow,” the newspaper man remarked presently. Brennan’s eyes twinkled a bit. “I ain’t,” he admitted. “Likely they’ll get the pants licked off ’em, but that’ll do ’em good.” CHAPTER XXVIII A BAD BEGINNING As the Broncs spread out on the field for preliminary practice, their opponents looked them over with undisguised interest. They saw nine husky, sunbrowned fellows, quick, lithe, and snappy in their movements, who scooped up grounders, smothered flies, and lined the ball from one to another without any bungling, hesitation or wooden headwork. They had been playing all winter in the Southern States, and certainly showed the fact in their efficiency and teamwork. They were not really Texans, although posing as such, but, instead, players gathered from various parts of the country. “Looks like a pretty swift crowd,” Al Ogan remarked to Lefty. “If any one should ask me, I’d say we had our work cut out for us.” Locke smiled faintly. “I reckon we can handle them,” he returned. “With Fargo and Pollock in the infield and Hagin at center, I’m not worrying. Each one of those men hit over three hundred last season.” “Exactly,” the cub captain said significantly, “but that was last season. Their averages have been pretty punk this spring. I’m not so sure that the team is strengthened a whole lot by running them in at the last minute.” “Personally, I’m mighty glad to have Fargo behind the pan,” said Lefty. “Whalen isn’t bad, but there’s not another backstop in the country who can teach Buck anything. Well, there goes the umpire. It’s up to us to show these bucking broncs that they’re not the whole shooting match.”