“A rah, rah boy, is he?” sneered a voice from the group not far away. “I see his finish.” Lefty knew they were talking about him. He had been aware of the fact for five minutes or so, but this was the first remark which had reached his ears in its entirety. Sitting in a corner of the Hatchford House lobby, he turned his head slightly and met the belligerent glance of a burly, dark-browed, full-lipped fellow of twenty-six or seven, who was lounging against a pillar a little way off. For a moment their eyes clashed, and then Hagin――Lefty had heard him so called, and recognized the name as that of the left fielder on the regulars――laughed disagreeably and said something to the man next him, who glanced up, stared, and turned away with just the same sort of laugh. Lefty’s eyes dropped to the newspaper he held before him. In the scant nine hours since his appearance on the field that morning, the wide difference between a bush-league team and an organization like the Hornets had been forced upon him at every turn. In his joy and astonishment at the unexpected offer from Brennan’s scout, to say nothing of the better one which followed it so closely, he had given little thought to what his reception would be by the other players. He was far too sensible, of course, to expect anything like an open-armed welcome, but he had not quite counted on the cold-shouldered indifference which was meted out to him from every quarter. The other fellows were mostly friendly enough among themselves. On the field, in the hotel dining room, and now in the lobby, they gathered in little groups, laughing, joking, chaffing each other in a way which, in no small degree, emphasized the newcomer’s loneliness and isolation. Lefty had tried several times during the day to scrape acquaintance with some fellow who looked pleasant and friendly enough, for he was a chap who enjoyed the companionship of his fellow men, and exactly the sort of joshing give-and-take which is inevitable when a crowd of like-minded individuals get together. His mild little efforts had been met with such brusque, chilling indifference, however, that he speedily gave it up. “I seem to have gotten in wrong from the start,” he reflected, as he sat with his eyes fixed on the paper, though he had read scarcely a word. “Brennan’s sore as a crab because he had to back water before his own men. I wish to thunder he hadn’t! I’d be better off. Then there was that fool exhibition of mine on the field. I suppose they all think I’m swelled up about my pitching, and was showing off. And now they’ve found out I’m a college man. I wonder how they got wise to that. I didn’t mean any one should know, if I could help it; some professionals seem to have such a deep dislike for a fellow who’s been through college. I wonder if Elgin could have dropped a hint.”