He lunged at Schaeffer, who stepped back swiftly and threw up his hands. In an instant the crowd surged around him, shutting out those of his friends who were racing to his assistance. Fargo was on the point of swinging at the Texan’s jaw when suddenly the fellow staggered, his face contorted with pain, a yell issued from his bloodless lips. “I’m spiked!” he cried furiously. “Lemme get my hands on the dog that did it! I’ll――” His eyes met those of Lefty Locke, who stood close beside him on the right, and in a second both arms shot forward, his muscular fingers fastening with a convulsive grip on the southpaw’s throat. “You hound!” he frothed, emphasizing each word by a vicious shake. “You’ve put me out of business. I can’t play for weeks. It’s my left――” At this point Locke recovered from his astonishment, and, with a desperate effort, managed to tear the hands from their choking hold. “I never touched you,” he denied. “I wouldn’t――” Wild with pain and rage, Schaeffer frothed out an insult, and Lefty promptly dealt him an open-hander on the mouth. Cries of approval greeted the blow. Fargo was trying to get into the mix-up, and others showed their desire to have a hand in the Texan’s punishment. The latter’s fist shot out, but Locke parried skillfully. Three or four of the visiting team arrived on the run, and a general fight was imminent. The crowd was suddenly thrust aside, and Jim Brennan appeared. “Stop that!” he roared, grasping Lefty’s wrist and stepping between the men. His face was purple with anger, and his eyes glowed like twin sparks. “What do you think you’re doing?” “He spiked me!” snarled Schaeffer. “The cur spiked me! Look at that foot.” The manager glanced downward, and saw instantly that Schaeffer was not bluffing. Across his left shoe, the gouging marks of spikes were plainly visible. On one of them a faint crimson smear was showing. Brennan frowned and raised his eyes. “Somebody stepped on you by accident,” he said shortly. “It’s a lie!” rasped Schaeffer. “He done it a-purpose. I felt his foot jab down on me. He had it in for me all along.” “Who are you talking about?” Brennan asked. “Him!” retorted the pitcher, glaring at Locke. “I knew he’d be up to some dirty trick.” Lefty met the manager’s searching glance with perfect calm. “I never touched him,” he averred emphatically. “I was itching to smash one into him for knocking Dolly out, but spiking isn’t my style.” “Humph!” Brennan’s keen eyes roved around the circle of faces. “Anybody know anything about this?” he demanded. There was a chorus of denial, and the manager turned back to Schaeffer. “I’ll look into it,” he promised. “I’ll stand for anything but dirty business, and any man who’d do a thing like this gets the gaff, I don’t care who he is.”