But with the departure of Locke from Ashland, followed swiftly by that of the entire squad, the subject soon palled. There was so much else of vital personal interest that even those who had championed the unfortunate pitcher’s cause became more and more indifferent. Some, even, hearing the cleverly phrased traducements which Bert Elgin never lost a chance to utter regarding his former rival, came to the conclusion that they had been deceived. Jim Brennan rarely made a mistake in sizing up a man. There must, after all, have been a yellow streak in the young pitcher which he successfully concealed from all save the lynx-eyed manager. So at the end of one short week it is doubtful whether more than three men out of all that number wasted a single thought on the youngster who had, a brief time before, been so popular with them. Buck Fargo did not forget; he was not built that way. Esteemed as he was among players generally, and adored by the fans, it was, nevertheless, a fact that the big backstop did not usually make friends quickly――that is, what he called real friends, as opposed to pleasant but casual acquaintances. Somehow, Lefty had attracted him from the first. He liked the way the boy had taken Elgin’s part that night at the Palace Theater and stood up unflinchingly against heavy odds. He liked Locke’s attitude with his fellow recruits when they started the boycott against him early in the season. The way the southpaw set out to conquer his faults and improve his playing appealed strongly to Fargo, who had been obliged to labor quite as steadily and strenuously himself before reaching his present enviable position. And when, little by little, he had come to know the youngster better, the Big Leaguer’s liking changed to something deeper and more abiding, which made it quite impossible for him to forget. At first he had been openly angry. He berated Brennan for a blind idiot, and had to be forcibly restrained from punching Elgin’s head. Then he wanted Lefty to stay with the crowd on a chance of the manager coming to his senses. He soon saw, however, what an impossible condition of affairs that would bring about, and reluctantly, though with much outward brevity, said good-by. “You’ll write, of course, and let me know how you make out?” he urged. “I ain’t much of a hand with the pen, but I’ll guarantee to answer every letter right off.” There was a queer expression in Lefty’s eyes. He was finding the phases of the situation even more difficult than he had supposed. It was not easy to keep in place the mask of indifference he had assumed the night before. “I’ll write when I make good, Buck,” he returned quietly. “There won’t be anything to tell you till then.”