Argument was futile. His mind was made up. He told no one his plans. It seemed doubtful whether he had made any. He simply said good-by and went his way, leaving behind ripples of discussion and conjecture, which swiftly spread out with ever-lessening volume until, like the departed pitcher, they vanished as if they had never been. Fargo’s one consolation was in Jack Stillman. He found the newspaper man’s feelings in perfect accord with his own. There was one difference, however: while the big backstop was ready and eager to do anything in his power to rehabilitate his friend, no way occurred to him; it was Stillman’s brain, trained by three years of reporting on a metropolitan newspaper, which hit upon the only possible manner in which that could be done. “We’ve got to find the boy who delivered that message,” he said tersely as they left the station. “If we can get hold of him and manage to choke the truth out of him, we ought to be able to nail this crooked trick fast to the man who put up the job.” He began working to that end at once. But the time was very short. The two squads――cubs and regulars――were leaving that very afternoon, and the task of finding an unknown boy in the few hours remaining, even though he had been foresighted enough to obtain an accurate description of the fellow from Lefty, was next to impossible. As it was, Stillman risked a call-down from his editor by staying over a day at Ashland. When he finally left to catch up with the team he was scheduled to accompany North, he had found no clew, but had placed the matter in the hands of a retired member of the San Antonio police force living in the smaller town. William Bowers was shrewder than the ordinary run of officers. He had been a sergeant for years, and time hung heavily on his hands. He might succeed, and he might not. Stillman felt that the result would be a toss-up. But it was the best he could do. CHAPTER XXXVII OPENING THE SEASON Slowly and leisurely the Hornets zigzagged their way northward, pausing here and there to play an exhibition game with some minor-league team, which was usually won by headwork and experience rather than by any extraordinary display of hitting. Even after the regular period of work at the training camp, the big fellows were not wielding the hickory with special effect. They shaped rapidly into condition, however, and, when the time came to face some of the stronger teams of the minor-league clubs above what was once known as Mason and Dixon’s line, they did not disgrace themselves. Finally, with much rejoicing, the metropolis was reached and the two squads reunited. Jim Brennan, his mind finally made up after weeks of close watching and weighing, proceeded to discard the few remaining recruits who, in his opinion, had shown themselves not quite ripe.