For an instant Elgin’s face remained fixed; then into his eyes there leaped an expression of such utter astonishment, mingled with hate, that the manager’s words ceased abruptly, and he grasped the young pitcher by one arm. “What is the matter with you?” he asked sharply. Elgin swallowed hard, and his face, which had turned slightly pale, now flamed crimson. “Look there!” he said hoarsely. Brennan whirled and stared at the approaching players. For a second he saw only the line of blue-stockinged men, headed by Jack Kennedy. Then, as his eyes focused on the tall, lithe, graceful figure walking beside Spider Grant, the famous first baseman of the rival organization, his jaw dropped. “I’ll――be――hanged!” he gasped. “Tom Locke!” It was Lefty, browner than he had been a month ago, and with, if possible, an easier swing in his carriage. His face glowed with health. His teeth gleamed as he smiled at some sally of his companion. He showed no trace of the awkwardness or embarrassment which one might naturally expect at his first encounter with the team from which he had been dropped in such disgrace. True, his brown eyes flashed a single questioning glance at one man among the Hornets, but it was seen by no one save that man, who leaped forward as if propelled from a catapult. “Lefty, you old lobster!” he cried, as he gripped both of the southpaw’s hands in his. “What you deserve is a good larruping; and I’d like to hand it to you right now.” There was an odd expression on Lefty’s face as he grasped Fargo’s big fists firmly. For an instant he did not speak. “I didn’t make good, Buck――honest I didn’t,” he said at length in a low tone. “G’wan!” retorted the backstop. “What you giving us? Ain’t you with the Blue Stockings?” “Yes; but I’ve been with them only two days. Kennedy farmed me with the Badgers, down South. I never knew what he thought of me, or what he meant to do, till I got a wire telling me to come on at once. I had a streak of great luck down there, and I suppose――” “Luck be hanged!” interrupted Fargo forcibly. “You made good, just as you would have with us if that miserable sneak―― Say! You ain’t going into the game to-day?” Locke hesitated an instant, and then nodded. “Yes,” he said, lowering his voice. “Kennedy’s going to give me a chance.” Fargo grinned. “Glory be! The old man’s going to put Elgin on the slab. You’ll be up against him at last; and, if you don’t make him look like a rotten lemon, it’s all up between you and me.” For a second Locke stood looking at his friend, with sparkling eyes and swiftly reddening cheeks. His face took on a look of firm, indomitable purpose. Unconsciously both brown, muscular hands, hanging straight down at his sides, clenched themselves until the knuckles showed white through the skin. Then he pulled himself together with an effort, and laughed. “You’re a hot ball player to talk like that,” he joshed. “You sure don’t want your own pitcher to fall down, do you?”