“And that’s the man they threw you down for, Jack, is it――after you’d won the championship twice before? It’s always the way in this world. The one who delivers the goods is thrown down for another who’s got the cheek to crowd himself in.” “Not always the way, sis,” contradicted Kennedy, shaking his head. “It sometimes happens so, and when it does pessimists are inclined to say it always happens.” “What are these pessimists ye speak of?” she asked quickly. “I don’t think I ever met one of them.” “You were a bit inclined to be one yourself,” he replied, “until Robert Stranger came to the farm.” CHAPTER XL THE REPORTER Everyone had heard that Locke would pitch again on Monday, and, having seen him wind up the game for Sullivan, their curiosity and interest was whetted to the highest point. Doubtless Bristol would be fierce and determined to get back into the running by downing the Deers, and perhaps he would use again his wonderful new pitcher, who had held the Deers scoreless until Stranger stole home on him in the eighth inning. Naturally that man would be more than eager to retrieve himself in another struggle against Locke. Kennedy was on the steps of the Central House when Bristol, accompanied by two or three of his players, came hustling up from the railroad station. “Hello, Hank!” said old Jack, in a friendly way. “Glad to see you.” “Hello!” growled Bristol. “I s’pose you are. I’d be, if I was in your place. Say, you’ve been having luck, ain’t yer? You put the jinx on us, all right. Think of it, being beat by them Boobs! We’ve got to git back at you to-day, and we’re goin’ to come blame near doing it, too!” “That sounds interesting,” returned Kennedy. “I suppose you’ll pitch Elgin again?” “Elgin be――hanged!” rasped Bristol. “Why, what’s the matter?” “He’s quit.” “Quit?” “Yep. That feller was yaller all the way through. He went to pieces like a stick of dynamite. Didn’t even wait to collect the few dollars that was due him. Jumped a train and got out.” “Well, he _was_ a quitter,” agreed Kennedy. “I’m really sorry for you, Hank. It makes a man sore to be stung in his judgment of a pitcher that fashion.” “Don’t seem that you got stung much in that feller Stranger. Say, who is he, anyhow? You must ’a’ had him yarded out in the outlaws somewhere, or back in the bush, with a string on him, so you could yank him in any time you needed him.” “I had him with a string on him, all right,” confessed Kennedy. “I thought so. Well, we’re going after him to-day. He can’t repeat on us. All the boys are just itching to have another crack at him.” “You’d better buy some ointment for that itching, Hank. I judge they’ll still need it after the game’s over.” “Mebbe so,” said Bristol, walking on, “but I doubt it.” He was not twenty feet away when a young, clear-eyed man came hurrying toward Kennedy, who had turned to call McLaughlin from the hotel.