“I beg your pardon, Jack, old man,” called a familiar voice. “Recognized you a block away. So this is the way you’re farming, is it?” Kennedy, whirling sharply, found himself gazing into the eyes of Jack Stillman, the _Blade_ reporter. “Hello, boy!” he exclaimed, grasping the newspaper man’s outstretched hand. “What are you doing here?” “Hush!” chuckled Stillman, making an extravagant gesture of caution. “I’m doing a little Sherlock Holmesing for the _Blade_. I’ve followed a trail that has led me right here to this town of Deering.” “You don’t say!” “Oh, yes, I do. I repeat.” “Who are you after?” Although Kennedy asked the question, he knew the answer in advance. “I suppose you’ve been reading the papers right along?” said Stillman. “Then you’ve seen all about the railroad smash, and how Lefty Locke hasn’t been found since that happened.” “I read about it.” “It was proved that he wasn’t among the killed or injured, so, of course, he simply improved that opportunity to fade away. You know, he and Carson didn’t seem to get along right well together. Carson favored Grist, and Grist had some feeling about Locke.” “I thought I had that pretty near cured before they took my scalp,” said Kennedy. “Grist was the veteran with the experience, but he was on the point of going backward. Locke was the youngster without experience, but he was coming like a whirlwind. Both had their supporters, and there were a few who tried to remain impartial. It affected the playing of the team, and I was working hard to restore harmony just when they handed me mine.” “Well, there’s not much harmony left now, and Locke’s gone,” said the reporter. “The Blue Stockings are getting it right and left, and only for the fact that the Specters have had a bad streak they would be out of the running already. The loss of Locke has put the whole team on the blink. Take it from me, Charles Collier is getting sore himself, and there’s liable to be something didding any day. Meantime, I am trying to locate Lefty Locke. Where is he, Kennedy?” “He’ll pitch for me this afternoon,” answered old Jack. CHAPTER XLI THE MAN WHO KNEW “Calls himself Stranger, does he?” muttered Jack Stillman, as he watched the work of Locke from amid the crowd, having taken pains to keep away from the bench of the Deers. “Pretends he’s forgotten his right name or something like that, hey? The whole business is queer. But he can pitch――he can pitch as well as he ever could. If the Blue Stockings had him, with old Jack handling the team, they’d have the championship nailed already.”