For a moment there was a blur over Lefty’s eyes. Through it he could dimly see the wildly tumultuous mass in the stands and on the bleachers. Mechanically he lifted his hand――his left hand――and touched his cap. And when he did so the great roar suddenly was intensified for an instant, although it had previously seemed that every person present was shouting as loudly as he could. When Locke had reached the shelter of the covered bench, into which he dived for a few moments as one seeking to escape a deadly hail of bullets, he laughed again――queerly, incredulously. “It can’t be for me,” he muttered. “Why, I’m――I’m only a cub yet――nothing but a busher.” Kennedy was at his side. “You’ll show whether you’re a busher or a Big League pitcher to-day, Lefty,” he said. “If you let this reception get your goat, then your name is Mud. But if you can go out there and pitch a winning game, nobody in fast company has got it on you.” “Give me two minutes,” said Locke, gripping himself; “give me two minutes, and I’ll show you.” “Good boy!” said old Jack. “Come out and warm up when you get ready.” He left Locke there, and went forth among his men, all of whom had greeted him on his return as rejoicing children might greet a beloved parent; and every one of whom had shaken the hand of Lefty Locke until Lefty’s arm seemed ready to come off. Not even Pete Grist had held back. Far from it. Old Pete was among the first to strike palms with the southpaw. “The prodigal son!” he cried. “The prodigal son back home! Welcome to our midst, Lefty. We’re going to let you kill the fatted calf this afternoon――the Specters, you know.” “That’s kind of you, Grist, old man,” said Locke. “I’ve brought my little butcher knife with me, and I’m going to sink it to the hilt if I can.” As old Jack came out again from beneath the bench roof, here and there friends in the crowd shouted at him, but now he seemed deaf to all this as he went at work amid his men, directing them as of old, keeping them on the jump, filling them with inspiration and confidence. “Hey, Jack! You’re the old man to do it!” “Kennedy, you can deliver the goods! You did it once, and you will again.” “Welcome to our city, Mr. Kennedy! We have missed you.” “Oh, say, Jack, old boy, you look good to me!” But these cries were faint compared with the renewed chorus of shouts which arose when Lefty Locke, flushed, yet steady and self-possessed, again stepped forth into view. “Oh, you Lefty! Oh, you southpaw!” “You’re the kiddo! You’re the Specter slayer!” “How’s your wing, Lefty?” “Got your batting eye with you?” “Lefty, don’t you dare ever leave us again. You’re home with your own family now.” Kennedy, glancing sidewise at Locke, to notice the effect of this revived demonstration, was well satisfied. Not by a flicker did the southpaw betray the emotion of satisfaction with which his heart must have been filled. He was steady as Gibraltar, and cool as polar ice.