This did not mean that he lacked the capacity for taking things seriously when the need arose, but he believed thoroughly in relaxing between whiles, and in extracting all possible enjoyment out of life. This trait, helped by a fine baritone voice, quick wit, the ability to “put it over” any member of the club with eight-ounce gloves, and almost as great a skill in coaxing popular airs from the strings of a banjo, made him, within a month, the life of the bunch in Pullmans and hotels on the road, no less than at odd moments of relaxation in the clubhouse at home. All this was, of course, of small importance compared with his performance on the diamond. After he had proved his efficiency there, however, by snatching victory from defeat in three or four close contests, the majority of his teammates accepted him without question as one who would “do.” The only exceptions were Pete Grist, whose fame as the most reliable member of the Blue Stockings’ pitching staff Lefty was rapidly dimming, and three or four old-timers who formed a little clique among themselves. “Pipe the old crab!” commented Larry Dalton, as he and Lefty raced in from the showers, and began to get into their street clothes. “Some grouch there, believe me!” Laughing Larry had stepped from a fresh-water college into professional baseball three years before. Being a natural player, he did not stay long with the minors. In Locke he found a kindred spirit, and the southpaw had not been more than two weeks with the Blue Stockings before the two were chumming it as if they had known each other since the bottle days of infancy. At his friend’s remark, Lefty glanced sideways at the scowling pitcher, who was dragging on his clothes in taciturn silence. “Can’t blame him much,” he murmured. “If there’s anything that makes a fellow feel rottener than getting the hook in a game, it hasn’t come my way yet.” “Especially if the man who’s put in happens to be a guy that’s made good in the same way before,” Dalton grinned. “Rot!” snorted Lefty, buttoning his shirt. “When Grist’s right he can pitch the pants off any man in the club.” “Maybe.” Larry’s tone was decidedly skeptical. “I haven’t noticed him putting anything much over you the last month or more. Trouble with him, he’s worrying for fear he’ll lose his reputation of being the one and only genuine old reliable; and when a guy starts in with that sort of ragtime, you can be pretty blamed sure―― Well, Colonel, what’s on your mind?” “Colonel” George Washington Jones, the Blue Stockings’ negro rubber and general handy man, showed his ivories in a glistening smile. “Mist’ Carson says he done laik to see Mist’ Locke in his office right smart, suh,” he explained. “All right, Colonel,” Lefty returned briefly from where he was struggling with a refractory collar button. “I’ll be there in about three minutes.”