“Some class there,” Dalton murmured, as the darky hurried away. “When Jack wanted a man he’d stick his head in the door and make the fact known. Nothing like that for this bird, though. First thing you know he’ll be having a bell boy in brass buttons, and one of those ‘Private-no-admission-except-by-appointment’ signs on the door.” From which it may be gathered that the new manager and his methods had not scored a great hit. Lefty nodded agreement, and went on tying his scarf. From the first Carson had not appealed to him. The man knew baseball from the ground up――there was no questioning that fact. His ability at handling men, however, was much more doubtful. Most professional ball players have to be managed with infinite tact and judgment, and, though he kept his mouth shut on the subject, Lefty held the opinion that the qualities which had made Jack Kennedy so successful were lacking to a conspicuous degree in his successor. So far the players had betrayed no signs of a let-down, but Locke had noticed a number of insignificant straws, some no greater than the remark of Laughing Larry, which pointed the direction of the wind pretty accurately. “I’ll wait for you,” Dalton said, as Locke slipped into his coat and gave it a settling shake. “Cut it as short as you can. Don’t forget we’ve got tickets for the theater to-night.” Nodding, the southpaw picked up his hat and left the dressing room. As he walked briskly toward the manager’s office he was wondering with no little curiosity what was wanted. Carson could scarcely mean to put him into the box to-morrow, after having pitched him ten innings yesterday and three to-day; and aside from that Lefty could think of nothing which would require a special interview. CHAPTER VII A GIRL AND THE GIRL Pushing open the door in response to a crisp invitation in the manager’s familiar voice, Lefty stopped on the threshold, an expression of surprise in his brown eyes. Then he removed his hat, with a swift, graceful movement. Carson was not alone. The owner of the club, himself, leaned easily against one side of the desk. Seated in a chair on the other side of the room was one of the prettiest girls the young pitcher had ever seen. Lefty had only time to see that she was very blond and very tiny, with a pair of wonderful deep-blue eyes, which were fixed on his face from the moment the door opened. Then Charles Collier stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “I want to thank you, Mr. Locke,” he said heartily, “for pulling us out of a hole this afternoon. It was especially nervy to keep on at the bat after being hit by that ball.” Lefty smiled as he shook the magnate’s hand. “That little knock didn’t amount to anything,” he protested, in his low, pleasant voice. “It only staggered me for a second.”