A modern Big League team is very much like an overgrown family. The men are together every day, and all day. At intervals they spend long hours cooped up in Pullman cars, always putting up at the same hotels while on the road, and frequently the majority of players belonging to a club stop at one particularly favored place at home. They miss little going on about them. As a result of this intimacy it was not long before Locke’s altered demeanor became a topic of discussion among the Blue Stockings. “I’d like to know what’s worrying the boy,” remarked Spider Grant early one afternoon in the dressing room. “He’s been going round for three or four days with a face a mile long.” He paused in his leisurely preparations for the game, and glanced inquiringly from one to another of the half dozen men who lounged about the room in various stages of undress. “He’s sure got a grouch,” agreed Rufe Hyland, intent on the adjustment of his sliding pads. “Ain’t seen him crack a smile in so long I’ve forgot what he looks like grinnin’. Mebbe he’s peeved at the way Carson’s been runnin’ him in at the tail end of games to pull us out of holes. Bein’ a life-saver an’ gettin’ no credit’s enough to get any man raw.” “That’s true enough,” agreed Grant. “He hasn’t had a whack at a straight game for over a week. Still, that wouldn’t turn a decent fellow like Lefty into a chronic grouch; he’s got too much sense. No, he acts to me like he was in love, and his girl had given him the double cross or something. How about that, Larry? You ought to know.” Dalton, wearing little more than his usual smile, shrugged his muscular shoulders and bustled among the contents of his locker. “Wouldn’t wonder if you’d hit it, Spider,” he returned, straightening up with a flannel shirt in his hands. “He has got a girl――regular peacherino, too――and I’ve got an idea that she has cross-signaled him lately. He spends half his time writing letters, and tears most of ’em up. That’s a bad sign, you know.” “Huh!” growled Hyland. “This skirt business makes me sick. There ain’t a thing in it. I’ve been hitched twice, and divorced the same number――an’ never again. I wouldn’t make sheep’s eyes at the best-lookin’ dame in this town, believe me. They git a fellow so fussed that he don’t know whether he’s afoot or horseback. If some female’s throwed the kid down, an’ that’s what he’s grouchin’ about, take it from me he’ll be bustin’ up on the mound one of these days――an’ then where’ll he come off at?” “Where’ll _we_ come off, you mean,” retorted Grant, with a frown. “He’s the best all-round flinger in this outfit, and if he goes to seed then go-o-od night post-season series.” There being no other pitchers present, the statement passed uncontradicted. Grant slipped out of his street trousers, carefully folded them, and turned again to Dalton. “Can’t you find out if that’s it, Larry?” he asked. “If it is, we ought to do something to――” “Cheese! Cheese!” warned Kid Lewis. “Here he comes.”