A moment later the young southpaw entered the dressing room, curtly responded to jovial greetings――somewhat forced――from the other men, and strode over to his locker. His forehead was corrugated by the frown which had become habitual of late. His eyes were somber. He made no attempt whatever to join in the conversation which swiftly started up again, seeming, in fact, to be almost oblivious to what was going on. He answered two or three direct questions in monosyllables, stripped off his clothes with an absent sort of haste, got into his uniform in much the same manner, and departed, wrapped in gloom, without having volunteered a single remark. As he disappeared into the corridor, the other players eyed each other significantly. “I never thought to see Lefty Locke with a face like that on him,” commented Dirk Nelson mournfully. “Why, the boy used to be the life of the whole crowd.” “If it _is_ a girl who’s responsible,” growled Hyland viciously, “she’d ought to be massecreed. There ain’t a woman livin’ that’s worth makin’ all that fuss about.” Spider Grant finished lacing his shoes, and stood up, stamping. “Try if you can’t get wise to the game, Larry,” he said abruptly. “I don’t know as we can do anything, but it’ll be something to be sure. He’ll loosen up to you sooner’n to any of the rest of us.” Dalton agreed, but without any great exhibition of confidence. He had noticed a marked reserve on the part of Lefty Locke lately, which did not augur well for the extraction of confidences. There was a little more talk on the subject, but it ceased with the arrival of Pete Grist and his bunch of cronies. Soon afterward they all sauntered out to the diamond. The game that day was the last of a series with the Hornets, and the last which would be played on the home grounds for some time. That night would see the Blue Stockings bound for the territory of their greatest rivals, the Specters, after which would follow the final Western circuit. Either the home club had weakened, or the Hornets improved noticeably since their last encounter. The Blue Stockings had won every game, to be sure, but they had won them only by the hardest kind of work; and on two occasions the phenomenal pitching of Locke, put into the box for two and four innings respectively, was all that saved the day. To the fans it seemed a certainty that the young southpaw would start off on the mound to-day, and a murmur of surprise arose when the umpire announced “Pink” Dillon’s name. Dillon was, at times, a brilliant pitcher, but he had been on the sick list for some weeks; and the manager’s mistaken judgment was proved by the fact that he lasted for just two innings, during the last of which the Hornets succeeded in pounding out three runs.