The train had been in motion for twenty minutes or so, and the occupants of the Blue Stocking special car were beginning to settle down for the evening when Al Carson appeared in the doorway of his stateroom. For a moment or two he stood there, frowning, his glance passing indifferently over the brisk poker game with its several interested onlookers which was going on near him, past the lounging players engaged in idle talk or immersed in newspapers. There was a sudden tightening of his lips, however, as his eyes finally came to rest on the sprawling figure of Lefty Locke, hunched in the corner of a seat well forward. A moment later the manager stood looking down on the southpaw, with narrowing lids. “Been whining around a petticoat, have you?” he sneered. Lefty’s eyes veered suddenly from the window to the manager’s face. “What’s that?” he snapped. “I said you’d been whining around a skirt, complaining that I was using favoritism with the pitchers. You weren’t man enough to put up your kick to me; you had to go bawling about it to Collier’s daughter, so she’d work her father――” “That’s a lie!” rasped Locke, his face crimson. “A lie, and you know it!” His eyes were flashing, his fists were doubled; every muscle of his big frame had suddenly become tense and hard as a panther’s crouching for a spring. The manager himself turned suddenly livid with anger. For a moment, to the three or four players sitting near enough to observe what was going on, it looked as if another second would bring about a rough-and-tumble scrap. Just in time, however, Carson, realizing the danger of the situation, managed to get control of his temper. “_Is_ that so?” he sneered. “Perhaps you can explain how Miss Collier came to draw the old man’s attention to the fact that you hadn’t pitched a straight game in over a week.” “Not being a fool,” Lefty snapped back, “it’s quite possible she discovered it by simple observation. Everybody else is wise to the fact that ever since you took hold of the team you’ve been using me to win games for the precious pitcher you’re so stuck on.” Carson caught his breath swiftly and turned white with rage. “What the deuce――” he blustered. “Who――” “You know well enough who I mean,” retorted Locke. “If you don’t, then ask any man on the team, and you’ll find out quick. I’m not kicking; I’m simply stating facts. You’re manager of this team, and you’ve got the right to run it any way you choose. But there’s just this, _Mister_ Carson: in future we’ll dispense with any more talk about my currying favor with the owner, either through his daughter or in any other way. When I’m ready to kick about anything, I’ll come to you and do it. Believe me, you’ll know it!” “What do you mean by such talk?” frothed Carson, his face purple. “I’ll fine you――”