“Maybe he does,” growled Carson. “Anyhow, I’m going to give him one.” “It’s likely a few days will put him back into form. My daughter is a good judge of baseball players, and she has confidence in Lefty.” The young man who had entered with the owner moved his shoulders uneasily, and bit his lip. Suddenly Collier seemed to remember him. “Mr. Carson,” he said, “let me introduce a man who wanted to meet you. A friend of myself and daughter――Mr. Parlmee. Shake hands with Carson, Franklin.” “I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Carson,” said Parlmee, as he gave the manager his hand. “And Mr. Hazelton, too,” said the magnate, with a wave toward the southpaw. “Son of an old friend of mine. Unfortunately, his father has a prejudice against baseball, so he’s playing under the name of Locke.” For the first time since the appearance of the club owner and his companion, Lefty’s eyes rested on the face of the latter. In a moment he was vaguely aware that he had seen the man before, but not until Parlmee had bowed coldly, without an attempt to shake hands, did Locke recall the occasion. Then he remembered how in the last home game with the Specters, while he was talking with Virginia Collier, he had seen a young man watching him gloweringly from the stand. This was the same man, and between the two there existed a singular feeling of antipathy, as yet unaccounted for in the pitcher’s mind. Suddenly it seemed to Lefty that everything was against him, the whole world――fate, even. “If there’s nothing more,” he said, his voice cold and harsh, “I think I’ll be going.” “Sullen dog,” said Parlmee, when the door had closed behind the departing man. CHAPTER XVII THE UNAPPROACHABLE LOCKE “Men go stale on college teams,” said Charles Collier apologetically. “Perhaps that’s the trouble with Locke.” “He ain’t stale,” asserted Carson. “That ain’t the trouble with him. Look how he pitched when he wanted to.” “He seemed very erratic to me,” put in Parlmee. “I’ve seen plenty of pitchers like him. They’re never to be depended on.” “But you haven’t seen him at his best,” said the club owner. “This is the first full game you’ve ever seen him pitch. He certainly was reliable enough earlier in the season.” “The only trouble with him is in that swelled bean of his,” declared Carson. “Under Kennedy he was petted and coddled and made to believe he was the real thing, spelled with capitals. As soon as he gets the same deal from me that every other man is getting, and is handled on his merits, he turns ugly.” “I suppose,” observed Collier, “he has an idea that you rate Grist at the top of the list.” “Well, why shouldn’t I? Look at Grist’s record and experience. There’s more baseball in his little finger than this cub has learned yet. If we’d had old Peter on the mound to-day――” “Why didn’t you put him in when you saw the youngster wabbling?”