The sentence never was finished. At this moment there came a sudden jarring, grinding, crashing sound. A broken rail had given way on a curve, and it shot half the train from the track to strew it into a splintered mass of wreckage along the foot of the embankment. CHAPTER XX THE RETIRED MANAGER Throughout his baseball career it had been the object of old Jack Kennedy to quit the game voluntarily with honors and retire to his little Ohio farm in the town of Deering. Being of a somewhat frugal turn, he had saved from his earnings while in the game enough to pay for the farm to the last dollar, which was a matter of no small satisfaction to him when Charles Collier, the new owner of the Blue Stockings, dropped him from the management of the team in order to give Al Carson that position. Without egotism, Kennedy knew himself to be more capable than Carson; but still he made no protest, and, in spite of his evident regret over bidding the players good-by, he succeeded very well in hiding the sore spot. “I’m done with baseball, boys,” he said. “Henceforth it’s the rural life for me, raising corn and pumpkins and garden sass in general. If any of you ever come through my way, don’t forget where I live. You’ll make a hit with me if you take my wigwam for the home plate and squat on the bench at my fireside.” Kennedy knew full well the real trouble with the Blue Stockings, and it had been his object to break up the cliques and smooth out the wrinkles on the team in his own level-headed way. He knew also that Carson was due to have his troubles, and, like the generous man he was, he had approached the new manager and attempted to put him wise. These advances, however, were not pleasing to Carson, who had cut him short in a way that caused Kennedy to bottle up abruptly. “All right,” old Jack had muttered to himself. “All right, my wise gink. Go your way and see where you land. I’m betting it won’t be on top.” Despite the fact that he had said he was done with baseball, it was no more than natural that he should keep track of the career of the Blue Stockings under the new management, and the sporting department of the big daily newspaper he received regularly by mail was the first page examined. Each day he drove a mile and a half into town to get the two o’clock mail, and the letters he received never seemed to have much attraction for him until he had ripped off the cover of his paper, glanced at the percentage of the Big League teams, and perused the report of the last contest in which the Blue Stockings had participated. While he was doing this his face was a study. Sometimes he would smile, but more often he frowned and shook his head, and occasionally he muttered to himself. Once a man, standing near, was startled to hear him suddenly exclaim: “What’s the matter with the boy, anyhow? Either he’s slumped or Carson’s handing him a rotten deal.”