Of course he was speaking of Lefty Locke, and when, later, he saw a printed reference to the southpaw’s poor form, he puzzled still more over the matter. For Kennedy had realized the need of new blood on the pitching staff of the Blue Stockings, and had banked a good deal on the ability of Locke to aid in holding the team in first place. With an excellent overseer on his farm, old Jack did not labor hard enough to hurt himself. The truth was, he found it difficult to step directly from the baseball harness into something so wholly different and so decidedly tame and monotonous by comparison. At times he fretted a little, although he did his best to overcome the restless spells that assailed him. “When an old race horse is turned out to pasture,” he told himself, “it’s a good thing for him to realize that his track days are over.” Now it chanced that the town of Deering supported one of the teams which composed a four-cornered bush league, and, although the loyal citizens had put their hands deep into their pockets to finance the club, the “Deers,” as the local organization was known, were running a rather bad third in the race. This fact was the cause of no small dissatisfaction to Peter McLaughlin, proprietor of the Central House, the principal hotel, and one of the most generous contributors to the fund. In the old days McLaughlin had played baseball a little himself, and he was confident now that he knew just where the trouble with the local club lay. “It’s in the management,” he told the other members of the board of directors. “Sperry made a record as manager for a little jerkwater college club, therefore he thinks he knows all about it. But I tell you he’s no match for old Hank Bristol, of the Buccaneers, to say nothing of Hi Pelty, who’s handling the Stars. Last year, this time, the Buccaneers were in third place, where we are now, and we was banging away trying to get ahead of the Stars. This year we’re down next to the Boobs in the basement, and unless something’s done even that bunch of dummies will get ahead of us. Sperry better throw up his job as manager and stick to his regular business drawing sody water at Folsom’s drug store.” “If he did that,” said Lawyer Gange, secretary of the baseball association, “who’d we get to fill his place? Nobody else wants the job――unless you do, Peter.” “Excuse me,” said McLaughlin. “I’ve got my own business to look after. I’ve coughed up a hundred bucks to back the team, and I’m ready to put in another hundred if necessary, but I couldn’t waste my time trying to run the outfit, even if I knew how.” “Well, that’s the way with the rest of us, so what are we going to do?” “I’ve got an idea. There’s Jack Kennedy home on his farm, and he knows more baseball in a minute than anybody in this town, or in the whole league, for that matter, except possibly old Hank Bristol. If we could get Kennedy to――”