Suddenly he began to feel a touch of anger. “See here,” he said harshly, “maybe your right name ain’t Locke, but you can’t deny that it’s Hazelton. You can’t deny that you’re a baseball pitcher and that you were under my management on the Blue Stockings.” “The Blue Stockings?” said the other. “They’re some. I hear plenty of baseball talk. Can’t help it. But I never did take to the game any. Perhaps it sounds like bunk to you, but I never saw a real game in my life.” “Help!” cried Kennedy. “I’m loony, or he is!” CHAPTER XXIV PERPLEXED The brazen, barefaced manner in which Lefty Locke denied his identity and professed that he had never even seen a game of baseball was simply staggering. For old Jack still refused to believe the man could be any one save Locke himself. What was Lefty’s object? Surely he ought to know that he could not fool his old manager by such a silly subterfuge and barefaced falsehood. That he was trying to “put over” a puerile joke did not appear possible, and certainly there was no twinkle of mirth in his steady eyes, no smile upon his sober face. There was something behind the young pitcher’s denial of his identity which Kennedy could not understand, something which confused as well as annoyed him. He was mustering his wits to begin all over again when suddenly the new arrival said: “I trust you’ll excuse me, pal. I’ll have to wash up before supper, which I see is in progress now.” He glanced in the direction of the open doors to the dining room and turned to the clerk. “Can I have my room now?” he asked. “Your luggage?” questioned the clerk significantly. “I haven’t any. I’ll pay a day in advance. How much?” “Three dollars.” Producing a roll of bills, the man peeled off a two and a one and shoved them across the desk, whereupon the clerk handed the key over to a boy, who invited the guest to follow him. They had not disappeared before Kennedy was surveying the register, on which he found written: “Robert Stranger, N. Y.” “Well, wouldn’t that freeze you stiff!” he muttered. He was still muttering to himself when Landlord McLaughlin appeared. “What’s the matter now, Jack?” inquired the sporting proprietor of the Central House. “You’re growlin’ like a dog with a sore ear. Same old trouble ’bout pitchers, I s’pose?” “I came in to consult with you about that southpaw, Mercer, we’ve been trying to get holt of for a week. I’ve got him to state his terms at last.” “Good,” said McLaughlin. “Bad,” said Kennedy. “He wants sixty a week and board. We can’t afford it, Peter, in this little crossroads town. It’ll take us over our salary limit, too.” “We’ve got to have a fust-class pitcher at any price. You said so yourself. Ain’t there no way to hire him and keep under the salary limit?”