“If you don’t mind, pal,” said Lefty, “I’ll wait for you right here at the hotel till you get ready to take me out to your farm. Baseball doesn’t interest me at all.” Jack frowned a bit over that word “pal.” It was not like Lefty Locke, and he had noticed that at times since his appearance in Deering the fellow spoke with a touch of slang that seemed quite unnatural and different from his usual manner of speech. There was in it, however, no trace of the slang of the baseball field. At noon Kennedy, coming back from the park, decided to lunch with Locke at the hotel. During the meal, however, he had little success in drawing the man into conversation. “Keep bottled up if you can,” thought old Jack resentfully; “I’ll trip you yet.” The Boobs came in on the two o’clock train, and made straight for the field. Kennedy lingered at the post office to get his daily paper, and stopped at the hotel on his way out to the park. McLaughlin was waiting for him. “Tell you what,” said the landlord, “this southpaw o’ yourn don’t propose to earn his twenty-five a month playin’ baseball. I’ve been tryin’ to get him out to the game, but he won’t budge.” “Let me handle this case, Peter,” urged Kennedy, spreading out his newspaper. “I don’t quite get his drift yet, but I will. Take a look at this! Here’s something more about the unexplained disappearance of Lefty Locke. They can’t seem to trace him. Some think he was killed in the smash, but all save one of the dead were identified, and the description of that one don’t agree at all with the description of Locke. He was a slim, slender, blue-eyed chap who looked like he was in bad health. That accident, together with the loss of Locke, seems to have knocked the starch out of the Blue Stockings, for the Terriers are eating ’em up in the series. The wise guys think it’s going to be a cinch from now on for the Specters to get away with the championship.” “Mebbe that’ll interest our friend here,” suggested McLaughlin. “He’s in the writin’ room, watchin’ people on the street through the window. That’s all he seems to do――jest set around and watch folks.” Kennedy found Locke in the writing room. “I say, Stranger,” he said, “here’s a daily paper that may help you to pass away the time till I get back after the game. Just look it over.” He put the paper in the man’s hand with the item regarding Locke and the Blue Stockings folded out; but, after a nod and a casual glance at that page, Lefty turned to another part of it. Old Jack rejoined McLaughlin, growling, and together they hastened to the field. About two hours later Kennedy drove up in front of the hotel with his rig, and asked for Mr. Stranger. The latter seemed to be waiting, for he came forth at once, the landlord following closely. “Well, Stranger,” said McLaughlin, as the man got into the carriage, “I hope you take to your job out on Kennedy’s farm.” “Thanks, bo,” was the reply, as old Jack drove away.