“Now,” continued old Jack, squaring round until he could watch his companion without turning his head, “if I just had that left-handed man of mine for about two weeks I’d bury the Buccaneers. We beat the Boobs to-day, but they’re the weakest bunch in this league. After the game I heard that the Bucks had beat the Stars, and gone into first place by a small margin. We play Bristol’s team in Hatfield to-morrow. I’ve figgered the percentage out to-night, and if we could take a fall out of ’em we’d be tied with ’em to-morrow night.” “I presume that’s all very interesting to you,” said Lefty, unmoved; “but, having never cared in the slightest for baseball, you’ll pardon me if I don’t enthuse.” Kennedy made a queer sound in his throat. “Look a’ here,” he snapped, “was you ever in a railroad smash-up?” “Never,” was the slow answer, coming after a moment or two of breathless silence. Old Jack dropped his pipe, and groped for it. “Why do you ask?” questioned the other. “Oh, nothing――nothing,” mumbled Kennedy. “I’m going to turn in pretty soon. You can go to bed any time you want to. We get up ruther early here on the farm.” “Think I’ll turn in now,” said the other, rising. In his chamber, half an hour later, having made sure that Lefty had really gone to bed, Kennedy paced up and down a while, his forehead corrugated by a deep frown. “It gets me!” he finally exclaimed, beginning to undress. “I can’t quite make up my mind whether he’s faking or really don’t remember. If that last is the case, he ought to have treatment by a doctor.” CHAPTER XXVIII A NEW PITCHER Although there was an early breakfast on Kennedy’s farm, when old Jack arose his sister surprised him by stating that the new man had been up and wandering about the place for an hour or more. “I wonder if he didn’t sleep well?” said Kennedy. “I asked him,” returned Mrs. Malone, “and he said he slept like a log. He’s a fine-looking fellow, Jack, but he ain’t no farmer. If you took him for one you got bunkoed.” Kennedy gave her a laughing, knowing wink. “Leave it to me, Kit,” he said. “I know my business, whether I’m hirin’ farm hands or ball players.” “I’m thinking you’d be much more successful picking the latter,” she replied. “You may call yourself a farmer, but it’s baseball that’s still got the hook on ye.” “Mebbe you’re right, Kitty,” he agreed. “Mebbe that’s why I decided to taper off with this bush league bunch. Perhaps I’m like a man that’s been drinking hard and finds he’s got to quit, but it’ll kill him if he stops all to once. When the baseball bug gets into a man’s blood for fair he never is quite cured. It’s a disease, my girl.” “If you’d had a square deal you’d be at it now.” “Don’t let that worry you. I knew it was coming some time. Where’s this man of mine?”