“Say,” cried Kennedy suddenly, “I thought you didn’t know anything about this business?” “I don’t,” was the instant declaration. “Don’t think I ever handled a baseball before in all my life.” But there was a strange flush in his face and a peculiar light of aroused interest in his eyes, all of which the former Blue Stockings’ manager observed with unspeakable gratification. “Well, if you’re a greenhorn, certainly you’re a wonder,” said Kennedy, still careful to follow the other’s lead. “Say, throw me a drop.” Locke shook his head. “I don’t know how.” “Easiest thing you ever tried. Here, I’ll show you.” He jogged forward, took the ball, and demonstrated how it should be held and in what manner it should be released with the proper whirling motion to make it drop. “Now try it that way,” he said, returning to his position. Three times Lefty threw the ball without the slightest indication of a drop, but with the fourth throw, into which he put a bit more speed, the sphere, coming breast-high, took a sudden shoot toward the ground just before reaching the stone which served for a plate. Kennedy, scooping it from the turf, whooped. “That’s it!” he shouted. “Great smoke! That was a peach! It would have had Logie, of the Specters, breakin’ his back.” For the first time since his arrival in Deering, something like a faint smile flitted across the young man’s face. “Queer,” he said. “I didn’t know I could do that. Pitching can’t be so difficult to learn.” “It isn’t for some men,” assured Kennedy. “Give me another.” He snapped the ball wide and high to Locke, who carelessly thrust up his right hand, stopped it, and permitted it to drop into his left, a movement so familiar to old Jack that he nearly whooped again. “Give me one just like the last,” invited Kennedy, “and burn it. Let it come smoking.” It was like the last, and with only his small fielder’s glove to aid him Kennedy lost it. “Oh, some speed, son――some speed!” he rejoiced. “The left-hander I told you about last night used to have a duplicate of Walter Johnson’s hook curve, only it took the opposite twist toward the inside corner for a right-hand batter, and so was a heap worse to hit. Let me show you how he threw it, if I can remember.” Again he demonstrated, and again Locke apparently tried to follow directions. This time he threw the hook with the first effort, and old Jack bit his tongue to hold himself in check. “That’s it!” he cried. “Why, I could make a pitcher out of you――I sure could! And there’s more money in it than working on a farm. It’s good, healthy business, too. Just what your doctor’d ordered if he’d knowed you could do it.”