“How could he know, if I didn’t know myself?” was the good-natured question, all the somberness seeming gone from Locke’s face――temporarily at least. In every movement he was now a pitcher, the same young wonder who had made such a record under Kennedy with the Blue Stockings; the same jovial-appearing, resolute, reliable boxman who had made a host of friends and admirers, and had come to be feared and respected by opposing batsmen. “You throw ’em any way you’re a mind to now, and let ’em come,” said Kennedy. “You’re giving me some practice, all right.” There was life, ginger, fire, and marvelous control in every delivery. The whistlers that left Locke’s fingers made old Jack set his teeth and grin painfully as, one after another, they nearly lifted him off his feet. In a few moments the old manager, unprotected by a big mitt, found that he was getting more than enough. “That will do!” he shouted, dropping the ball, and blowing on his smarting right hand. “Perhaps you never saw a ball game, but, believe me, you can pitch――and I know pitchers.” CHAPTER XXIX AT THE FIELD When Manager Kennedy rode into town to take the ten-ten train for Hatfield with his players, Mr. Robert Stranger came with him. Old Jack stopped at the Central House, and found Landlord McLaughlin on the point of leaving for the station. “Howdy, Jack,” said Peter. “I see you’ve got your new farm hand with ye.” “’Sh!” breathed Kennedy. “I’ve induced him to go over with us to see the game, and I’m takin’ along an extra suit of mine――one I wore with the Blue Stockings, with the letters cut off.” “You don’t mean to say――” gasped Peter. “I don’t mean to say anything now.” “But he ain’t owned up?” “Not a word. It’s the queerest thing I ever bumped against――it sure is. We’ve got to catch that train, so let’s be movin’. On the way over I’ll tell you about it.” Locke accompanied them to the station, where Kilgore was waiting with his teammates. Some eighteen or twenty Deering fans who could get away had purchased round-trip tickets, while at least fifty more were on hand to give the Deers a send-off. Kennedy bought tickets, after which he introduced Locke to the players who gathered around them. “Shake hands with Bob Stranger, boys,” he said, calling one after another by name. “He’s a friend of mine going along with us to-day.” The locomotive was whistling in the distance when Captain Kilgore pulled at Kennedy’s sleeve, and whispered, his back toward Locke: “Say, Jack, who is this guy?” The manager made a warning gesture. “Not a word,” he cautioned. “It’s a secret. He’s a southpaw pitcher, and if necessary I may use him in the game against the Bucks to-day.”