Toots Kilgore grinned. “Take it from me, it’s likely to be necessary,” he said. “It’s going to be _the_ game. They’ll fight us like blazes on their own field, and they’ve got a new man to put against us. Curley won’t last; they can steal right and left on Reddy Sullivan, and Heines’ whip is broke. You better start your new man on the hill.” “Leave that to me,” returned old Jack reprovingly, “and keep your face closed about him. I’ll tell the boys anything they ought to know. Don’t even hint to him that you think he’s a pitcher.” “Oh, I see!” said Kilgore. “You’re planning to spring a surprise. Maybe he’s some real gun in the game. Maybe his name ain’t Stranger at all.” “That’s the name he goes by――now,” said the manager of the Deers, as the train roared up to the station and stopped. The crowd cheered them as they got aboard, carrying grips, bat bags, and other paraphernalia. “Git this game, Jack――you’ve got to git it!” cried a big man on the platform. “We need it, and we depend on you.” Kennedy’s only reply was a nod, which brought another cheer from the crowd, who continued to make a demonstration until the train pulled out. Old Jack saw to it that Lefty Locke was seated in the midst of the players, where he remained during the journey to Hatfield, listening with a strange sort of interest to their chatter about the game and the standing of the teams, which to them seemed quite as vital as a Big League race. At times Locke evinced more than usual interest as some chance phrase fell on his ear with a familiar ring, and for the time being the shadow in his eyes was dispelled. Although he had little to say, his manner was that of one who again found himself with his own people, and felt once more the vital throb and thrill of life which is experienced daily by the man who has found the vocation for which he is best adapted. Kennedy missed none of this, although he took pains not to give Locke the impression that he was being watched. “Got him going,” mused the old manager, with deep satisfaction. “He tried to duck the game, but the germ is in his blood, and he can’t keep away from it. If I need him, I’ll have him pitching before the game is finished this afternoon.” Hatfield was a thriving, prosperous place――nearly a young city――in rather strong contrast to the quiet, almost sleepy town of Deering. It seemed presumptuous that a somnolent village like Deering should presume to the championship in a bush league represented by Hatfield, for surely the latter had the advantage, in the way of backing, population, attendance, and general resources. From the station, Kennedy led his men to Tower’s Hotel, which gave them special rates, and furnished the most satisfactory table. An hour’s rest followed dinner; then, as two o’clock approached, the Deers gathered up their trappings, and set forth for the park, toward which the early fans were already turning their faces.