“Hope you do,” said Kennedy. “If you remember, you’ll get it straightened out that I was your manager. The new owner fired me, and Al Carson took my place. Something happened between you and Carson. You didn’t get along. I was watching things in the papers. You was fined and suspended. Then the team was mixed up in that railroad smash, an――” “Stop!” interrupted Locke, in mingled excitement and confusion. “I can’t follow you as fast as that. No use for me to try.” “But you remember――you remember now?” persisted Kennedy. “Not a thing,” was the reply. “I still think you’re mistaken.” The following morning Kennedy sent a telegram to Al Carson, of the Blue Stockings: Can tell you where to find your missing pitcher, Locke. JOHN KENNEDY. By noon he received an answer: Don’t want to find him. He’s blacklisted for quitting. CARSON. “Hooray!” said Kennedy, as he thrust the message into his pocket. “I’ve done my duty. They don’t want him. Now I can keep him――unless he gets cured of a sudden, and goes hustling back to them.” For a time the old manager felt nothing but keenest satisfaction over the situation. Gradually, however, having a conscience, he began to fret and worry. It was all wrong, he told himself, and the fact that Carson was prejudiced and had given Locke a rotten deal did not excuse him for remaining silent under the circumstances and using the youngster to his advantage. If Locke’s mind was affected immediate treatment was what the young man needed――immediate attention by an expert in mental disorders; and Kennedy could not con himself into satisfaction by saying over and over that nothing could be better for Lefty than the peace and quiet of the country, together with an occasional game of baseball to keep awake his interest in a life of action. “But I’ll wait till Monday, when the Bucks come over here,” he told himself. “That young doctor likely will come along at the same time, and we can talk it over again. I’ve got to have advice.” In this manner he pacified his troublesome conscience for the time being. In the afternoon, playing the Stars upon Deering field, the Deers, with Curley on the hillock, had it pretty much their own way. Danger of release had spurred Curley to do his level best, and in all the pinches he pitched with a skill which made his performance one of the finest exhibitions he had ever given in that bush league. Furthermore, the snatching of the game from the Buccaneers had inspired the Deers with new hope and fire, and they backed Curley up in an errorless manner, and hit well. Not only that, but both Sullivan and Heines, before the game started, had asked to pitch. Kennedy knew what that meant. The work of Locke, and the probability that some one of the others would get his release, had put them all on their mettle.