Lefty had practically forgotten about these things until, on that second day of battle with the Wolves, only a few minutes before the game was to begin, he looked toward the club owner's box, occupied as he knew by Virginia and Janet, and made the discovery that Franklin Parlmee was likewise there. The southpaw stood still in his tracks, and stared, smiling; for he saw that Parlmee and Virginia were chatting and laughing, while Janet watched them with an expression of complete satisfaction and pleasure. "Patched it up at last, thank goodness!" muttered Locke. "I think I'll keep away until after this game is over. Plenty of time to congratulate them then." He had been warming up, as usual, but to-day it was observed that he did so alone with Brick King. Many of those who took note of this were led to speculate. Jack Stillman saw it, and smiled wisely to himself. A crowd, bigger than that of the previous day, had turned out. The Blue Stockings' unexpected opening victory over the Wolves was the cause. Perhaps that had been no more than a flash in the pan, but the fans wanted to see for themselves. Deep down in the hearts of most of them was a sprouting hope that it presaged something more. Practice was over. The home team was spreading out on the field and making ready. Scrappy Betts, first man up for the visitors, was swinging two bats, prepared to drop one of them and advance to the plate. The announcer lifted his megaphone, and, sitting forward on the edges of their seats, the crowd strained their ears to catch the names of the battery men. "Who's going to pitch for US?" was the question they had been asking. Through the megaphone came the usual hoarse bellow. For an instant it seemed to strike the great gathering dumb. Then a wild yell of astonishment and delight went up. Everywhere in the stands and on the bleachers fans turned to their neighbors and shouted: "Locke! It's Lefty! Good old Lefty! Yow! Ye-ee!" They rose as one person and roared at him in a mighty chorus when he walked out to the mound. If he believed in himself, if he had the courage to go in there against Frazer's hungry Wolves, they believed in him. The umpire adjusted his wind pad. Betts dropped one bat and came forward, pausing a moment a few feet from the plate while Locke sent two or three across to get the range. That good left arm swung free and unrestrained, without a single sign to indicate that there had ever been anything the matter with it. Smiling, the southpaw nodded to Betts as King pulled on the wire cage. "You can patch up crockery, Lefty, old man," said Scrappy as he stepped into the box, "but you never can make it as good as new." Then, having tried to work the portsider to the limit, he finally whaled out a safety. "I knew it!" he cried from first. "Bluff won't mend a busted wing, old boy!" Whether or not Locke was nervous, he passed the next man.