"I've been looking for a telegram from old Jack, an answer to mine. I feel confident I'll get a wire from him as soon as he reads my letter. Meanwhile I'll write to my parents and try to cheer them up. It's bound to take a little time to settle up the affairs of that building and loan association. Time is what I need now." That very day Locke received a telegram from Jack Kennedy: Meet me at the Grand, Indianapolis, the twenty-third. Don't fail. A train carried Lefty north that night. CHAPTER XIV ONLY ONE WAY The registry clerk stated that no Mr. Kennedy was stopping at the Grand Hotel. Locke was disappointed, for he had expected old Jack would be waiting for him. However, the veteran manager would, doubtless, appear later. Lefty registered, and the clerk tossed a room key to the boy who was waiting with the southpaw's traveling bag. As the pitcher turned from the desk he found himself face to face with a man whom he had seen on the train. The man, Locke believed, had come aboard at Louisville. There was something familiar about the appearance of the stranger, yet Lefty had not been able to place him. He had narrow hips, a rather small waist, fine chest development, and splendid shoulders; his neck was broad and swelling at the base; his head, with the hair clipped close, was round as a bullet; his nose had been broken, and there was an ugly scar upon his right cheek. He did not look to be at all fat, and yet he must have weighed close to one hundred and ninety. His hands, clenched, would have resembled miniature battering-rams. This person had not taken a look at the register, yet he addressed the pitcher by name. "How are you, Locke?" he said, with a grin that was half a sneer, half a menace. "I guessed you'd bring up here." Lefty knew Mit Skullen the moment he spoke. One-time prize fighter and ball player, Skullen now posed as a scout employed by the Rockets; more often he acted as the henchman and bodyguard of Tom Garrity, owner of the team, and the best-hated man in the business. Garrity had so many enemies that he could not keep track of them; a dozen men had tried to "get" him at different times, and twice he had been assaulted and beaten up. Skullen had saved him from injury on other occasions. Garrity was the most sinister figure in organized baseball. Once a newspaper reporter, he had somehow obtained control of the Rockets by chicanery and fraud. Sympathy and gratitude were sentiments unknown to him. He would work a winning pitcher to death, and then send the man shooting down to the minors the moment he showed the slightest symptom of weakness. He scoffed at regulations and bylaws; he defied restraint and control; he was in a constant wrangle with other owners and managers; and as a creator of discord and dissension he held the belt. And he snapped his fingers in the face of the national commission. The league longed to get rid of him, but could not seem to find any method of doing so.